Like a Sack of Potatos.

Once in a while you get into a situation that you just can’t get out of. You know you’ve fucked up, you know you’re going to get into trouble and you know there just isn’t any way out. You’re going to have to go through it and by doing so you’re going to have to take a big bite out of the shit sandwich of life. One of these times that immediately spring to mind for me is the time I broke my wrist. It’s also the reason why after eight years I am just barely getting able to drink vodka again. I was sixteen and a rare opportunity had occurred; both my mother and father were out of the city at one time. To some, this may not seem too extraordinary, however in my instance this was a first. Coming from divorced parents does have its advantages as a teenager, you can go over to the other one’s house if one is annoying you, you can wring both of them for money and you can use them as an excuse for some good old fashioned angst. The disadvantage to this is that the chances that both your parental units are out of town at the same time are slim; let’s just say that they don’t go holidaying in the Whitsundays together. So in all this time, this was the first time I had been left alone in the city for a weekend. I had heard stories of this happening to other kids and the gooey delicious mischief that flowed forth, so I was eager to impose my own brand of mayhem on the fine tradition of teenaged misadventure. Would my sweet treats turn out to be sour? Would my venture forth into the rainbow coloured candy land of irresponsibility and chocolate devil may care mud cakes be as wondrous and magical as I heard? Or would I get my just desserts?

I had conveyed my excitement to friend and neighbourhood ally Jayden Elphick and we began to set in motion a grand plan. We got some cheap vodka a bottle of fizzy lemony sweet water, discarding half of the contents of the squash we poured in the vodka and set forth. Where did we go? Where do all teenagers go for pre drinks for the night of their lives? The park. We met up with a few more of Jayden’s friends and to cut a long story short; we got drunk. We got drunk and high on sugary fermented treats. After which time we decided that it was time to take full advantage of the current situation and adjourn to my mum’s house and carve the night in twain with our lust of life and exuberance for rebellion.

I lived on 14a Millimumul way in Mullaloo; a little beach side suburb in the heart of the Northern suburbs. The house was small but more or less comfortable and had a lovely little back yard with a retaining wall and a shade cloth over it to keep prying eyes from looking down from 14b Millimumul way in Mullaloo. Why do I tell you this? Because it is the crux of the story. In amongst the din of loud music and four sixteen year old running around full of sugar and fermented potatoes I decided that it would be cool if I could some how jump from the retaining wall and swing on the wooden shade cloth. With my judgement clouded in adrenaline and sweet fizzy booze I went for it. I’d like to tell you that I did it, I’d like to tell you that I swung on that fucker and did a double somersault and landed perfectly on the roof and we all cheered and applauded and went on cheering and applauding till the wee hours of the night, that my high school crush came over and we made long passionate love on the soft green lawn while the sun rose. But I can’t, because I didn’t, I didn’t and wouldn’t make love to another person for another two years, there was no cheering and applause, I did not swung on that fucker and I certainly did not land perfectly.

A drunk virgin Ben awoke on the cool green grass; the wind knocked out of me, dazed, confused and in pain. I remember a weird sensation in my right hand, as if there was something caught on it, attached to my arm but not a part of my body. There was a large lump on the top of my wrist and an even large thing protruding from the bottom of my wrist, it had broken right through. In an attempt to keep me calm, both Jayden agreed that it was not in fact broken but badly sprained and we would wrap it in ice and go to sleep. The other two friends leaving for fear of getting caught up amongst the trouble we went to bed and passed out. I awoke about three in the morning in a bitch face amount of pain, proceeded to lie in the bathtub and call for help. Great family friend Jasmin Lyford came to rescue and after spewing in the front garden from what I imagine was a result of both shock and drinking cheap vodka I got into the car and went to hospital. The moment I looked at that mangled wrist I knew what I had done, yet I tried to fight it, tried to deny what had happened by thinking it was only sprained. I’ve sprained my wrist a few times before that and I knew that this was a completely different feeling, for one I could still move my hand afterwards and I couldn’t see bone where there shouldn’t have been.

I had to go into surgery to reset the bone and wore a cast on my arm for a few months during which my school grades went downhill as a result of me not being able to write with my right hand. I didn’t touch vodka for a longtime and still have a slight aversion to the vile drink. But more importantly I learnt that just because you can doesn’t necessarily mean you should, that I was not as indestructible as I was led to believe and that I can’t jump as far as I thought. My Mum had to come back from Rottnest early and see her youngest son drugged out of his mind on morphine with a broken wrist. Hubris is an ugly thing.