Everyone stopped and circled around, Mr. Capela, who was running the seminar, rolled me onto my back and started feeling around my shoulder area.

I could wiggle my fingertips now, and my shoulder hurt. Pain is your friend; he lets you know that you are still alive. I’d been through worse, but that didn’t mean that this didn’t really, really suck.

“It’s not your collarbone,” said Mr. Capela.

“Good,” I replied. “A guy I work with broke his collarbone the same way, it’s been nothing but trouble for him. “

Mr. Capela  continued to feel around, and assess the situation. He had no medical training, however he is an expert at breaking and mangling people, so he could draw upon his vast experience with broken and mangled people to diagnose exactly what was wrong with me.

“I…I think Joe’s knee his the nerve, and gave me a stinger or something, my arm’s kind of numb,” I told them and I sat up.

“Look at his shoulder. Now look at his other one,” Mr. Mullins said with a smile. “That’s horrifying.”

Mr. Mullins chuckled and with a grin and a friendly upward nod told me: “Your shoulder’s dislocated. Go to a hospital.”

I stand up, gritting my teeth in pain, last time this happened it fixed itself, I had no luck this time. Mr. Zielinski tried to comfort mt pain, in vain.

“At least it will go in easier this time,” said Mr. Zielinski.

“No it wont,” I told him. “I dislocated the other one.”

He stopped in horror and a general lack of words.

“At least they match now,” I told Mr. Zielinski. since there was no point in complaining about what cannot be undone. Seeing no point in morning, I find humor in the situation.

I sauntered over to my gym bag, where beneth my hat, regular clothes,  my pair of sai, my nunchaku, a kubotan, a wooden tanto, my mouth piece, my knee brace, a pair of tonfa, a pair of kama, a jutte, my notebook, the Chinese ring daggers, belated Xmas presents for some of the other black belts in my school, the comics August returned to me, a roll of athletic tape and my emergency underpants, I was able to retrieve my glasses case and to pluck my wallet from my shorts.

“Is there anything we can help you with?” asked Mr. Capela.

“Yeah, can you put my shoes on? That’s kind of a… two-handed job…”

Mr. Capela put my shoes on my feet for me, which really says a lot about the guy he is.  Me? I just sat back and let the initial endorphin burst to finally sink in and do its work.

“How is he getting to the hospital?” asked Joe.

“You broke him, you take him,” said Mr. Mullins.

Joe lugged my gym bag to his car, while I slowly shuffled over, with my limp arm fluttering in the breeze the the handlebar streamers of a little girl’s bike. After running a few red lights and never-ending series of painful bumps in the road (because it was Erie), I make it to the hospital.

“It’s okay Coons, you’ll be fine…” Joe tells me as he drops me off in front of the emergency room. “…unless you get that one nurse I made out with a bunch of times, then never called back for no reason, and she remembers you. Then you’re screwed.”