In 1989, a band called Faith No More released their breakthrough album The Real Thing. I'll always remember that it came out that year, because the tape was in my pocket when I went flying off the hood of my brother's 1972 Chevy Malibu, cracking my head across the asphalt when I landed. It took a coupl'a dozen stitches to keep my brains from slowly seeping out, but all things considered it wasn't that serious. I was back at school in a week or so, where I was welcomed back by classmates who'd heard all sorts of twisted versions of what had happened to me, ranging from simple misconceptions, like I'd been hit by someone rather than falling off a car I'd willingly got up onto, to outlandish tales, one of which involved falling into a pool and being mauled by a dog. What actually happened was pretty mundane: I'd gotten off the school bus and was walking toward my house when my brother drove up. He told me to get in the car and he'd drive me the rest of the way, but instead I said “I'll just hop up on the hood.” He hit the gas a little too hard, and I bounced off the windshield. It was an honest mistake, though he was understandably broken up by it while I was in the hospital. I used his guilt to my advantage for quite some time, just as any shithead little brother would do.
As is often the case with head injuries, I don't remember too much about the events after I bounced off the windshield and took to the air, but the one clear memory I have of it all is sitting in the middle of the road with my arms folded on my knees, head down, staring at a record I'd been carrying with me called Freddy's Greatest Hits. This record featured A Nightmare on Elm Street villain Freddy Krueger singing originals like “Do the Freddy”, and “Down in the Boiler Room” as well as classic covers like “Wooly Bully” (Freddy wore a wool sweater, see), and “In the Midnight Hour”(pretty self explanatory). I don't know why this record isn't more well known.
While I was sitting there staring at Freddy's disfigured, smiling face, I thought I was going to die. Would this really be it? My final moments staring at a novelty horror record? That didn't seem right. My final moments should've been doing something badass, like headbanging to Guns 'n' Roses or giving the finger to a teacher. They got me in an ambulance (where I promptly vomited), got me to the hospital, and had me stitched up in no time, though. There would still be plenty of time to give the finger to a teacher. It would probably be a little while before I was up for headbanging, though.
Remembering this scene got me thinking about how it's sort of unfair that we can't choose what our final moments will be. If I'd died that day, I'd be remembered as a huge fan of A Nightmare on Elm Street (and, for the record, I have always strongly preferred Friday the 13th) and the band Faith No More, who, admittedly, I do love to this day, but still. The tape was in my pocket that day because I'd somehow managed to convince the bus driver to let us listen to it on the ride home. If I'd died, maybe she would've gone out and bought it herself to play on the bus in tribute to me. “He just loved novelty music and rock songs with rapping in them,” they'd say at my funeral. Then they'd play Freddy's version of The Everly Brothers' “All I Have to do is Dream” while everyone sobbed.
It makes me think about any number of embarrassing things I did or was into at various points in my life. Most of these things were mere blips on the radar that quickly faded as my life went on, but thank god I didn't die. I mean, in high school I was really into plaid. I had several plaid suits (at least one of which was actually meant for a woman; my mom removed the shoulder pads before she gave it to me). And if I'd died? “I always said he should've been born Scottish!” they'd wail as they lowered my tartan casket into the grave. Or how about the novel I worked on throughout my first couple of years of college? To call it a Douglas Adams ripoff would be insulting to Douglas Adams. “I'm going to send this around to publishers, see if I can get some interest. It really was his life's work!” my mother might say. Dear god.
So, if I had actually died that day after falling off the hood of my brothers car, I can't help but think that the real tragedy would be that 7th grade me would be preserved in the memories of my friends and family, this little chubby kid with a mullet, wearing a jean jacket with the KISS face-paint painted on the back. Regardless of whatever else I had accomplished at that admittedly young age, for all of history, this would be the definitive me, the true Cory Byrom. The real thing.
