On the way home from school. Running across a field. I fell. I fell on a broken bottle of Clorox. I cut my right hand badly. It was bleeding profusely. I got up. I looked deeply into the gaping wound. I was fascinated by the inside of my hand and what I saw there. I got home. I couldn’t find mom. So, I went next door and showed by hand to Rocco, my Communist mentor. He was in his shorts. [When I was younger, that’s what I thought a Communist was.] Nonetheless, he took me to the emergency room. They worked on my hand and it took a long time with the stiches and all. At the time, I was often speaking with a British accent. In response to Rocco’s note he left for my mom, she rushed in to where I was being treated. I said, “Well, here’s my bloody mother!”