The Monkey's Nose

 

    Okay, this is going to sound wicked self-serving.  Perhaps it is, but this past Friday was my 67^th birthday.  It was fun in a morbid realization that the extended warranty on my body has expired kind of way.  But, at least I’m on the right side of the hole.

    For now.
    Anyway, the occasion called to mind my 19^th birthday wayyyyyyy back in 1977.  As I told the story of what happened that day to my coworkers, I was reminded of a short story written in 1902 by the Englishman W.W. Jacobs, “The Monkey’s Paw.”

    Seriously, that's how my mind goes.  But, if you've been coming around here a long time, you probably already new that.

"What does this have to do with his birthday?"
"Don't worry.  He'll get to it.  I hope."

    NOTE:  That he was an “English” man is probably irrelevant, but, hey, creative writing!

    I won’t go into the entire plot because, let’s face it, you want to get in and get out with this post.  No sense clogging it up with…words.

    Suffice to say the aforementioned paw had the power to grant three wishes, but at a terrible cost.

    The horror part of this thing kicks off when the main character wishes for 200 pounds.

    Hey, whaddya know, being "English" is relevant!

"Quite."

    Apparently, he wanted to make the final mortgage payment on his house.

     NOTE:  Incidentally, 200 pounds is equivalent to $269.99 in real money (or one of Whoopi Goldberg's legs).  Well, at least in 2025.  Who knows WTF it was worth in 1902?  Hey, I’ve done enough work for you people.

    Well, he gets it, but only as a bereavement payment when his son is killed in a horrible accident.

    So, what does this have to do with my birthday, you might ask?

    Well, on July 10, 1977, I was at sea aboard USS America as we made our way back to Norfolk, Virginia.

Now sitting at the bottom of the Atlantic Ocean.
Everyone was taken off. 
I think. 

    NOTE:  I was a very young crewmember then.  As such, I was assigned duty as a dishwasher for the Officers Mess.  Hey, someone had to do it. 

Eventually, though, I would be footloose and fancy-free.
In addition to being a snappy dresser.

    As we listened to Manfred Mann's "The Roaring Silence" for the hundredth time,

Sadly, it was the only cassette tape we had. 
It was a good album. 
The first fifty times.

I made the comment that the following day was my birthday.  How sucky was it that I would have to work?

    Yeah, that was back when I actually cared that my body made another trip around the sun.  Of course, I had brown hair and everything worked back then, too.

"Everything?"

Yes, everything.

  Well, wouldn’t you know?  That evening, I got into a pretty significant fight with a huge cook over a set of fully intact rubber gloves.

    NOTE:  Yes, it was as petty as that.

    The upshot is that I lost.  Badly.  So badly that I needed twenty-one stitches to close the gash on the bridge of my nose.

Resulting in a scar I carry to this day. 
And here you thought I was a dreamboat.

    The result of this thrashing was that I was admitted to the ship’s medical ward (aka sickbay).  I spent the next day in a hospital bed.  I obviously didn’t have to go to work scraping cigarette butts and dried eggs off plates.

    So, there was that.

Shoot. I make it sound like it was revolting or something..

    But, that day was July 11th.  My birthday.

    So, like with the monkey paw, be careful of what you ask.

    You may get it.

    And it probably won’t be $269.99.

Shameless Self-Promotion
That story-and more!-is in this book.
Amazingly, still available on Amazon