Monkey Business

Eli, our daughter, was age seven, and her cousin Sebastian was age five. They begged and pleaded to go fishing. I took them to a pond in West Milwaukee, not far away. I rigged them both up with a pole, hook, and a worm for bait and hoped they’d settle down. They were soon climbing trees and ripping the worms in two. Sebastian climbed too high in a tree and wanted help getting down. Eli threw several bananas at him. I finally climbed up to his rescue. I thought they’d chill out, not a chance. They played chase, tripping over a pole, sending the line with the fishhook with the partial worm clinging to its life, flying and penetrating right through my thumb sticking out of my nail. The worm was all bloody. The hook went through the under meat and poked out of my thumbnail. Blood was squirting and pulsing from my thumb. The kids slowed down to see the cool blood. I wrapped it up, and there was a swimming pool nearby. I asked the lifeguard for a first aid kit, and he almost fainted. I got the kids together and drove home. I came inside, and my lady wanted to take me to the emergency room. I called her nurse friend, who agreed with my lady. I went to the basement, got a hacksaw, and sawed the hook shaft, then took some needle-nose pliers and pulled the metal stem back through my thumb. I bandaged it with a rag and duct tape and ate three bananas. My lady and the nurse were ready to take me to the hospital. I told them I was good. The nurse said, “Who do you think you are, Rambo?” I just smiled.