After a part on Christmas Eve of 1990, I decided that the good liquor was exhausted and Mateus Rose wasn't going to add to my buzz, other than contemplation of suicide. Being a biker of the insane kind (left over from my younger days of racing bikes), I still gravitated to Japanese butt scrubbers or rice rockets or whatever they are called now ... 1000 cc enemas? At the time, I owned a tricked-out 86 Ninja X10, which was a factory-tricked Ninja 1000R, plus the V&H four-into-one exhaust, shaved head, gummy bear slicks, and what ever made me feel like a god when I blew by Corvettes and CBR 1100’s on one wheel. This combination was, as we say, not good.
There is a street in San Francisco called Geary Boulevard with a 30 miles-per-hour speed limit. In my admittedly compromised state of mind I did a bit of math and came up with a "legal" speed (L). There were thirty green lights from downtown to the beach (G), so I figured a speed of 60 miles-per-hour would allow me to save a change of lights from two to one. To my inebriated mind it was like E=mc2 until, as the law of physics throws us upside down...
...I did not figure in the red pickup with a drunk. (RPD = infinite outcomes.) Mr. RPD ran his red light and t-Boned me, smashing my leg between his bumper and my bike, pulverized, and sending all of me 30 feet, head-first into a mail box. Obviously I was in and out of consciousness. When some lady walking her dog call the EMTs, I was in shock but aware of my surroundings ... aurally anyway. I felt like someone shoved a flagpole down my throat. I could barely breath and actually resigned to the fact that I was so fucked up I was getting ready for a six-foot-deep nap.
My six-foot-deep nap became more real when I heard the EMT say, "This one's gone." And this is were it gets crazy. When I hit the mail box my helmet did a 180, so the EMT assumed my neck was broken and spun around. Groaning I got their attention. They cut the strap and removed my helmet to find my head was placed properly on my shoulders.
Then the EMT asked me if I had any teeth in my mouth. Being half-drunk and in semi-shock, I said, "Of course I have teeth in my mouth don’t you?" He explained that there were seven on and around me and was concerned that I may have swallowed some. Let's face it: my jaw was busted so a tooth count was out of the question. The EMTs did all EMTs do to get you to the hospital. The weird part was I had Kaiser insurance and they took me to San Francisco General Hospital (some twenty minutes away), which is Poor Man's Five-to-a-Room and does not contain a fragrant pine tree hanger, and I crashed right across from my hospital.
The hospital fed and fed me two weeks, after which one day a supervisor nurse came in and pushed on my abdomen. “When was the last time you had a bowel movement?” she asked.
When I explained that nothing had moved since I arrived, she left and returned with some white chalky shit I had to drink, and then shoved what smelled like a wintergreen Lifesaver up my ass. For two hours I lay there rolling my eyes ... blah blah blah ... this is working great ... not ... when suddenly ... it did. It was.
"I need a bed pan STAT!" I could not hit that nurse bell hard enough. Within seconds the nurse was there positioning the small metal pan under my butt and told me to ring when I was done.
"Done" was not the operative concept. "When you need the next bed pan" would have been more apropos.
When the plug that plagued me had passed, the bed pan filled up until my dick looked like a rowboat stuck in an oil spill. I was hitting the nurse button in Morse code ... SOS ... Shit going down. The bed pan at this point was more than full: it was all over my nuts, down to my knees, etcetera. I know that nurses are used to seeing everything, but when my nurse came in and saw what job I created for her she, gagged. And that was just at the sight. One of my many roommates said, "Nurse, let me have one of those ass mints," and I laughed my ass off. Not just because of the hell I caused, but because I now understood why the dude used a five-gallon pail to take a dump in. He always had the drapes closed and it sounded like he was playing a marimba.