Toe Jam

By C.J.  

"Hey, Caleb. Would you like to go to a garage sale?" my mother asked, speaking with much pep and enthusiasm, which was about seven years ago.

I replied with a simple, "Sure, why not?" Little did I know that that was when the trouble would really begin. My family of five, Matt, Michael, Bonnie, Steven, and I, rode home with a couple of Nintendo games: Super Buster Brothers, NBA '96, etc., and an exercise machine bike. It had black painted covers, silver star streak patterns all across it, and unfortunately there were uncovered, rusty chains. Later that night, the whole family, except for Matt, my oldest brother by four years, and my father, gathered in the family room, and let my mom pedal first because she was on a strict diet.

She wore dark, black flip-flops, which was highly dangerous because of the chains. She cycled for 10 minutes. My mother's feet went by the sprockets with ease. The sharp, jagged teeth went by, just missing her feet by less than an inch. Nobody noticed what a danger it was. After my mother went and cycled, father came into the room to watch. Matt was still in his room listening to music.

Then, my twin brother, who is precisely one minute older than me, Michael, went next with sandals for five minutes. His feet slid by the front end of the non-motive bike.

Finally, it was my turn to bike. I wore flip-flops and rode for 10 minutes, trying to beat my brother. As I was nearing the end. My foot slipped off the pedal and jammed into the rusty chains. A brief high-pitched screech, eeeeeeee, broke out from the squeaking, ancient, and battered bicycle. I felt a little ping of pressure on my right big toe. I limped lightly Í to lightly for even me to notice Í fingered my foot and asked, "What's that?" With those words, I cautiously gazed down at my dirty, black toe and saw a teaspoon of thick blood trickle down my diced toe. I couldn't help it; I started bawling at the piece of skin and nail hanging by a thread.

When the family was in the car, I thought to myself repetitively, "Why me? Why always?"

The doctor stitched me up with 32 stitches. We got rid of the evil bike the next day. When the family was in the car, I thought to myself repetitively, "Why me? Why always me?"

The doctor stitched me up with 32 stitches. We got rid of the evil bike the very next day. You know what? I learned a valuable lesson here. Never underestimate the power of the parents' warning. Look what happened to me. Do you want to break a bone, hit your head on cement or anything similar?

Next time you hear your parents' warning, about danger, take it seriously. Trust me on this one.