Today I dropped an entertainment center on my face

Literally. Well, okay, not quite literally. I had to patch the details of what actually happened together from the one eye-witness, the guy holding the other end of it. His name is Stu, and after today, he's my boy. I may even promote him to Truck Buddy #1 status because, well, my #1 took the day off. On a Saturday. I don't care if it IS your first wedding anniversary -- this is bidness, TJ.

Bidness.

Anyway, what happened is this...I think. We were carrying a fairly light-weight yet two-person TV stand up a narrow staircase out of the basement of one of those pleasant little D.C. basement apartments. (Very nice customers, by the way.) This much I remember. I also remember being especially careful because the stairway -- only three steps or so -- was covered in that ultra-slick slime/moss that, comparatively, makes an oil slick as tactile as sandpaper.

We'd successfully negotiated the steps and a slight turn, and walked across a short patio. There were three steps down to the alleyway where the "Peneske" truck was parked. That's where it gets a little hazy, but let me try to describe my impressions of the moment.

Stepping down...

No step...no problem, I've missed steps holding heavy-ish things before...

Still no step...

Getting worried now. (A half-second has elapsed at this point).

Still no step...

Body reacts...somehow. Ever been so deep underwater and run out of breath? It was a little like that. But instead of gulping for air, my foot twitched looking for solid ground. Before I could say "Uh, Stu, I've lost the Earth," I was flying backward with a TV stand going up somewhere...toward my face.

I think. I'm not sure because several things happened simultaneously at that moment.

1. Somebody hit me in the face with an ACME hammer.
2. Somebody hit me in the back of the head with an Empire State Building.
3. I saw a flash of light. And, quite possibly, Jesus.
4. Somebody grabbed my elbows with pliers -- big, industrial sized pliers with jagged teeth -- and pulled. Hard.

Ever been caught impossibly between two immovable objects? Say, in coach between two corpulent twins? Kinda like that, only firmer.

The next thing I know, Stu is looking down at me with huge, white eyes. "Dude! Are you alright? I was laughing, but then I saw you hit the second time, and...huh?"

I tried to say something, but whatever I managed must have scared the big lug, because he just kept saying "Oh shit oh shit oh shit."

Standing up was a bit of a problem. Nothing had landed on my legs, and yet I couldn't even stand up straight. The world kept wobbling, or the floor of the world had gotten warped in the rains of the last few days...

This is the kind of thing I was thinking. And damn it, why couldn't I stand up--or walk?!?

"What happened, Stu?"

"Dude! You slammed your face into the TV stand on the way down! Just sit, will you?"

"Did I hit the back of my head somewhere? Or did North Korea just test something right behind me?"

(Maybe I wasn't that clever, but that's how I remember it.)

"You hit your head on the concrete there."

"Hrngh."

Self-assessment:

Overall: light-headed. Fuzzy. More than a little nauseous.

Left side of face puffy and bleeding.

Spitting blood from where my teeth chattered together. (Thank God I hadn't had my tongue between them).

Elbows: total road rash and bleeding.

Torso: Internal organs rearranged.

Possible leg abrasions.

Oh yeah, and somebody appears to have sewn a golf ball under my left elbow.

And yet, I managed to finish the day. We had to call in an extra hand because walking in straight lines was impossible, but I lifted a few more boxes. Stu swears it was a mild concussion. We'll see how it goes.

Oh yeah, about Stu--he's a big dude with a beard. He's a self-described heathen who says he subscribes to the Tao of Stu, which mostly involves a state of mind and drinking. But this big dude who would probably retch if made to hold another man's hand for a $500 bet marched me into the kitchen, twisted my arms under the sink, and poured hydrogen peroxide over my boo-boos.

"You don't have the HIV, do you?" he asked as he poured it over my bleeding, hamburger-like elbows. "No herpes, anything?"

"No," I said. "All clean." But I noticed something. He was still literally man-handling me and my wounds when he asked that question. Whatever my status (what a modern thing to have to say), he was field-dressing my wounds anyway.

That calls to mind a marketing slogan TJ suggested -- "We're not just friends, we're Truck Buddies."

The end.