my first brush with danger

when i was growing up, my sister was typically my first go-to for companionship. even though she's four and a half years my senior, i was typically allowed to tag along with she and her gang. of course, when i say "allowed," i mean "forced to."
one of my favorite of her friends was a fun, friendly and very funny kid named joe. he would come to our house and we would all enjoy whatever game it was we wanted to play for the day. on one such afternoon when i was about 4 years old, my mother had left my sister and joe in charge of watching me while she ran some errands in the neighborhood.
we were going about our standard forms of distraction when i got the great idea of showing joe "what i could do..."
dividing the kitchen from the living room was a wet bar that had 2 tall stools that sat on the living room side, over thick carpet. how cool would it be to show joe how skilled i was at standing on that stool. it would be ok, because i could hold onto the low part of the ceiling for support.

"look, joe!"
"no!... no, get down. you could fall and get hurt-"
"no, it's ok. i know how to do it."
"no, this isn't a good idea, c'mon, get down"

his intention was good, but his execution of saving me from my impeding doom was, shall we say, ironically ineffective. 9-year-olds typically don't think things all the way through before attempting to do them. he grabbed me around the knees, and i collapsed like a souffle. the ledge of the wet bar made direct contact with my mouth with stunning accuracy. and all of this happened, to my sister's horror as my mother pulled into the driveway.
i don't remember much more after the moment i came to my ma and spit out a mouthful of blood. one thing i've been able to remember, though, is not to stand on the tall stools at the wet bar ever, ever again.

-k