This morning I was almost home, driving past my house in the half-conscious state I slip into after a 12-hour night shift, and I saw White Trash Bob standing on the sidewalk in front of his house. He looked forlorn. I pulled over.
"Why the long face?"
WTB made an attempt at a grin. "You might wanna wait on that glazing compound for a couple of weeks. I'm out of commission." He held up his right hand and half-heartedly waved. His hand looked like ground chuck.
"I had a wreck on my bicycle. On my damn bicycle. I'm careful on my motorcycles, but not so much on a bicycle. I pulled my phone out of my pocket to look at it, realized I was at the end of the alley, put on the hand brake, and pitched over the handlebars."
In other words, he went ass over teakettle.
He's got a dozen or so stitches in his pinkie finger and the meat of his hand just below that finger, another couple chunks out of his hand and wrist that didn't take stitches, and some pretty gory-looking road rash up his arm. (I wanted to take a picture of it, but I thought y'all might still be recovering from the photos of the petrified rat. Besides, WTB wouldn't let me.)
No re-glazing windows for him. I think I'll cook supper for him Wednesday night and rent him a Lon Chaney movie.