First thing’s first (hence why they call it the ‘first thing’) – this isn’t Monk. The Twisted Monk blog has become the unofficial fifteen-minute domain of me, Alex, the fourteenth- or fifteenth-coolest person in the greater Seattle area.
Why, you may be asking yourselves as you sip your lattes and muse upon life, is Alex invading Monk’s personal private blather-space? Because, ladies, gentlemen, and everything in between, I am possessed of two fully functional typing hands and a head clear of powerful painkillers – commodities that my dear Daddy is not possessed of at this particular moment.
I hope you’re in a comfortable, seated position, cause now I’m gonna tell you how it all went down.
Monk. Then Alex. Then the BMW. That is, quite literally, how it all went down.
Before you all start panicking and bolting like so many wide-eyed gazelles, let me assure you that we’re both still very much alive. (Oh, don’t look so disappointed.) The crash – it barely warrants the term, but it sounds so dramatic that I can’t resist – happened yesterday (Sunday) afternoon, and was the result of a very low-speed pop of front tire against protesting railroad track. Monk went over the front, I went off the side, and we hit the street like a couple of heavily-armored sacks of rock salt.
Note: heavily-armored. We were both donning full protective gear – leathers, boots, and full-face helmets. Had either of us not been, we might be sporting anything from facial road rash to skull fractures to broken backs. I for one skidded a good two feet on the side of my head; that’s enough to mess with anyone’s moneymaker. Message to the masses #1: wear your fucking gear when you ride.
Anyway, where was I? Ah, yes, we came off the bike. We both bounced up pretty quickly, exchanged “Are you OK”s, and Monk went to gather up the toppled bike. It was right around the time when he tried to lift the thing that we realized something was amiss in the vicinity of his right shoulder – a very important something that made him curse like a sailor when it was touched, and crackled like Pop-Rocks under my fingers.
I think at that point we both said, “Oh, shit.”
We paid Tambo the phone call that every motorcyclist’s spouse dreads, and she came running to gather us up and take us to the nearest ER. It took about an hour for the doctors to get their rears in gear, take Monk back, dope him, X-ray him, and declare that sure ‘nuff, sir, you’ve got yourself a broken collarbone.
I think at that point, all three of us said, “Oh, shit.”
(By the way, if you’re wondering after my so-called welfare, which I am one-hundred-percent certain you’re not, I came out of the crash with no worse than a couple of bruises. The clear explanation for my lack of injury is that I am, in fact, a ninja. Or Bruce Willis in ‘Unbreakable.’)
Monk got his arm stuffed in a sling, got a few more well-warranted painkillers slipped into his bloodstream, and we all three got sent on our way with the healing instructions from hell: don’t use your right arm for six weeks.
Telling an ordinary paper-pusher not to use his right arm for six weeks is liable to get you a hissy fit. Telling Twisted Monk not to use his right arm for six weeks is like instructing Seattle clouds not to dump rain on us for six weeks, or informing the aforementioned paper-pusher that he’s not allowed to drink coffee for the rest of his life – in other words, are you for fucking real?
We keep saying “It could be worse,” because it really could be. I don’t even want to know the statistics for crippling or fatal motorcycle accidents, because knowing them will scare the bejeezus out of me. Monk may be sedated and bandaged, sleeping on the futon in an uncomfortable propped-up position, but he’s alive, and he can walk, talk, and he still flips me the bird when I get on his nerves. Six weeks without the use of an arm is a long time – but it could well have been the rest of his life if the cards had fallen differently.
A lot of things are still up in the air for us at the moment, but we’re doing our best to bring them down to earth as quickly and efficiently as we can. I can speak for the integrity and commitment of Monk’s support network, and not just because I happen to be a part of it – because I’ve seen it in action before, and it absolutely astounds me to watch everyone spring to his aid when he needs you most. I say ‘you’ because I know who’s reading this – friends, family, customers, and, in short, people who matter in Monk’s world. Telling you about this isn’t meant to scare you or set you off – you’re told because you deserve to know, and because you can handle it. Getting through this will be tough, but we’re fucking tough, so I know we can do it.
Monk’s got some mighty big boots, and I know we can’t expect to fill them completely – but we can keep them polished nice and shiny for six weeks, so that they’re ready to wear as soon as he’s ready to step back into them.