November 1st 2015

The bottom shelf of the tiny hallway closet has been painted in place. My head is tucked underneath, my shoulder wedged up against the door jamb, my right hand and arm are crowded inside as I try to cut the laminate underlay in place. The stuff is as tough as buffalo hide so it's no surprise when my knife blade snaps and flashes by my neck. I think. "Whew. That was close." I realise it was closer than I thought when I see the stream of blood making it's way down to my elbow. My brother Leonard is trained not to panic, he'd have the wound dressed and half way to the hospital in under 5 minutes. My brother Tony, panic? Man, he'd just call an ambulance (they're on his speed dial), then he'd finish cutting in the closet. Of course, I am one of the Antonini brothers, and, perhaps I may have felt faint the first half dozen times but by the time I was five I was well accustomed to the sight of my own blood. So, I don't panic either. I have a rag or a roll of duct tape. The rag is soaked in solvent, if I hold that to my neck I'll be dancing with pink rhinos on the rings of Saturn before I get to my truck. Duct tape it is. I hang my arm out the window, don't want to stain the upholstery. Little kids are screaming and crying in cars when I pass. Pedestrians are fainting on the sidewalks, they're dropping like black flies in a cloud of Deep Woods Off. I look in the rear view at my neck and think to myself, "they should make duct tape in flesh tones".

Have a great day
Loved