Picture this: flatland Indiana, winter snowstorm (big, wet, fluffy flakes,) and me and the Captain (Crazy, not Smack - sorry bud, no winter fun for you with me ;) lol) are riding along trying to get to the auto plant in New Castle to deliver parts.
We stop at a red light in the left turn lane. There's 4 inches of snow on the ground, more coming down in a blizzard-like flurry, and the flakes are fluffy and wet. The wind is causing them to melt and freeze on the wiper, causing big chunks of ice to build up on the blades. As the passenger, it's my job to keep the passenger side clear.
I get out the passenger side, close the door and climb up on the step, then up on the wheel well. As the blades swing over, I'm holding on the the mirror with one hand, and grabbing the wiper, pulling it back, flipping it back to the windshield and breaking the ice off with the other. It's not easy for someone 5'2 to do.
I move to get back in the truck, grab the mirror with the other hand, but the wet metal causes me to miss a good grip. I catch the bar only by my fingernail, which rips to shreds. Momentum of swinging back to the sidestep and losing my hold cause me to swing 'round, fall off the truck and land flat on my back on the road.
Are ya done?
Luckily, I had the four inches of snow to break my fall. It was actually rather peaceful looking up at the snow-filled night sky, trying to catch my breath, and manage the searing pain in my wrist where I landed on it trying to roll so I wouldn't break the fall with my face. Mostly, it worked.
Finally, I hear the air brakes being set. I force myself up, and am brushing the snow off the back of me when the passenger door pops open and out leans Capt Crazy. I REFUSE to let him see me laying on my back, in the snow, on the street.
"What're ya doin?" he just looks at me in that way he does when he's trying really hard to not laugh at me and make me feel bad. I know it well.
"Just playin' in the snow," I reply. I give him the "Shut up" look.
"Are you alright?"
He just chuckles and moves over so I can get in the truck. He releases the brake, and as the light has changed about 4 times by now, finally gets the green and moves to make his turn. All the while, he's side-glancing and trying not to smile.
"So, uh, what happened? You were out there flippin' the wiper, next thing I know, you've disappeared. I kept waitin', but you never got back in." He's so tactful.
"I fell off the truck." Still brushing snow off the back of me, I am pissy.
"You what?" He heard me; this is our form of torture for each other.
"I fell off the truck. I grabbed the mirror, but it was wet, and I only got it by one fingernail. The nail tore, and I fell off the fuckin' truck." I look straight at him.
He gets that chin quiver when he's trying not to laugh out loud, rolls his eyes back to the road, and checks out his driver side mirror. I know the smile is there.
"I was worried. I thought I was going to have to come out and find you."
"I know. I heard the brakes set, and I wasn't going to let you see me like that."
"Heh. Are you sure you're ok?"
"My arm hurts, but otherwise, I'm ok."
Turns out I sprained it pretty good. Everyone at the yard found great humor in it, as they did with all my injurious escapades. Fortunately I had my desk job. The one that required a lot of typing and paper shuffling.
Unfortunately, this is not the only time I have fallen off a truck... and not the last time Captain Crazy had to save me.