(This blog was originally written on Myspace)
A few days ago I was at work going through my usual schtick of standing around doing as little as possible, when a woman entered my place of business. This is nothing out of the usual, women, children, dogs, and even MAN types have been known to have a wander around the premises. Anyway, the time came for her to be served and she came over to the till. It was at this point I noticed she had a series of thick scars running up and across both of her arms. I didn’t stare or call attention to them or anything, just inquisitive. Not that I would have asked, I’m far too polite.
It got me a-thinking, though. With a scar you always have a tale to tell, whether amazingly brave, desperately sad, incredibly scary, drunkenly stupid, or totally lame. I have a few insignificant little dents and scratches that fall into the latter category of story, and I’m going to tell them…
The first is a scar on the inside of left hand, just below my thumb. When I was eleven/twelve-ish I had a set of metal handcuffs I used to enjoy messing with. I had lost the key many moons ago, but had learned a way to open them with a penknife I owned. I would imagine i was escaping with the daring do of Houdini when manoeuvering the blade into the cuff and slipping the mechanism. One day, so cocky was I that I attempted to do this fantastic act of lock picking with my hands cuffed behind my back. I got a hold of the knife, gently positioned it to force the lock, and BAM! slipped it straight into my hand. Ouch!
I also have a small dent in my forehead which is barely visible now after being swallowed up by the ever-increasing lines of my constantly furrowed brow. When I was five I had a pedal digger. It was yellow and had a big scoop at the front. I loved it lots. So much so, I modified it. In a fit of destruction, I tore the scoop and front end of it and, in my mind, turned it into a dragster. I thought i was Speed Racer on the thing, and i would zoom around the block (the small group of houses around where i lived) at great speed, dodging doddery old folk and cars with utmost skill (Wow, the mid 80′s seem a world away. The parentals in this day and age wouldn’t have let me leave the safety of the back garden for fear of being stolen away by a Pete O’ File, or squished by thuggish boy racer! But, i digress).
On one of my many trips around the block, I spotted a couple of kids playing in their front garden. I stopped to see what they were doing (and to show off my yellow machine), and when they saw me they started throw stones. ‘That’s not very nice’, I thought as the stones landed around me, but I didn’t leave. Then they ran out of the front gate and threw the stones directly at me, hitting me in the chest and stomach, the one boy definitely aiming for my man parts, as a stone clattered the plastic beneath the seat I was on. Still i didn’t move, I must have been in shock at this unprovoked attack. They returned for a second wave and this time a stone smacked me right in the head. The pain must have brought me to my senses because I peddled like I had never peddled before and got myself out of there. I was crying so hard, the tears were streaming and mixed with the blood that was trickling from my head down face. I’ve never been so relieved to get home.
Also, when I was thirteen/fourteen, i thought it’d be really cool to have the word RAGE cut into the back of my hand. So, using some useful school, er, things like a compass and a blade from a pencil sharpener, I did it. But, luckily, it didn’t scar. The the things we crazy kids get up to, eh?
So people, don’t hide away your scars! Remember, every scar has a story, each one is proof of a life lived.
That said, this blog could just be aboot some weird fetish of mine. I mean, that scene in Lethal Weapon 3 where Mel Gibson and Rene Russo compare scars before embarking in the naughtiness was highly influential during my formative years. Often times i’d scare away a young lady type by showing mine before asking if they’d show me theirs…