The Wisk Incident

In any group of friends with a sizable chunk of time spent together under their fingernails, there's going to be stories. Legendary stories. Favorite stories that get resurfaced every time a new girlfriend is introduced or someone's sister visits from far away, and embarrassment must be claimed. For my friends and I, this is one of those stories.

1995. I was a very lonely bachelor with very little friends. What few friends I did have, I had known for what seemed like forever and a day. Being with them was extremely comfortable for me. And I tried to be with them whenever possible.

Jamie, Scott and Mario were rooming together in a three bedroom apartment in Fairfax. Bill and I were honorary roommates, as we were almost always there. The living arrangement was the source of endless stories. Like the time Jamie romanced a one night stand for Mario. Or the time Jamie woke up in bed with Mario. Or the several times Mario would weigh himself naked right after a shower. They kept the scale in the living room. Or the time my sister asked Jamie why he doesn't have any leg hair. Or the time...the time...

Or the time I drilled a wisk into my finger.

When Scott moved into the apartment, he bought a complete set of cooking supplies. He bought dishes and pans and cleaning utensils aplenty. He was proud of his fully-stocked and loaded kitchen. He was especially proud of what it symbolized. His independence and ability to feed himself. Although, he rarely ever cooked. He found out early on that if he cooked, Mario would eat. He didn't want to set the standard of being the house chef. Between that and laziness he ended up eating at the pizza shop next to his comic book store all the time. One of the many electronic cooking gizmos he bought was a wisk. A little plug-in handle with a spinning end that had different attachments. Egg-beater, wisk, toothbrush, garage door opener...this thing had it all.

A wisk, in case you don't know, is a little metal wire that spirals in concentric circles. Looked at from the top, it looks like a hypno-disk from the 1950's.

I was looking at the wisk from the top late one Saturday night. Thinking about how the Wizard or Dr. Occult would best use this gadget against Prince Ra-Man. Scott, Mario, Jamie, Bill and myself were all pokered out and sick of junk food. We were looking for one last dose of entertainment before calling it a night. Mario grabbed Scott and left for the video store. Mario had the rental card, Scott had the money. Bill, Jamie and I stood in the kitchen. Talking about sports.

I listened to Bill and Jamie talk about sports, occasionally tuning them out. In day to day life, I try to keep my nerd tendencies suppressed. I try to not make constant comic-book filled conversation, although I fail more often than not. With my friends and their innate ability to let my hair down, I talk about comics a little more freely than normal. So it was only fair to listen while they talked about sports.

Now that I think about it, it must be a real burden being one of my friends.

I listened to Jamie go on about basketball and statistics and money. I watched the wisk whirl round and round and round. I pretended I was Hourman, slowly falling prey to the will of the Psycho-Pirate. I touched the end of the wisk, letting the cool metal strand spiraling away from me massage my fingertip. Interesting. More interesting than basketball. I wondered what the reverse would feel like. With no forethought, I hit the reverse button.

The wisk seemed to 'grab' my finger, and the perfect metal spiral circles twisted themselves into a jam, encircling my entire hand. I tried to pul my finger free, at first worried about Scott's wisk. I only succeeded in pulling the appliance close enough to grab my sweater. Still spinning, the wisk wrapped my sweater around my hand and only stopped when it could go no further.

Bill and Jamie weren't really watching what I was doing. To them it came as a complete surprise to look over and see my arms twisted up into my sweater, a plugged-in electrical cord trailing out of the wadded up cloth.

"Chuck has a kitchen appliance." Bill warned.

Jamie laughed so hard he actually put his beer down.

Unable to extricate myself without help, it wasn't until Bill pulled me free that we fully realized what had happened.

The tip of the wisk had drilled INTO my finger. Circling twice, looping around the bone and underneath the fingernail.

We stared in amazement. There was no pain..yet. There was no blood..yet. There was only a wisk drilled into my finger.

I immediately knew this would be one of 'those' stories.

Jamie, unable to handle the sight, swiftly retreated to his room. He could better drink beer in peace in there. Bill studied my finger carefully. Probably thinking about how best to use the microwave to rectify the current situation.

"Get it out, Bill." I gritted my teeth.

"How should I do that, genius?" Bill's question was legitimate.

"Are there any wire cutters around here." I held my hand like it was a fragile porcelain bunny. "If we can cut the wire at the twist, maybe we can pull it free."

"Doubtful." Bill frowned.

"We gotta try."

"JAMIE!" Bill yelled without warning. "Got any wire cutters?"

We waited a moment for Jamie's reply. "No." Came his muffled voice.

"Hardware store?" Bill asked.

"Late on a Saturday night?" I countered. "There's an all-night Safeway across the street."

"Long shot." Bill grabbed his keys. "I'll be right back."

I sat on the couch and turned on the television. Jamie, checking to make sure no one was in excessive pain and there was no blood, quietly exited his room and sat next to me.

"Beer?" He asked.

"No thank you." I answered.

I wasn't even drinking that night. I don't drink beer and that's all Jamie buys. Although, in hindsight, some Old Granddad Whiskey could have done nothing but help the situation. At this point, Jamie's behavior in the face of this emergency might seem a little cold. But offering to part with some of his beer shows the magnitude in which he held the situation.

There's nothing more surreal than sitting on the couch watching television with one friend while you wait for the other friend to get back from the store with wire cutters to remove a kitchen appliance from your finger.

Bill came back with pliers. Best he could do. No wire cutters. After a session of 'foot in my chest' pulling, during which Jamie hid, Bill decided he couldn't handle my screams of pain. It was time to bite the bullet and drive me to the emergency room.

"And your reason for today's visit to the emergency room?" The nurse had a dull-eyed 'seen everything' look about her.

I placed my hand on the desk in front of her. The wisk dangled on the end of my finger like the head from a Jack-in-the-Box. Bobbing back and forth and swaying to and fro.

Bill pointed at my finger and used his best 'eyes wide open, naive and innocent face'. "He did it. We can't get it out." He told her.

We waited in the emergency room for half an hour. You can imagine the looks I got from the other Saturday night emergency room idiots. I WASN'T EVEN DRINKING! My accident was caused while daydreaming about super-heroes. Even in the emergency room I find myself unique.

The doctor gave me a shot, snipped the wire, and yanked it out. Two minutes. He was grinning.

When we got back to the apartment, Mario and Scott had returned. Scott was more than a little cross, and wouldn't talk to me for the rest of the night. He was angry for two reasons. One, I was stupid enough to actually drill his wisk into my finger. And two, I ruined his wisk. Scott's not a very forgiving guy. He's kind of opinionated. In this case he was just being a horses' ass.

Still, I never replaced the wisk. And in the face of a ruined set of kitchen utensils, my friendship didn't have much value.

I did keep the tip that got drilled into my finger. I'm not sure where it is now, but for awhile it was my good luck charm. Until I started to get the hospital bills. Five hundred dollars for the doctor to play carpenter on my finger. I hate doctors. My insurance company claimed that since it was an unreported emergency room visit, they had no responsibility. Surprise surprise that an insurance company would have no responsibility. I hate insurance companies.

It almost seems like the rules of the world are built against the man willing to drill a wisk into his finger on a boring Saturday night.

So the next time I drill a wisk into my finger, I'm not going to the doctor. No matter how hard it is to type.

Thanks,
DCD