I yelled for help for almost 10 minutes before finally getting the attention of a young couple making their way to their car in the back of the parking lot.

“HEY! Hey, can you guys help me? PLEASE?!?”

”Uhh… well, um…” the male replied. Quite prolific, this one.

”Umm… What are you doing up there??” he yelled, standing at a safe distance. I can’t say that I blame him for keeping some space between us – the type of person one would normally find suspended on a 12 foot fence ensnared in barbed wire and bleeding profusely probably do not have the very best of intentions. In this situation, however, the only intention I had was to get the fuck down.

“I’m trapped. I’m uhh… I’m hurt pretty bad. I really need help… Can you go get someone? Please?”

“Uhh… Yeah, um…”

He just stood there stammering in complete disbelief at the scene he had stumbled upon. Here was a nice, upstanding young man taking his best girl out for a nice meal out at Chili’s. He probably figured a few hours of entertaining her dull conversational desires and a nice meal would get him at least a hummer that evening, possibly even laid. I am certain that the last thing he expected – or wanted – to see right then was me caught on the fence begging for help. Wide-eyed and completely in shock, he just stood there, utterly useless. The girl he had by his side finally chimed in - “What… what are you doing up there?”

”It’s a long story. Please… I’m bleeding badly here.” I just did NOT feel like going through the entire story with them, and seeing as how my white oxford shirt and kakhi pants had both become a wet crimson due to my plasma leaking out of various parts of my body, surely any rational human being would cease asking questions and run – right away – to get some assistance. These guys, however, needed some coaching.

”Can you just go get the manager or somebody? Please?”

Nothing. No response from the wonder dummies at all. The immediacy of the situation began to become more and more apparent as the barbs from the wire dug deeper and deeper into my thigh and calf.

This was one hell of a predicament I had gotten myself into.

I had been working for tips making balloon animals in restaurants for almost 9 months at that point. Being a balloon twister was actually an extremely fun job, one of my absolute favorites. The job was perfect for that time in my life. I couldn’t do it now, of course… There is something enduring about an 18 or 19 year old working their way through college by making balloon animals for kids in restaurants on the weekends that turns extremely creepy when it’s a 26 year old man doing the very same thing. I only worked from 6 until 10 on Friday, Saturday and Sunday nights and made enough to pay for college and my extremely demanding girlfriend-at-the-time.

This chick was a real masterwork. She made insane claims on both my time and my money, insisting on spending every waking moment with me at the various shopping malls and department stores scattered about the southlands. That’s what made the balloon job so nice - I had no setup or clean-up duties so getting out on time was no problem whatsoever – meaning that I didn’t have to put up with her shit. And the customers were genuinely nice to me, which I sincerely needed at that point given the caliber of girl I was dating.

The only downside to the job was the fact that sometimes very large parties with a ton of kids would come into the restaurant and demand to have me at their table the entire time. This wouldn’t be so bad if they actually compensated me for the whole of my time there, since I would be at their table for an hour or more on some occasions. These folks meant well, but they didn’t understand that making giraffes and swords for 25 screaming kids who were popping the balloons as soon as they got them in their devilish little paws and demanding repairs / replacements for more than a quarter of my total work time was worth more than 3 lousy dollars. I quickly learned to make my way to the other side of the restaurant once I saw a group like that enter the building.

That night, there happened to be a group of about 50 – only half of whom were adults – who wandered in about 9:55 PM. I had wanted to leave right on time that evening due to the fact that the hot new must-see movie of the summer, “Titanic”, had just opened up and the whor… er, Mandy was demanding that we see it that night.

Her: “All of my friends have seen it! I’m the only one who hasn’t!”

Me: ”Two strangers meet and fall in love on the Titanic? It looks pretty stupid.

Her: “Well, I think it’s sweet. I want to see how they meet and how they fall in love! I bet it's ROMANTIC!!”

Me: ”I don’t mean to spoil it for you, but in the end, the boat sinks.”

Her: “Oh, shut up. I don’t know what I’m going to do if we don’t see it this weekend!”

Me: “Your heart will go on.”

Her: “What?”

Me: “Nothing.”

Missing “Titanic” meant putting up with Mandy’s shit. Doing balloons for these kids definitely meant missing “Titanic”. Clearly, this logical process brought me to a very clear conclusion.

I peered from across the restaurant at the group that had just entered. I could see the adults in the group pointing at the various tables I had already visited, encouraging the children that balloons in the shape of a puppy or kitty-cat would soon be theirs.

“Like hell they will be,” I said to myself. There was NO WAY I was about to get shanghaied by this group of wide-eyed children and have to face the wrath of Mandy. I knew that it would be impossible for me to make it through that horde of demanding six to ten year olds without having to explain to them that I was leaving for the evening and didn’t have time to make balloons for them, subsequently becoming a gigantic bastard in the tales they would tell when they got older and forcing them into a depraved psychosis where they take out a K-mart with homemade fertilizer bombs or beat senior citizens with baseball bats that have gigantic bolts screwed through them.

“Well, there are only 3 other exits besides the front – the fire exits which will sound an alarm and the back exit,” Mike explained to me. He had recently started working there as a server to make a few extra dollars on the weekends, and as per his Eagle Scout ways, had mapped the entire place out in case of a fire or a hostage situation.

”Ooh, the back exit. That sounds promising,” I replied.

”Well, I don’t think you can leave that way. The back gate is locked.”

”So? Go unlock it.”

”Dude, I don’t have the key.”

”Who does?”

”Eric.”

I was screwed.

Eric was the store manager. Eric loved the attention that the balloons brought to his restaurant, but he hated me and the other balloon twisters with a passion. He tried several times to teach his wait staff how to make balloon animals, and even asked the balloon service to discontinue my services once he thought he had it all figured out. He called again the next week when a regular customer’s child cried her eyes out due to the waiter’s inability to craft a fire engine with extending ladder, and I was back the next weekend to become, once again, the balloon expert at Chili’s.

“Can’t you get the key from Eric?”

”Heh.. you try.”

I knew that was impossible. I also knew that Eric wouldn’t help me if his life depended on it. Alas, I had no other option. Humbly, I approached Eric and began to beg for release.

”Hey Eric, open the back gate for me.”

”Why do you need me to do that?”

”I need to get out of here.”

”Go out of the front exit.”

”I can’t, it’s completely packed with demanding children and parents who won’t take ‘no’ for an answer. I don’t have time to make 200 balloon animals, I need to go, like, now.”

”What the hell am I paying you guys for? You are supposed to entertain my customers. ALL of my customers, even the demanding children.”

”The contract says until 10:00. It’s 10:01. I’m technically done.”

He sighed. ”God, you lazy ass.”

”Ok, so I’m a lazy ass. I agree with you. I also gotta go. Will you open the gate or not?”

He gave a stern look that implied I should never ever ask him for any favors ever again.

”Nope. That gate opens only after hours. You have to go out of the front.”

That simply was NOT an option. I couldn’t face those kids and deny them the pleasure of a giraffe or unicorn directly to their faces – I was much better at slinking out and making them sad by not being there than I was at rejecting their innocent pleas for a pirate hat or motorcycle.

I waited until Eric went into the front of the store to sneak through the kitchen and out the back door leading to “the cage”, an enclosure formed by the building wall and 3 sides of 14-foot high chain link fence with 3 layers of barbed wire at the top that were angled outward to prevent someone from climbing in from the outside.

I surveyed the area – the dumpsters were far too large and heavy to push over to the fence, and there were no other stepping stools or objects that could function as one. My only recourse was to scale the fence and bound up and over the barbed wire, falling a mere 14 feet to the other side. When compared to the prospect of 25 angry children and a very angry Mandy, it seemed like a cakewalk.

”It’s not that far to the ground. The fence is really easy to climb. This will be nothing,” I said, trying my best to bolster my confidence. I extended my arms upward and wrapped my fingers around a section of chain links, then placed my right foot into one of the many holes in the fence and propelled myself upward.

In hindsight, I have to say that my brain hated my body and wanted it to die. That is the only explanation I have for making the utterly insane decision to try to exit the premises this way.

I scaled the fence in pretty short order. Once I got to the top, I balanced myself on the precipice of the barrier and began the task of moving my feet past the barbed wire. My right hand was planted firmly on one of the support beams that were used to angle the barbed wire outward from the fence, my right foot was posted in one of the uppermost holes in the fence, body facing downward and almost parallel to the ground. I got my left foot over pretty easily. My right took a great deal more effort, as I was supporting myself almost completely with my upper body.

My right shoelace was dangling a bit and was snagged by the second tier of barbed wire. I tugged a bit to get it free, to no avail. I then jerked really hard in an effort to dislodge it from the barb. In the process, I lost my balance and landed almost full-bodied on the barbed wire. Gravity then kicked in, making me slide down the angled face created by the layers of barbed wire back toward the inside the cage.

Instinctively, I rolled to my left in an effort to re-balance myself which thrust me toward the outside of the cage. In the process, my shirt and pants became tangled in the barbs. As I struggled to keep from falling, I reached out in front of me and grabbed the barbed wire with my left hand, impaling it with one of the barbs. Gravity, all the while, has been undaunted in it’s task to bring me plummeting to the concrete below and I was still sliding down the wire. I kicked my left foot back and caught myself in-between the first and second layers of wire, wrapping my leg almost completely around the second layer and stopping my falling but firmly securing myself in its grasp. My upper body was not up to the task of keeping me on top of that fence and with my left foot hung in the wire, I began to fall toward the outside of the cage. I was jerked suddenly by the barbed wire which had a very firm grasp on my left leg, seeing as how it was wrapped up tightly in the second tier of barbed wire and draped over the top layer, holding me on that fence for dear life.

My left hand had been ripped open due to the stingy barb that had burrowed into it when I began slipping. My abdomen was cut pretty deeply from rolling from my belly to my back on the barbed wire while trying to catch myself, and my leg was, of course, in shambles from being tangled up in the wire. I just hung there upside down, caught by one leg on the fence behind Chili’s, clothes torn to shreds and bleeding from several open wounds. This brings us back to the adorable yet moronic couple happening upon and subsequently staring at my limp and helpless form dangling to and fro.

Struggling to make sense of the fact that they stood there motionless, watching someone in mortal peril begging for their assistance, I finally lost my temper.

“HEY! Are you going to help or not??”

I guess it’s not really considered proper etiquette to shout at total strangers when soliciting help from them, especially when you are entangled in the most notorious anti-theft measure in the world and bleeding profusely. The guy decided against running into the restaurant to get help and instead pulled out his cellphone and dialed what I can only assume was 911. All I could hear of the following conversation was on our end. He was saying “Some lunatic… barbed wire… Chili’s… bleeding… angry… PROBABLY A THIEF.” He listened for a moment, asked the person on the other end of the line to hold on, looked up at me, and yelled “The police are on their way. Don’t move.”

“Don’t move. Ha, ha. Very funny, ass. Where the fuck am I going to go?”

He thought that over for a second, then quickly placed the phone back to his ear, repeating to the operator on the other end exactly what I had just said. I imagine she was probably coaching him on how to handle this situation, as he ushered his woman toward their car and told her to “wait here, I’ll handle it.” Handle what, his penis? There wasn’t anything else to handle out here. He listened for a moment to the next set of instructions, nodding periodically in response to whatever advice the emergency operator was giving. I wanted to shout to him that the person he was talking to probably couldn’t hear the nuts rattling inside his skull when he nodded and that he would need to speak up a bit, but at that point, the world was turning purple and I was finding it harder and harder to pay attention to anything at all.

Time passed. Exactly how much, I am not sure, because I started dipping in and out of consciousness. I began seeing the situation as an excellent chance to catch up on some much needed sleep, and just as I settled into the inky blackness that surrounded and enveloped me, a very shrill wake-up call sounded and brought me to full attention.

Three police cars, an ambulance and a fire truck roared down the street and past my field of vision. I could see the red and blue lights reflecting on the trees and walls behind the building, watching as the perspective of the lights shifted in response to the angles of the restaurant until finally appearing directly in front of me. Immediately, several uniformed officers hopped out of their vehicles, guns drawn and trained directly on me.

”POLICE! DON’T MOVE!”

Brilliant. Here in front of Georgia’s finest I hung, dangling upside-down like a puppet with all but one string cut from the control cross and bleeding all over the place.

”Where, exactly, do you think I could go?”

”QUIET! KEEP YOUR HANDS WHERE I CAN SEE THEM!”

This was fantastic. I simply went limp and let my arms dangle, squinting from the bright spotlight that was shining on me. I thought to myself, “The only thing that could possibly suck more than this would be if it were in front of a whole lot of people who had exited the restaurant to investigate the goings-on outside of the fine eating establishment… Well, of all the luck. There they are now.”

A HUGE crowd had formed to watch as events transpired. There I hung and bled, spotlighted by the police and held at gunpoint. Amidst the murmurs and gasps of my adoring public I could hear a voice ringing true and loud – Mike was making his way forward to explain everything.

“HEY! This guy isn’t a criminal, he’s a balloon guy! He’s my best friend! Let me explain it to you! He works here!”

Another voice rang out: ”NO, he does NOT work here! He’s a contractor.”

Eric caught up with Mike, and the 2 of them made their way to the police officers holding me at bay - because at any moment, I might sprout wings and fly, fly away.

A bit of conversation ensued, the result of which found the fire department on a ladder cutting me out of the barbed wire to the applause of the onlookers and the ambulance carting me off to the Emergency Room.

I wouldn’t make it to see “Titanic” that night.

I was pretty bruised where my leg had been bound by the wire, and there were quite a few cuts here and there. The cuts on my left hand, inner left thigh and abdomen were especially deep and required stitches – 37 in all – each wound leaving a permanent reminder of exactly how stupid I am.

Explaining the entire scenario to the doctor who was stitching me up was a real pleasure. He had to stop the suturing several times as he broke out in hysterics at various parts of my tale. He eventually stopped me and summoned several nurses standing near the main station outside of the room. “Hey! You guys GOTTA come here this!” he exclaimed, asking me to restart my story for them once they entered the room.

Within a few minutes, I became the hit the ER. Nurses and doctors showed up in pairs, then groups, then flocks to hear the verbal reenactment of the entire scenario. I must have told and re-told that story at least 12 times that evening. I was embarrassed at first, but eventually grew comfortable with telling the tale to the ever-growing audience, knowing that my options were to either relate the story to them directly or let them later hear a butchered second-hand account over a carton of milk and a cup of jell-o in the staff cafeteria.

I didn’t know this until that day, but some doctors actually keep a running bet with their colleagues for the oddest or strange story each week. My actions had just won my physician 50 bucks in the pool.

“Glad I could be of service, doc. How about kicking a little of that my way, seeing as how balloon-animal-making doesn’t really come with benefits?”

“Heh,” he replied, and then walked out of the door.

I instantly went from making a little over one hundred dollars that night constructing parakeets and pandas out of colored latex to spending half a grand on the emergency room visit – all because I didn’t have the stones to disappoint a bunch of kids to their face or stand up to my bitch of an ex-girlfriend. Oh, sneaking out was just fine and dandy – disappointing people without actually having to look them in the eye is no problem whatsoever. After all, I had been doing this to my parents for years now. However, place a weepy puddle-eyed second grader who’s only hope in life at that point was to get a red and blue balloon ninja in front of me or a psycho ex-girlfriend and instantly I become a weak-willed jellyfish.

We didn’t get to see “Titanic” until the following weekend, and the entire time, Mandy reminded me of how stupid I was for getting into the mess I got into.

Her: “See? This is the kind of crap you pull that ruins things for us! I just wanted us to have a nice night out!”

Me: “I was climbing that fence for you, you silly bitch.”

Her: “What did you just say?”

Me: “Nothing.”