We're at a party. Standing room only with not only the house but both front an back yards full of people coming and going. Cars lined up down the block and around the corners in both directions. For some reason several members of the University football team are in attendance.
Big Boys.
Really
big boys.
I'm
in the living room grinning with disbelief as a good looking female
seems genuinely enthralled with my bass air guitar. Brian H. sitting
on the couch at 12:00, throws his head back in laughter at the sight.
I smile back thinking, “I can't help it if I'm lucky.” One
of the football players, across the room to my right at 3:00 has
taken his shirt off to show a gorgeous girl why he was the right pick
for Defensive End. The music was loud, but the sound of a kitchen
table with chrome legs sliding, a thump on the floor and a kind of
“Whoa” and “Ooo and Ahh” going up from the crowd in the
kitchen grabbed my attention. My mood instantly turned supercilious
toward any girl who would be enthralled by someone stupid enough to
do an air guitar at a party. Spinning on my
heal, almost nauseous at the image of me playing an air guitar,
I made my way to the kitchen.
There,
on the floor was a girl, passed out drunk, flat on her back. The
chair she'd been sitting on was being reset, red plastic seat up,
legs down. You would be wrong if you thought that the people staring
down at the floor were looking only at the passed out girl. For
straddling this girl, on his knees, was my friend Ziffle. He'd hiked
up her T-shirt (this was in the days when no self-respecting feminist
would wear a bra) and – wait for it – he has an ice-cube in each
hand and he's rubbing each cube around the tip of each breast –
i.e. Nipple. Left hand clockwise. Right hand counter clockwise. More
or less in unison. Ziffle's look is one of intense concentration.
Now,
if you think this is similar to modern day sexual assaults that make
the News every few months, you would be wrong.
First
of all there are no cell phones > no pictures. No one is laughing
or making fun. Although if I remember correctly there are some smiles
and a “get a load of this,” type remark here and there. The
reason for this is,
Second,
Ziffle is practising medicine.
I'm
serious!
This
had nothing to do with sex. Well, it only has a little bit to do with
sex. Ziffle had read somewhere that rubbing ice cubes on the bosom
(or bosoms if you like) of a female who'd been rendered unconscious
by copious amounts of alcohol would bring her back to a counscious
awareness of people staring at her lying on a floor or sidewalk or
some such more or less flat area. “It might even save her life!”
says Ziffle to the crowd. “No shit. I read about it.”
It
was at about this point where the shirtless and utterly malefic
football player shouted, “What are you doing to my
girlfriend's tits?”
I've
never liked that word. It sounds crude, even rude. Bosom, breasts,
chest, on occasion maybe even boobs or knockers. They're all fine.
But not – well – you know. Not that one. I don't like the sound
of it and I don't think much of those who use it.
After
a terrific amount of violence within a remarkably short period of
time, we were driving Ziffle to the hospital to
mend what looked like, but as it turned out was not a broken jaw or
fractured cheek bones. All the way to Emergency he openly grieved his
inability to see the profitable results of his medical intervention.
His glasses were never recovered.
His glasses were never recovered.
Ziffle
is now a Social Worker. A Christian. Married with grown children.
Ain't
life strange?
No comments:
Post a Comment