The Pygmy Giant

by Lynda Green

Back then I was fit but not much to look at. I’d been sailing that day with Keith.   A green one had almost flipped us over, we’d used all our sailing skills to stay upright. We felt like giants, went for a drink at the Feathers, retold that wave hitting us to everyone who would listen and each time it got bigger; me and Keith, what a team.

Anyway, I crept in the house, Josie was in bed feigning sleep; we were not getting on.  I thought I’d have one more beer, went to get a glass from the wall cupboard over the sink. They were stacked up and as I pulled the top beaker free, the one it was stacked in stuck momentarily and then fell. Well, I’d got a can of beer in the other hand so lurched forward to catch the glass between my thigh and the sink unit.  Bad move, it shattered and a sharp jagged point impaled my groin.  I pulled it out and arterial blood spurted. I applied as much pressure as I could and shouted to the wife:

“I’ve cut myself bad!”

I knew she was awake, could hear her listening.

“Serves you right, you shouldn’t drink so much,” she shouted back.

Well, I’m an independent sort of guy, I just picked up my car keys and set off for A and E, only down the road.

So now, I’m driving one handed, blood’s seeping but not pulsing down my leg.

I hobbled through the swing doors at the hospital, left the car on double yellows, keys in it.  I was heading for the desk but there was a young man with two little boys, one a toddler, so I backed out. I didn’t want to frighten the children, blood all down me, so I got back in my car.

I thought I ‘d wait a bit, let family man get sorted; but then I came over all sick and faint and  thought I’d better get back in there, kids or not.

That’s the last I remember till I came to in a hospital bed, a big bloke towering over me.

“Ah, welcome back, Mr Steele,” he said, “you are the luckiest man alive.”

I had, as I thought, punctured the artery; they couldn’t believe I’d driven myself to hospital.

But here’s the thing.

Apparently, they got me up to theatre but by that time I had almost bled to death and my heart, having nothing to pump, was threatening to stop.  Blood was being rushed up, but not fast enough so the surgeon hooked up a Rioja, given to him earlier by a grateful heart transplant. A 2000 Reserva 14%, was decanted, all 70 cls, straight into my veins.  Then the blood came and they topped me up.

I am now an elegant, full bodied man, mellow, with a hint of vanilla and tobacco,  long finish and a small scar in the groin. You can’t miss me.

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Lynda Green is an occasionally published writer of short stories and a taxi driver.