When I was young my mother told me stories about this thing called an island countertop.  The fabled island countertop.  It was such a mainstay in her fantasy kitchen that she would describe it to our family often, and at length.  “… and when we build a new house, we’ll have an island counter top in the kitchen, imagine all the counter space!”  The island countertop was a source of wonder and joy.  The way my mother’s eyes lit up when she talked about it, my mind instantly imbued it with a tropical island theme.  What other theme could it possibly have?  Culinary wasn’t a word in my vocabulary at that time.  The island countertop had artificial sunlight coming from my imagination sky.  The island countertop had a lone palm tree with an assortment of random characters blipping in and out of existence, all with extraordinary and hilarious dilemmas.  These thoughts were predictably inspired by my father’s Gary Larsen Calendar, as it was the most readily formed vision of an island in my mind.  It didn’t matter that we lived in the desert, the island counter top was near the ocean.  It had to be.  It had to have some exceptional quality, something so special that the thought alone could bring a smile to my mother’s face.

Many years later, when I was in highschool, I was invited over to a friends house after soccer practice.  We were starving.  It was way past snack time.  Our stomachs were playing the game where they pretend they have mouths and drop bombs on things.  We entered his house and headed straight for the kitchen.  

As I passed through the entryway and down a short hallway my eyes landed on an isolated countertop adrift in the middle of a linoleum sea.  It was that instant that I became fully acquainted with the emotion ‘underwhelmed.’   

“Is this… an ‘island’ countertop.”  I asked with trepidation, hoping that I would pass out before he answered.  Whatever I was looking at was not what dreams are made of.  This couldn’t be a magical island countertop.  This was not a source of joy.  Dreams are made of magic dust, fairies, pornstars, unicorns, fireworks and hamburgers.  Dreams can’t be made of formica.

“This counter?  Uh… I guess.”  He said, rummaging through the cupboards in search of some peanut butter.

Everything was instantly re-evaluated.  Dreams can be made out of formica.  This is what brought my mom happiness.  Through years of endless free entertainment that I unselfishly imparted in her presence, this island countertop, this expressionless domestic fixture was her source of happiness and solace.  My mind threw up all over my skull.  If I was a professional wrestler (or like my autistic friend) I would have jumped up and double fist slammed the countertop out of existence, then lay there confused and teary eyed in the rubble. I would put a piece in my mouth and chew on it (because my autistic friend likes to do that), to assure myself that no sustenance could be derived from this material.  But I knew better.  I nonchalantly let out an “Oh.”  It’ didn’t even echo through the kitchen, and it wasn’t lost in a steady coastal breeze.  It just slipped out, landed on the floor and rolled across the linoleum until it rested against the island countertop and disappeared.  I stared hard at that countertop.  I watched it as it just sat there, as it always did, as it always will. It’s one feature leapt out at me slowly, like a turtle would if a turtle could leap… like a turtle leaping on the fucking moon.  “You have so much counter space,” I said, balancing on a tightrope stretched between sarcastic and sincere.  

“Yeah, I guess.”

Many years later I was sitting around a stainless steel island countertop in the hippy co-op I lived in.  The counter was covered in the remnants of dinner preparation.  Stray morsels of unpronounceable grain were sheltered like homeless people below discarded knives, and spatulas.  Surrounded by murals that ranged from spirally hands holding spirally leaves to a cartoon cat riding a nuclear bomb, we bickered about co-op members who failed to complete their weekly chores.  I’m sure I made some jokes, and I’m sure they killed.  

Eventually we ran out of things to complain about and we began to dismount our stools.  My eyes were held by an exposed mid-drift across the island.  I maintained my gaze long enough to see the midriff push into a knife that hung precariously over the edge of the island countertop.  In most cases the knife would harmlessly be pushed back onto the counter by the force of the midriff, but in this case the butt of the knife was firmly anchored by a cast iron pan.  The pan provided enough friction  to force the knife into the midriff.  The knife went into a girls stomach a whole inch as she stood up (but it looked like two inches).  I made the top of an oreo cookie with my mouth, and my eyebrows popped up like gag-snakes in a can.

There was a slight moan, and I yelled “Holy Shit!”  She fell back onto the stool, the knife slid right out of her stomach as easily as it had slid in.  It was so smooth.    She tried to hold the blood in but the blood wanted out.  We gave her dirty rags because we were full of terrible ideas.  

I didn’t know what to do.  I always thought of myself as a crunch time performer but here I was in full panic.  

“Do we call 9-1-1?”

“I think that’s what you do when people get stabbed.”

I ran to the phone and dialed 9-1-1.  

“Hi, my friend just got… a stab wound.”  It sounded so bad.  I had one of those “This is my life, and my life is exciting” moments, but the moment was shrouded with the anxiety that I was fully unprepared for an exciting life.    

“Where are you? We will send an ambulance,” The dispatcher said, calmly.  

Suddenly, Crunch-Time Nate arrived.  When you are insuranceless the word ambulance is a homewrecker.  It’s a preemptive strike by the hospital. They want your money, and they are sending their leverage.   

“No way.  I mean, no, wait.  I got this.  Crunch-Time Nate can take her.  I know how to do this.”

Luckily my brother had lent me his car a few days earlier, so I sprinted up three flights of stairs, pushed some hippy out of my way in the hallway, ran into my room, shoved everything off my desk with one swipe of my arm, grabbed the keys off the floor, ran out of the room, hurdled over the slow-to-react-and-comprehend hippy, sprinted down three flights of stairs, all the while chanting “Crunch-Time Nate!”   

We loaded her gingerly into the car and I drove the six blocks to the well placed hospital.  

After bursting through the doors to the emergency room yelling, “we’ve got a stab wound!”  We were asked to quietly take a seat and wait for the intake nurse.  Crunch-Time Nate was about ready to kill some bitches, but we acquiesced.

A few days later the police showed up and wanted to interview me.  They said they had to check on all accidental stab wounds to make sure it wasn’t a domestic dispute or something.  For a moment while the cop was questioning me, I thought to myself, “So this is how I go down.  The fall guy.  The island countertop stole my mom’s dreams and now, it’s stealing my freedom.”