Bora Bora and Ziplock Bags

I just spent the past 34 minutes of my life fighting to open the packaging on one of those energy bars: Bora Bora, an organic, nothing artificial, supposed-to-be-good-for-you foods. And if it wasn’t for the fact I was quickly crashing in hunger, I would’ve given up and went for the high fiber cereal bag staring at me on the countertop. It only had one of those spring-loaded plastic clips.

I often get lucky with these packaged foods as, compared to most quads, I have a little better hand-finger dexterity. I have a spinal cord disorder, not a spinal cord injury. I got the index finger-opposing thumb thing in my favor. However, this time, I gave up on going for the usual seam down the middle; I was now gnawing on the plastic wrapping -- but to no avail.

I took stock: I’m home alone; no one is coming for hours; I really need to eat something; my neighbor is watering his yard, but heck if I’m going all that way; the more I grind at the wrapper the more sloppy it gets. Expletive!

I took a few deep breaths. Expletive. I thought about the time my wife had left me a tofurky sandwich sealed in a Ziplock bag. Great invention, that color-coded seal, but not quad-friendly. When she came home she found an indistinguishable wad of goo still in the bag, on the floor, run over a few times by someone’s wheelchair. I know, I know, anger management.

I decided that I would open the Bora Bora with my teeth and gimpy hand come hell or high-water -- expletive with an ...er.

I gnawed on each corner; gads, we’re getting messy. I propped up the bar between a bag of mixed nuts and a bag of granola. Well, that didn’t help. No scissors in sight, then again, have you every seen a quad with a scissors? Yikes!

Finally, like a starving animal, I bit the packaging in the middle and ripped the damn thing open -- well, smashed-open. I smeared the contents into my drooling mouth. It was sustenance; it was good; I, (expletive with an ...ing), won. And just at that moment, a loud, hard-hitting noise from outside on the street: KA-TOOGE, as in a speeding motorcycle hitting a minivan broadside!

I wiped my mouth and watched a sunflower seed tumble onto my knee and hit the floor. Lost only one little b@st@rd, I thought.

I rolled out onto the deck over-looking the street. Geez! Someone’s motionless on the hot asphalt; no helmet. An almond-shaped lady in a blue and black muumuu cries out, “Call 911! Oh God, so much blood....”

I watched from my vantage point. Motorcycle gal ain’t moving. Deaf School psychologist is now crossing the street with cell phone in hand. I watched. Neighbors started to gather. Firetruck, ambulance, and police converge within minutes.

An older man, jogger-type haole guy, passes below me on the Kanaina Avenue/George Street corner as people and blinking neon lights swell. He mutters in a facetious tone, “Just another uneventful Thursday, huh?”

I came back in. I didn’t want to see anymore damage done. If not dead, she’ll survive through the luxury of modern medicine. Head injury? Quadriplegia? Better tell her about Bora Bora and Ziplock bags....

Wally Soares