Going Postal: Day 5

reagan-stamp.jpgDAY 5: Black Molasses Day

Somewhere, someone, at sometime must have conducted a study to see what the limits of physical pain a human being can endure before the brain shuts down and a person loses consciousness. I’m almost positive the Nazis conducted such experiments, and I wouldn’t be surprised if some shit like that went down during the Reagan administration. Anyway, my point is that there is a pain threshold we all have that can reach a breaking point. If you were to measure pain on a scale of 1 to 100, with 100 being the point at which the body is in so much pain that the brain can no longer cope, and simply shuts down causing a loss of consciousness, then I would have to say that last night I hit somewhere between a 98 and a 99.

Now, before any of you start thinking I’m some sort of pussy-ass bitch boy, let me explain that I have a very high tolerance to pain. I am covered in tattoos, I once had my armed stitched up without the use of any sort of numbing agent, and I have had a flipped seminal cord—perhaps the single most painful experience any man can ever endure. This is when the seminal cord gets twisted up, stopping the blood flow out of the testicles, causing a build up of blood that can become so great your balls literally explode, at which point you most likely die. The pain is so intense you can’t walk, you go into shock and then convulsions—all in a matter of minutes. So, in the David Walker world, where pain is just an excuse for lazy fuckheads to not get shit done, it takes a bit for me to say, “Ow, that shit hurts.”

But last night, as I diligently fulfilled my duties as a member of USPS team, my body was in so much pain I don’t know how I made it through the shift. By the time I got home, I literally could not get out of the car. I was in rough shape.

The physical pain, however, was balanced out by the emotional pain I was dealing with. That emotional pain is more difficult to measure. But as I stepped over the line that separates 38 years old from 39, while my body was screaming, “What the fuck are you doing to yourself?!?” I was forced to take stock of my life, and it was not pretty. At least the depression of my birthday and the other shortcomings of my personal, sexual, professional and financial life helped to provide a distraction from what I was feeling physically. Together, everything added up to what I call a “black molasses” day. My uncle Douglas and his son both worked for a company that cleaned septic tanks. The stuff that gets cleaned out of the tanks—all the shit and piss and other nasty stuff that gets flushed down the toilet and stays in the septic tank—is lovingly referred to by guys in the trade as black molasses. Every once in a while, a hose would rupture, and black molasses would shoot out all over whoever was cleaning the tank. My uncle would tell me how it would sting your eyes, and fill your mouth and lungs with shit and you think you’re going to drown in this caustic poop. And that’s what a black molasses day is.


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