Just Call Me Mr. Bomb Diffuser Guy
Red wire. Blue wire. Black wire. White wire. No matter the color and no matter the length, no matter how tangled up in a myriad of other wires the diffuser wire may be — you can breathe a sigh of relief knowing that I would be your go-to-guy when it comes to diffusing a bomb.
Just call me Mr. Bomb Diffuser Guy.
Colors would be my business. I would go around identifying colors as I walked through my day in an attempt to keep my skills sharp. Red car! I’d shout. “Blue mailbox!”, I’d point out. “Khaki-colored slacks!” It might get annoying to those in my company, but when you were poised on the edge of destruction, a timed bomb attached to your chest — you’d be glad I knew my primary colors from my not-so-primary colors. You would be glad I was who I said I was.
I would watch that second Lethal Weapon movie over and over again as a way of training myself. For if I was ever paired with a partner who wanted to clip the wires to diffuse the bomb “on 3” as opposed to “1, 2, 3 and go” there’d be a bit of a communication problem. I’d want to be able to stop my partner and say to him, “Look, buddy. We’ve both seen that movie and we both know the outcome so why don’t you just go with me on 3 and everything will be okay…?”
He would look at me (or she would, although I don’t think there are many females suited for bomb diffusion jobs due to the fact that women don’t like bombs as much as guys do) and say, “You know what, Davidson? You are the top notch bomb diffuser guy in this whole damn metropolis! If you want to go on 3 and not count to 3 and then go, then I am right here with you on the same page agreeing with you on how you want to handle this bomb situation…”
He would so get a promotion. You know, if I was in a position to give my partner in the bomb squad a promotion. Although, some might say that I wasn’t in a position to give people promotions but then again I’m thinking out loud here and wondering that if I’m Mr. Bomb Diffuser Guy, then aren’t I the head of the department, too?
These, of course, are logistics that I would have to figure out.
I would study with the most well-known bomb diffuser guys in the world. I would travel to the schools in Paris and Munich and Philadelphia. I would sit in classrooms with Mr. Bomb Diffuser Guy’s Teacher #3 and Mr. Bomb Diffuser Guy’s Teacher #12 and work closely with them on honing my skills. I would take on a little brother in one of those big brother/little brother bomb diffuser programs. I would make sure that the children studying under me would someday be amazing bomb diffusers, although not as good as me.
I would make sure that if I was having to diffuse a bomb and my apprentice was trying to diffuse the same bomb and since I was the teacher and he/she was the student that their bomb would blow up in their face before mine would.
Because I am Mr. Bomb Diffuser Guy. And no one else is.
There would be the quiet times. The times when I would sit alone in my one-bedroom apartment, littered with articles and clippings and news reports about my successes over all the years. I would look up from my Papasan Chair at the moonlight shining through the non-window-treatmented windows and onto the dirty floor and wonder where all the time had gone. Sure, I was Mr. Bomb Diffuser Guy and everyone would call me at the drop of a hat to save them and their families and their loved ones…
But where was Mr. Bomb Diffuser Guy’s own loved ones?
Being “the” Bomb Diffuser in a world of mediocre bomb diffusing technicians would most obviously be a tough thing to swallow. There would be jealousy, lonliness and a superiority complex that some would never want to share the same space with.
Being BDG would be tough. But if it meant saving lives, I think I’d totally (most likely) be up to it.