STICKY STITUATION

Rusty is out of town, doing who knows what; shooting something, no doubt.  He called and asked me to run one of his old columns. Instead, I think I’ll write, and let you know what it’s like to be married to someone like Rusty. What I’m about to tell you happened awhile back, but is still fresh in my mind. Getting it off my chest might help me cope better anyway. 

Rusty was in the backyard working on his lawnmower, something he practices at least once a week, when he decided to come into the house to grab something to stop, what I found out later, was a flow of blood from an injury. Whenever Rusty works on his lawnmower, there is always blood involved. He had removed his shirt, so when he walked into the house, I was rewarded with seeing his hairy, naked upper torso.  

“Do you know what I need?” he asked.  

I looked at his chest and replied, “A wax and a bra?”

“Real funny,” he said, as he jerked his shoulder blades back, hoping to remove his cleavage. “At least there’s somebody in this family that could get some use out of one,” he said.

I gave him one of what he calls “those looks.”

“I need some paper towels and the Super Glue,” he said.

Whenever Rusty asks for paper towels and Super Glue in the same sentence, I know he’s cut himself.

“Why don’t you use Band-Aids like normal people?” I asked.

“Normal! Who wants to be normal? Plus, Super Glue works better.”

“Come here,” I said. “Let me see it.”  

He walked over and removed the finger he had sticking in the hole in his arm.  

“Oh my gosh, Rusty!” I exclaimed. “That needs stitches.”

“Stitches?” he said in a really bad Mexican accent. “I don’t need no stinkin’ stitches.”

“Look at it,” I said. “It’s deep.”

“Yeah,” he smiled. “I think I see guts in there.”

“You need a shot, too.”

“A shot? What for?”

“You might get lockjaw,” I answered, and then I thought about it for a second and added, “Although, that doesn’t sound like a bad idea.”

“Look,” he said. “I ain’t gettin’ no shot and I ain’t gettin’ no stitches.”

“Your grammar stinks,” I said.

“What’s my grandma have to do with this anyway, and quit calling her names.”

“Brother,” I said. I say “brother” a lot. “What if we are out of Super Glue?” I asked.

“We got any J.B. Weld?”

“I think you used it up on whatever you broke last week.” Rusty thinks J.B. Weld is the greatest invention since the wheel.

“Well, look in my drawer,” he said.

Rusty has his own drawer in the kitchen, or at least he did back when this happened. Since then, I’ve had the kitchen remodeled and have banned him from having a “drawer.” Rusty said that this drawer had everything a man needed to fix anything short of an aircraft carrier.

“Even if there’s any in there,” I said, “you’ll never be able to find it. That is if you can get the drawer open in the first place.” He had so much stuff in that drawer that he usually had to put his foot on one side of it and pry it open with a screw driver that he left out of the drawer just for that purpose. He had pulled the handle off of the drawer years ago.

“Here,” he said. “Put your finger in this hole in my arm while I get the drawer open.”

“Yeah right,” I said.

“Okay, don’t gripe if I get blood on the floor.”

“Why do you always do stuff like this?” I sighed.

“I didn’t do it on purpose,” he said.

“Sometimes I wonder,” I said as I tore off a paper towel sheet. I folded the towel and placed it over the cut. “Now hurry up.”

Rusty placed the screw driver into the crack between the drawer and the cabinet and started prying. Surprisingly, it opened. Well, it opened only about an inch, but that was enough for Rusty to get his fingers in it.  After some bumping and shaking, he was able to get the thing open.

“You need to throw most of that junk away,” I said.

“I can't,” he said. “I might need it.”

“Rusty, there’s junk in there you’ll never need.”

“Oh yeah? Show me something.”

“Okay,” I said. I reached into the drawer and pulled out a little plastic box. I shook it and it rattled. “What’s this?” I asked.

“My wisdom teeth,” he replied.

I dropped the box as if it was hot.

“Gross,” I said. “What on earth would you ever need those for?”

“It’s a surprise,” he said.

“What surprise?”

“If I told you, it wouldn’t be a surprise now, would it?”

I gave him one of “those looks” again.

“Okay,” he said. “I’ll tell you, but you’re gonna be disappointed I told you.”

“I doubt it,” I said.

“I was goin’ to make you a necklace out of them.”

I just looked at him. “Finally.” I said, “You are kidding, right?”

“No, I’m not kidding. Just look at the suffering I had to endure getting my teeth jerked out just so you could have a necklace.”

“Gosh,” I said sarcastically. “I’m so lucky to have you.”

“Amen to that, sister,” he said.

“Now,” I said, “besides dumping everything out of the drawer, how do you expect to find anything?”

Rusty pointed to his head. “Kidneys, man, kidneys.” he said. He has been making that gesture and statement for years, and it really wasn’t that funny the first time he did it.

He grabbed the screwdriver that he used to pry the drawer open and started stirring the contents. “See here,” he said. “I’ll do this until what I want comes to the top, and I’ll grab it.”

“Pure genius,” I said, again sarcastically.

“Whoo, Whoo!” Rusty exclaimed, as he grabbed something from the drawer.  “Super Glue!”

“That stuff is going to get in your bloodstream and stop up something,” I said.

“That’s why they invented Ex-Lax,” he came back.

“You’re an idiot,” I said.

“Ha,” he laughed. “Like I haven’t heard that before.” Then he looked at the package in his hand. “Good,” he said. “It’s new. That means it’ll be sterile.”

“Something that unfortunately, your dad wasn’t,” I mumbled.

“What was that?” he asked.

“Nothing,” I replied.

“Okay,” he said. “Open the glue, and I’ll hold the cut closed and you run a bead down it.”

I opened the tube. “Now be careful with that stuff,” he said. “It’s sticky.”

“Oh really? Is that why they call it glue?”

“You know,” said Rusty. “Sarcasm is not attractive.”

“And you standing here without a shirt, bleeding is attractive?”

“Just squirt the juice,” he said.

I slowly squeezed the contents of the tube between Rusty’s finger and thumb onto the cut.

“Oh,” I said. “I forgot to put anything antiseptic on it.”

“Don’t worry,” he said.  “My body’s good at rejecting stuff.”

“I know,” I said. “I’m beginning to feel the waves of that myself.”

“What?”

“Nothing.”

I finally finished. “How long until it cures?” I asked.

“My cut or the glue?”

“The glue, stupid.”

“Couple of minutes,” he said. “Go on back to doing whatever it was you were doing. I can handle it from here.”

I looked at him, shook my head, and left.

After a minute Rusty yelled. “Janet!  I’m stuck!”

I walked back into the kitchen. “What do you mean you’re stuck?”

“My fingers are stuck to my arm.” 

Not only was the cut sealed up, but Rusty’s finger and thumb were semi-permanently attached to his arm.

“You’re kidding. Why did you let that happen?”

“Me? You’re the one that glued me. I told you to be careful.”

“And I told you to go get stitches,” I said.

“Oh,” said Rusty. “So, it’s my fault.”

“Rusty, it’s always your fault. When are you ever going to realize that?”

“Now, what am I going to do?” he asked.

“I guess you are just going to have to stay like that until it wears off.”

“Well,” he said. “In that case I guess you better come with me.”

“Where are we going?”

“I’ve got to use the bathroom, and since I’m in this predicament, I’m going to need your assistance.”

“What?”

“You heard me,” he said.

“Hold it,” I said.  “Maybe there is something we could do.”

“Like what?”

“Like this,” I said and I grabbed his hand and jerked it.” The skin of his arm stretched out a good ten or twelve inches before his fingers were finally torn away from his arm.

“YEEEEOWWWW!” he yelled. “What’s the big idea?”

“Look,” I said. “You’re free. Now, quit bothering me.” I turned to walk away, then stopped and turned back. “Oh yeah,” I smiled. “You better make sure that glue on your fingers is dry before you go to the bathroom.  

 

Copyright © 2006 by Rusty W. Mitchum

All Rights reserved 6/4/06