Two of my room mates were celebrities. And by celebrity, I mean they appeared on local news.
The first, Don, was a city road worker who's crew was hit by a car on the Deerfoot. One guy was severely injured, the other was fine, and Don was in the middle with a bad broken leg. The doctor also figured he had a concussion, because, as the nurse politely put it, Don was "confused sometimes".
Don was retiring to the Philippines in May with his Filipino wife, which he commonly called "Mongoloid". They had sold all their furniture, and had shipped most of their possessions to her parents in the Philippines.
Don's the kind of guy who steers every discussion towards things that anger him (his stupid co-workers, Calgary drivers, his lawyer). The only passion in his life is his anger, which he probably uses to get out of bed in the morning. I was glad when he finally hobbled out of the hospital, because it was only a matter of time before he shanked a nurse.
The second is Bobby, a 20-year-old kid who was thrown 30 feet after his street racing buddy crashed his imported Toyota Aristo. Bobby wasn't wearing his seat belt, and is incredibly lucky that 1) his window was open, and 2) his buddy hit the telephone poll on the right side of his car. This allowed Bobby to be "thrown-clear" without having to open the windshield with his face. His biggest complaint was the patch of his hair the doctor cut off to stitch up a cut on his scalp. I swear, young people have Wolverine-like healing.
Bobby had a never ending stream of visitors: parents, sisters, girlfriend(s), other members of his church, etc. A couple of times, they closed the curtain and prayed for about 15 minutes. I swear, every single adult asked, "Have you learned your lessen?" and every teenager said, "Man, you should be dead." He would always laugh at the last one, and say, "I know, man, I know."
No comments:
Post a Comment