Let me preface this by exclaiming, I was only four-years-old when the “Great Slinky Dive of ’75” took place (not quite old enough to be a demon – but quite an imp, I was). I also wasn’t quite old enough to know better, but I knew better (remember – I’m worldly).
Mom had to hop into the shower and she asked me to keep an eye on my baby sister who had just turned one. Seriously, who asks a 4-year-old to watch a one-year-old? Anyhow, she wasn’t gone even a minute when I got bored playing with my antique (yes, it was even old then) erector set (sharp metal pieces that I still have scars from), and decided to show baby sis my new slinky. I had her crawl up the flight of rickety wood steps up to the landing and told her to watch the slinky go down. She laughed, clapped and bounced with such joy, I thought, “What am I going to possibly do to top that?” The idea came to me in an instant (I was smart even back then). I would become the slinky and go down the steps the same way! Keep in mind, these were steep, all wood steps – no carpet whatsoever. By the grace of God, I made it down in one piece and little sis was hysterical with laughter. All would have been fine if I would’ve just ended things right there (or if my mom hadn’t taken such a long friggin’ shower), but no, I always have to push the envelope. I told my sister she should try going down like the slinky since it was so much fun. Not that a one-year-old needs a lot of coaxing, but she took the bait (hook, line and slinky). Of course, anybody with any foresight knows this is going to end badly (and it does). Baby sis bent over the top step on the landing and the rest is kind of a blur (at least for her). She tumbled (and not so gracefully) head over heels down that flight of hardwood stairs. She came down so fast, she even beat the damn slinky down. Actually, hell yes, she beat the slinky down, because that cheap little coil of metal was crushed by her pudgy baby fat as she toppled over it (never did get a new one - and yes, I’m still carrying that grudge). She came to rest at the bottom and lay somewhat lifeless on our puke-green (with orange flecks) linoleum kitchen floor. I stood there for a moment and realized that her not moving, crying, or screaming was probably not a good thing (brilliant, I know), so I ran and got my mom. Needless to say, mom was NOT happy that I interrupted her never-ending shower. Nor did she believe me when I told her in my screechy, panicked voice about what had happened (hard to believe, but I tended to cry wolf a lot). I guess she finally decided to believe me when she heard the inhuman wail coming from the kitchen (sis had rudely awaken, apparently).
Before I knew it, we were in the backseat of the old Chevy Vega (no carseats or even seatbelts back then), bouncing around like ping pong balls as mom sped to the nearest emergency room. Speaking of ping pong balls, the knot on my sisters head was easily that big. Come to think of it, the bump on her head was so big, it was like she had another head attached to her head. I was so mesmerized by it, that I kept stinking finger into it (it was kind of squishy), which, in turn caused sis to scream even louder, which, in turn caused mom to scream louder too (at me) and drive even faster and run more lights. En route, because of her erratic driving (and me beating frantically on the rear window), she got pulled over by a Detroit (Michigan) cop. It worked in her favor though (still waiting for my thank you on that), because we got a police escort the rest of the way to the hospital. The policeman even ran into the emergency room with us to get us a room right away. It probably helped us get better service in that in her haste, my mother forgot to button her blouse (maybe that's where I get it?!?!) AND she was sans bra (child services showed up before my father did).
Somewhere, amidst all of the hubbub, somebody located my father at his favorite (one of many) watering hole and he joined my mom, sister and I at the hospital. It was kind of nice to have some father daughter bonding time since I hardly ever saw him (sober, at least). While my mom was in with my sister, we had a grand old time in the waiting room. We played wheelchair races (his idea – maybe that’s where I get it?!?!),and poked our names with syringes (they weren’t as careful with disposal back then) into the vinyl waiting room chairs (again – his idea -I wonder if they’re still there?). Besides have wayyyyy too much pop from the vending machine (Fanta makes too many irrestible flavors damnit!) that day, perhaps the most memorable fun I had that day was eating my first twinkie (and second, and third). It was love at first bite with that golden sponge of creamy deliciousness.
I was about to guilt a fourth twinkie out of my absentee father, when my mom emerged with my sister in tow. Little sister didn't have a broken head (hard heads run in our family) and the doctors had drained some of the fluid out of her squishy-extra-attached head. All in all, she ended up being fine - at least they thought so then, but time has told a different story. The way I see it, she still owes me a new slinky and another twinkie...
