ADVENTURES OF A BROKEN NOSE

A continuation of the 2nd chapter of my latest memoir - Escape From The Planet of The Arts. Joe has just downed a few cups of Aguardiente - and adventures follow!

In any case, these kids offer me some - and even though I am thoroughly wasted already - I down a few cups. Philippe is urging me to go back to the hotel with him before we get into trouble, but I drunkenly refuse. He finally just leaves by himself. That’s the last thing I remember.
Next thing I know - it’s the fuckin’ morning! I wake up in a strange bed - and Seinfeld is on TV - I begin laughing.
“Don’t you wonder what you’re doing here?”
I immediately recognize the British accent belonging to Trevor, one of the volunteers at the farm.
As a matter of fact, I do wonder, I think.
“Look around you…notice all the bloody towels?
Last night, around 4 o’clock in the bloody morning, mind you, this bloke knocks on my door, this huge Ecuadorian brute - and he has you hanging over his shoulder - and your face is all busted up.
Bloody hell, what the devil happened to him? I ask.
You’re bloody shit faced, dead to the world, and we have to deposit you in the bed here. Apparently, a couple of hours pass, you wake up to go to the loo, stumble on the step - and fall flat on your bloody face! Blood spurting everywhere - and I have the honor of picking you up, cleaning everything - and dragging you to the bloody bed! You can take a peek at all the soiled towels, if you dare.
Really, no offense, but aren’t you a bit too bloody old to be doing this sort of thing!?
In any case, you’re going to have to move on now and find your hotel, because I’ve got to meet up with my mate in a bit.”
I can barely stand. I weave and wind out of the hostel, staggering along the streets of Bahia for the next hour, with the vague hope of trying to locate my hostel. Finally, I do arrive there - and - the seńora at the reception desk lets out a gasp.
“Oh! Dios mio!! What happened to you!?
“Long story”, I mumble as I begin the sleepwalk to my room.
“Your amigo has been out all morning looking for you, he is very worried!”
I queasily unlock my room door, immediately crash onto my bed, perhaps with a case of alcohol poisoning… and maybe 10 minutes later, a distraught but relieved Philippe bursts into my room.
“Oh my God!”
He examines my rather battered face and now throbbing, swollen and bloody big toe.
We better get to the hospital!”
So we take a taxi to the nearest one. The doctor can’t do much with my nose, which is of course, broken - but he does shoot me up full of anesthesia - before removing the shattered toenail on my also broken and throbbing big toe. He wraps it up heavily in gauze, and with nothing more he can do - we head back to the hostel. Or rather, Philippe practically carries me there. He then departs back to Rio Muchacho to spread the tale of my plight.
As for me, I’m still so drunk it’s going to take days to recover - if not a week. Apparently, during my convalescence, the tale of my escapades has become legendary around town. When I finally venture outside to buy food, my toe is wrapped in gauze - probably three or four times the normal size.
I learn I have become something of a celebrity. It is at this time that I slowly begin to piece together the story of my adventure! It seems that when I was drinking the Aguardiente with the teenagers on the malecon, I excused myself to take a leak over on the side - and fell flat on my face - breaking my nose for the first time.
Barely conscious now, the teenagers attempt to help me to my feet - but as fate would have it - we are right across the street from a nunnery. Apparently, however, the sisters, alarmed by all the noise, yell at the kids to leave me alone - believing it to be a robbery.
Immediately, they dispatch the porter (the huge Ecuadorian guy) to rescue me - and as I am now dead to the world - he tosses me over his shoulder, proceeding to carry me to all the foreigner hangouts in town - before coming upon Trevor.
The rest, as they say, is history - and it becomes some sort of semi-urban myth.
The main gist of it is that because I am wearing flip flops with my heavily bandaged toe as I limp around town, I become known to the locals as “El Dedo”, which is Spanish for ‘The Toe’.
Oddly enough, this is the first time I actually feel accepted by the townspeople - and begin to really feel comfortable in my adopted home.