Ketchican Alaska
Nathan B. Spooner
Ketchikan, Alaska 1976
and I’m part of a stevedoring crew in the hold of a cargo ship from Russia to
load 520 pound wood pulp packets. We’re standing around talking before the
loading starts.
A guy from Chicago
whom I’d never seen before is talking about street fighting and other stuff. I
say something about something, he turns and says to me “You ever been cut?”
I say “Yeah, wanna see
my scars.” He turns away and never says another word to me.
Turns out the scars to
which I’m referring were from the 10 surgeries I’d undergone when I was 19 and
my friend rolled his ’57 Chevy, ejecting both of us, trapping me underneath. Oh
yeah, those first, second, third and fourth-degree burns required lots of
skilled doctors making lots of cuts onto my flesh to put me back together.
Didn’t matter that the
cuts weren’t exactly what the fellow meant, but then again, it did end the
conversatio