I Now Have a Free Pass

or . . . no paternity test needed.

I went out to the neighborhood of Stately Wayne Manor to get my hair redone (which we will talk about later). I called my father, Mr. Crabbypants, on the way to plan lunch for after. My father was chipper . . . amazingly so, considering that he has been trapped in the house all week "resting" with his Frankenstein scar. I was to call after my hair was done.

Two hours and some bad decisions later (again, we'll talk . . . with pictures), I called Stately Wayne Manor, figuring since I was in town, I could walk and get the table. My brother D. answered the phone and for a moment I thought that I had accidentally called him instead of my parent's house. After a short conversation about who I had actually called, I told my brother to ask Mr. Crabbypants where he wanted to go to lunch. "Dad dropped the bike."

It was snowing. The freeways were all clogged with accidents. The statement didn't register. "What?" "Dad dropped the bike." What bike? What was Dad doing on a bicycle in 32 degree weather? "No, we were going to sell the motorcycle today . . . " Oh shit, THAT bike.

When my father bought the motorcycle from a friend, my brothers and I all took the motorcycle safety course at the community college. My father passed the first time, D. decided that motorcycles were not for him, J and I had to take the course twice to pass.

My father had also bought a little 250cc bike in pieces, thinking that it would take J. all summer to rebuild. J. had the bike built in less than a week. Dad's bike was more than I liked to handle (850cc and too high . . . plus you could drop the little Kawasaki without guilt, but not wreck Dad's) so J. would ride Dad's and we would ride the back roads of the west side. My father was very serious about being properly prepared to ride and I have never been on a bike without gloves and boots. Even spent $300 on a full face helmet (a huge amount in those days . . . ) because I had spent too much on orthodontics to chance it. We were not so serious about our motorcycles (though I would still like a little 500cc one) but very serious about safety . . . or at least calculated risk.

D. didn't know what was going on, it had all happened so fast. All I got was "on the way to the hospital" and I hung up the phone. Ended up at Stately Wayne Manor to do the vigil with my brother (my mother didn't want us at the hospital). I really freaked when I found that she had driven to U of M. St. Joe and Providence were broken arm locations . . . U of M was serious.

D. had thought my father was talking about taking the motorcycle for a ride ON THE DRIVEWAY. "I kept saying on the driveway . . . and I looked up and he was gone." D. then mentioned that he had told my father not to put his helmet on as to not "mess up the scar". But he was just going to be on the driveway. D. told me there was no blood. Father was talking.

So my father, my so responsible father, upstanding citizen that he is (the Bush's Christmas card still on the fridge) decided to go see if the motorcycle's brakes worked, while it was snowing . . . without a helmet, or gloves . . . and wearing loafers. And kids, this is where I share with you that I am so lucky still to have a father . . . with his brains still in his head, even though they weren't working very well to begin with, obviously.

He had the brakes lock up at the gazebo in the neighborhood, less than a mile away. He had called my mother on his cell phone, telling her to come get him . . . that he had broken his leg. At this exact moment, D. had noticed that Mr. Crabbypants was not still in the driveway and had gone done to the end (Stately Wayne Manors have really long driveways) to look for him. (My mother insists that D. was futzing in his car and NOT looking for Dad, or even noticing that he was gone) (either way, D. is no longer in charge of Dad wrangling . . . for a while) Some neighbors were walking their dog and came upon my father lying in the middle of the street (not the first time this has happened) and one was a nurse. They loaded my father into my mother's jeep, leaving my brother (who doesn't like motorcycles) to deal with the bike.

In motorcycle school, they warn you to never have a bike that you can't lift upright from the ground. This is the other reason I never liked that bike. My brother somehow got it up and pushed it back to my parent's house. Managed to get it up the driveway, bravely using the clutch. It was already in the garage when I called. It wasn't sold yesterday. I'll sell it to you now, cheap. Slightly dented. Be careful with the brakes, evidently the master cylinder is too full.

My father has a broken shoulder and a messed up knee. The knee is so swollen that they don't know how messed up yet. Broken shoulder means no crutches, so we have a fun wheelchair. Both injuries are on the same side, so getting up and down are interesting tasks, as is getting him to the bathroom. He seems very realistic about his bout with stupidity. However, J. and I are doing a little dance . . . we are usually the stupid ones. And we now have a free pass for at least a year.

"Oh yeah Dad? Well remember when you wanted to check the brakes on the motorcycle?"