Papercut

Damage from a corn stripper - Ouch!

Tonight, I was the unlucky recipient of a papercut.  From a cereal box!  How does that even happen?  Putting the groceries away is a pretty simple job.  I was reaching into the bag and I felt that unmistakable slice.  You know the feeling.  It sucks, especially with heavy paper or cardboard.  They don't always bleed, but they seem to always occur in some knuckle or crease in your hand, so you're reminded of it every time you move.  Any cut (big or small), takes me back to one day at the car wash...

My dad, sister, and I were strolling through Sunbury, PA one day in the mid-1990's.  My sister and I were on our bikes, pedaling along with Dad in his wheelchair.  As we were passing a car wash, my dad thought it would be a good idea for us to wash our bikes.  He figured that if we were quick enough, we could wash both bikes before our initial 3 minutes ($1.75) ran out.  He said that the trick would be whether or not I could hold each bike upright while my sister quickly blasted them with the pressure washer gun.  It sounded like a plan.

My sister dropped our quarters into the machine, grabbed the gun, and started spraying.  I held onto the frame of the first bike.  It was a pretty simple process until she accidentally got carried away and swept the nozzle over my hand. I let out a loud "OUCH!" and let go of the bike for a second to make sure I still had a hand.  The pressure from the gun smashed the bike into the muddy floor of the wash bay.  My sister stopped and asked if I was ok.  I was fine.  It just stung for a second.  My dad was pissed.  Not only did I drop the bike, but we were wasting our precious 3 minutes of washing time.  He started screaming.  I picked up the bike, and my sister started spraying again.  This time, she was a bit more careful.  A few seconds later, I somehow managed to stick my hand in front of the nozzle while changing my grip, and I let out another "OW!".  This time, I didn't drop the bike, but my sister did stop spraying again to make sure I was ok.  Now Dad was really losing it.  We were 2 minutes in on the first bike, with only a minute left!  I figured that if I knelt and held the bike with one hand, I could at least put the other one on the ground and out of the line of fire.  He shouted "Quit being a sissy!  It doesn't hurt, it's all in your head!".  I tried to defend myself because it did hurt.  It stung like hell.

We got about 10 seconds into the second bike when time expired.  Dad was clearly livid, but at least he wasn't yelling anymore.  He said "We're going to finish that other bike", and he told my sister to get another 7 quarters out of his backpack.  I stayed where I was, kneeling in the wash bay, holding onto bike #2.  He and my sister had a brief conversation about something, then she returned to the machine.  She put the quarters in and fired it up.  I closed my eyes in anticipation of the spray (I was pretty soaked from over-spray at this point).  Just then, I felt her step on my hand.  I looked down, then up at her, confused.  I suddenly realized what was happening.  I experienced the next few seconds in slow motion, and there was nothing I could do.  She put the tip of the nozzle down on my fingers and pulled the trigger.  I closed my eyes.  I felt my skin tear.  I screamed.  My hand was on fire.  She stopped and I opened my eyes.  There was no blood, but the web between my ring and middle fingers was parted with surgical precision.  My sister was crying and telling me she was sorry.  "Dad made me do it" she said.  My dad wheeled up close and said "See? I told you it doesn't hurt."  I showed him my hand, tears streaming from my face.  I could see he was surprised, but there was no apology.  I knew he felt terrible, and that was enough for me.  I think he probably wanted to take it back as much as I did, but he couldn't.  We never talked about it again.  Life went on, and my hand healed without a scar.

I learned an important and simple lesson that day: Pressure washers can hurt you.
I'll take a papercut any day.