I realize the word somewhat is an understatement. It is akin to saying, “The architecture in Dubai is somewhat elaborate.”
Because of the inelegant lumbering, I’ve had several close calls with the grim reaper. I once tripped in the street in Paris. We were steps from the Arc de Triomphe, a busy intersection in the French city. I was staring at a bus barreling down in my direction. I was too startled to get up; so I rolled out of the path of the oncoming vehicle. I had narrowly escaped death, but my friends were too busy laughing to aid me.
In Greece, I misjudged my footing on the cliff at Cape Sounion and almost tumbled into the deep blue water. Luckily, a friend grabbed my arm and pulled me back. I would have died like Aegeus himself, tumbling into the briny depths. Aegeus’s son, Theseus, forgot to change out the black sail on the ship, leaving his dad to believe he was dead. Aegeus couldn’t bear the thought of mourning his son, so he leapt off the cliff. My death wouldn’t have been as poetic; it would be from shear clumsiness.
I tripped in San Francisco walking down Market Street. Ironically, I was the sober member of our entourage: I was chastising my group of friends for getting hammered and tripped over an uneven sidewalk.
While hiking in Hawaii with my friend Tom, I tripped up the stairs on my way to the top of Diamond Head Crater. Near the top of the trail there is a rickety set of steps leading to a beautiful view of the island. In my defense, I had answer a more pressing call of nature and rushed up to the observation deck, so I could get back down to a urinal. I would normally have stayed and admired the view, but I had to go.
Tom stared down at the beauty of the island, “It’s breathtaking!” I was like, “Yeah, yeah ... is there a Porta-John up here?” There was not.
When you’re clumsy, hiking downhill under normal conditions is tricky; when you’ve got a full bladder and you want to run down, it’s nearly impossible. I’m surprised I survived.
Yes. I’ve fallen all over the world. My latest close call came within a mile of my current residence.
I went for a walk the other day, and I almost bit it on Swallow Hill; ironically, with the St. Clair Hospital Emergency Room entrance several yards away. I almost fell on a greasy black banana peel. Had I fallen on the peel I would have spilled into traffic and died.
It would have been a tragic yet fitting demise: the pratfall that killed. Taken out, Three Stooges-style. I could envision my funeral. Everyone would be standing around sniffling until the cause of my untimely demise was revealed. “He slipped on a banana peel and died.” The handkerchiefs would come out to cover the guffaws instead of the tears.
The eulogy would be “He lived and died as a comedian.”