Trick Finger (click me)
Trick finger. Doesn't push, it shore don't pinch, never did do no pointin' too good. Even though that's what got us into so much trouble. Goddam that fucker finger in the middle for spitin' the trick. All washed up now. Wasn't a year ago, this trick finger wasn't trick. Fully functioning, limber as a pistol, ramroddin', trigger-happy, touch senstitive as a mother. Did a lotta work for me, didn't she? Handled a woman, stroked her thigh, woke her up in the mornin' hard as a nail, wrestled a few minutes without a hitch, took her downtown in a flicker and made with the Trojan Magnum wrapper while the knees held her down firm on the bed. Sweet, sweet memories. It's not so much that you appreciate her when she's gone; it's more that when she's around the lights shine a little brighter.
Like I said, wasn't a year ago, or don't you hear too good. Coulda been eight months. Can't be sure. Seasons changed a minimum twice, max at 3. I'm sure of that. But out here we don't get a lotta differences. Weather. We got some, but mostly in gusts and farts, like in an afternoon we'll get us a full tilt thunderstorm just pissin' down rain, then out come the blazes, then the earth blows her cheeks out pushin' down the tall grass.
There's a lot I gotta do here to make sure things don't tumble down. Can't do it no more, least not as sailin' smooth without the trick. But like I says, it wadn't trick before. It's taken on a new look to me now that it's bent that way. Tells me where to turn, but it's always wrong, lifts things like a hook but they tend to fall off. Helps me on with my shirts and that's none too easy cause they fall to the floor by the dirty stack if I don't bend my upper body more than halfway to parallel with the earth. Everything in my life is bent to the side. All the fridgerator magnets are tilted sideways. I've developed what the doc calls a strobismus, kinda like a wandering eye. The world's gone ass over backward. Nothing's the same.
I never did mind havin' things go wrong in life. Got used to a certain way, even if it wouldn't be the way I'd tell it in a storybook. But it was same and familiar and I called it my own. Shit seemed to go amiss in a standard manner like when a record skips. Coming to me like I asked for it, like I grabbed that needle and scraped it over the grooves till they smoothed out and skidded over the top like a frozen pond.
"I aint afraida you." I said that a lot, just before gettin' belted in the chops. I came back, though. Scrappy and raw. People avoided me when I had too many drinks, unless they had a hardship and wanted to take it out on a littler guy. That'd be me. Almost always the littlest guy, specially the littlest willing to scrap. I aint afraid. Even with this gimp finger. I'd still take on a challenge, fight 'em to the grave.
Cheese grater. Not much of a name, but we're not much of a readin' people so you get what you deserve I guess. Cheese grater (aka Nick Gentry). Thought himself the police of the roads, christened himself the lord of the dirt 'n fences. Folks let him have his way. It was that or he'd grab your legs from behind and drag you someplace. It was his signature. Like some fighter's got a mean left and a haymaker that'll drop a guy, or Mike Tyson's got that ear-bitin' thing he does. Well, the Grater's got his draggin' you on the face through jagged rocks.
He wouldn'ta done it to me if I'da not deserved it. And I supposed I did. Flat told him, and I figure I was the first at least in a long while. My own signature item, I said "I aint afraida you." Stuck my finger out near his face. He looked like a zoo animal who hadn't been approached up close in a long, long time. Nervous, but happy, read to play. And his eye twitched. Three or four times real fast. If he was a cartoon character, he woulda said 'yaggedy yaggedy yaggedy' and his head woulda spun around. He came at me runnin'. Charged me like a bull. Stupid as I was, and am still, don't get me wrong, I turned to run the other direction toward the fields. Probably shoulda laid flat on the ground or made myself into a ball, cut off the number of handles he coulda grabbed onto. Grater bore down and caught me by the calf. Like a calf. My chin slammed down and I heard a click. Pretty sure that was when my front two teeth busted. I realized he had a hold on my index finger and my leg. He had me in the shape of a bow without the arrow. He flung and dragged me round in circles till I kinda started having fun at it. 'Round and round the cobblery bush, the monkey chased the weasel."
Why didn't he just kill me?
Pity. Wished he had.
I'm a shell of the man I never was. Wanted to be, but never was. I lived alone all my life. Daddy lived in Bizbee, Arizona since I was four. "Aint no point." Funny, he said those words, my momma told me, and she said 'em too when she was drivin' fast in reverse in the pickup. I could hear her sayin' it over and over under the sound of the engine and the rocks metal pingin' up under the metal carriage. And as she drove off with my baby brother cacklin' laughin' and pointin' out the back window. She just kept sayin' it. "Aint no point. Aint no point. Shoot, just aint no point."
I get it now. I get it. I don't have to hear it twice no more. But I still aint afraida you.
Like I said, wasn't a year ago, or don't you hear too good. Coulda been eight months. Can't be sure. Seasons changed a minimum twice, max at 3. I'm sure of that. But out here we don't get a lotta differences. Weather. We got some, but mostly in gusts and farts, like in an afternoon we'll get us a full tilt thunderstorm just pissin' down rain, then out come the blazes, then the earth blows her cheeks out pushin' down the tall grass.
There's a lot I gotta do here to make sure things don't tumble down. Can't do it no more, least not as sailin' smooth without the trick. But like I says, it wadn't trick before. It's taken on a new look to me now that it's bent that way. Tells me where to turn, but it's always wrong, lifts things like a hook but they tend to fall off. Helps me on with my shirts and that's none too easy cause they fall to the floor by the dirty stack if I don't bend my upper body more than halfway to parallel with the earth. Everything in my life is bent to the side. All the fridgerator magnets are tilted sideways. I've developed what the doc calls a strobismus, kinda like a wandering eye. The world's gone ass over backward. Nothing's the same.
I never did mind havin' things go wrong in life. Got used to a certain way, even if it wouldn't be the way I'd tell it in a storybook. But it was same and familiar and I called it my own. Shit seemed to go amiss in a standard manner like when a record skips. Coming to me like I asked for it, like I grabbed that needle and scraped it over the grooves till they smoothed out and skidded over the top like a frozen pond.
"I aint afraida you." I said that a lot, just before gettin' belted in the chops. I came back, though. Scrappy and raw. People avoided me when I had too many drinks, unless they had a hardship and wanted to take it out on a littler guy. That'd be me. Almost always the littlest guy, specially the littlest willing to scrap. I aint afraid. Even with this gimp finger. I'd still take on a challenge, fight 'em to the grave.
Cheese grater. Not much of a name, but we're not much of a readin' people so you get what you deserve I guess. Cheese grater (aka Nick Gentry). Thought himself the police of the roads, christened himself the lord of the dirt 'n fences. Folks let him have his way. It was that or he'd grab your legs from behind and drag you someplace. It was his signature. Like some fighter's got a mean left and a haymaker that'll drop a guy, or Mike Tyson's got that ear-bitin' thing he does. Well, the Grater's got his draggin' you on the face through jagged rocks.
He wouldn'ta done it to me if I'da not deserved it. And I supposed I did. Flat told him, and I figure I was the first at least in a long while. My own signature item, I said "I aint afraida you." Stuck my finger out near his face. He looked like a zoo animal who hadn't been approached up close in a long, long time. Nervous, but happy, read to play. And his eye twitched. Three or four times real fast. If he was a cartoon character, he woulda said 'yaggedy yaggedy yaggedy' and his head woulda spun around. He came at me runnin'. Charged me like a bull. Stupid as I was, and am still, don't get me wrong, I turned to run the other direction toward the fields. Probably shoulda laid flat on the ground or made myself into a ball, cut off the number of handles he coulda grabbed onto. Grater bore down and caught me by the calf. Like a calf. My chin slammed down and I heard a click. Pretty sure that was when my front two teeth busted. I realized he had a hold on my index finger and my leg. He had me in the shape of a bow without the arrow. He flung and dragged me round in circles till I kinda started having fun at it. 'Round and round the cobblery bush, the monkey chased the weasel."
Why didn't he just kill me?
Pity. Wished he had.
I'm a shell of the man I never was. Wanted to be, but never was. I lived alone all my life. Daddy lived in Bizbee, Arizona since I was four. "Aint no point." Funny, he said those words, my momma told me, and she said 'em too when she was drivin' fast in reverse in the pickup. I could hear her sayin' it over and over under the sound of the engine and the rocks metal pingin' up under the metal carriage. And as she drove off with my baby brother cacklin' laughin' and pointin' out the back window. She just kept sayin' it. "Aint no point. Aint no point. Shoot, just aint no point."
I get it now. I get it. I don't have to hear it twice no more. But I still aint afraida you.
posted by rubiconvict at 7:48 AM
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