Coat Hangers and Other Conundrums

Enigmas rule. They thrive in closets. Coat hangers…a dangerous menace to mankind, a riddle that defies the Law of Probabilities.

Pull one out, they all come. You curse. They hang tough, come at your throat. You dodge the assault. You lose patience, use brute strength. They defy you. You beat back the aggression, win the wrestling match, scratched and scarred. They litter the floor, elongated, misshapen. You kick them into a pile of useless scraps of wire. Today, my friend, Ace Blackbanks, is not so lucky.

He calls, panic in his voice. “Get over here, now. A coat hanger attacked me,” he shouts. “I’m bleeding.” He’s maniacal.

I laugh. “Are you drunk?” I ask. “Man, this is no joke. I’m dying,” he moans. The phone dies. I hustle over. Attacked by a coat hanger? Interesting. It happens.

He staggers to the door. A ghastly sight…a black coat hanger hangs from his eyeball. It swings side to side as he walks. I recoil in horror.

“Do something!” he yells. My adrenaline surges into crisis mode. “Talk to me, man, don’t lose consciousness. What happened?” I shout.

“I grabbed a shirt. It jumped me. Get it out,” he begs. I grab the hideous hanger. He howls, “No, no, pain.” I let go. “Where’s your wife?” I ask. “She fainted,” he says. “Never could stand blood.” I go over, nudge her with my foot. She snores. Useless. I call 911.

A machine answers, says, “Hold on.” After an eternity a cheery voice answers “You called?” I say it’s urgent, send an ambulance. A man may die. “Yeah, yeah, they all say that,” the voice says.

“Look, my friend has a coat hanger hanging from his eyeball. He’s bleeding, needs immediate medical attention.” I’m insistent. “Calm down, sir. You’re number 5 in the queue. How did it happen?”

“It’s complicated. Alcohol may be involved. His wife’s passed out,” I say. “Hmmmm. Fishy,” the voice says. I say it’s a riddle, the Law of Probabilities. The voice laughs. “I had one of those days recently.” I ask what happened. “Cell phones don’t float,” the voice says. “Huh?” I say. Meanwhile, Ace doesn’t move. I jiggle his hangar. His eyeball quivers.

“OK, about your cell,” I say. “Oh, I was standing at the toilet, you know, doing my business. The cell slipped out of my hand. I watched it fall. Splash. Sunk like the Titanic. I stood there looking. No good option, a conundrum. How’s your friend?”

“Looks dead,” I say. “Quick, mouth-to-mouth, beat on his chest,” the voice says. “Are you kidding? He has dentures and bad breath. I have another idea. Hold on, I’ll be back,” I say. I find his wife’s hair drier, shove it down his throat and turn it on high. I slam my foot into his chest. He bolts upright, gasping. Back from the brink. I’m relieved.

“I’m back. How long now?” I ask. The voice answers, “Soon. They’re on break. Two ahead of you.” I yell, “He’s in pain. What can I do?”

“I’ll Google. Hold on,” the voice says. “OK. Does he drink?” I answer, “No, he guzzles. Why?”

The voice responds, “Take his best whiskey, a funnel and pour half down his throat, the other half in his eye. Wait ten minutes.” I do. He convulses, screams in pain, passes out.

“Now, this is the hard part…” The voice explains the medieval procedure. “Can you perform it?” I look at Ace, wonder if there’s a choice. “Are you sure?” I ask. The voice responds, “That’s what Google says.” We wait.

We pass the time discussing life’s conspiracy theories. Why do white shirts attract tomato sauce? Does one always lick their fingers to turn magazine pages? How can paper clips come hooked in a chain? Why do dropped coins always roll under a dresser? Ten minutes pass. Showtime for Ace.

“Ready?” I ask. “Hold on, another call.” Ace gets worse. Code blue now. I pray. His impaled eyeball glitters wildly as I affix a crucifix on his chest. Ah, the conundrums of life that flesh is heir to…

Seconds are critical. Ace smiles, the whisky works. It’s time. With my foot firmly on his forehead, the coat hanger gripped in my hands, the Lord’s name on my lips, I take a deep breath and jerk…

At times life can go sideways. At other times? Well, ask Ace. If life’s conundrums get you down, forget 911…consult Google!

Bud Hearn
June 28, 2012