story of the week: THE HAND

"the hand black" pen on paper. b.g.

I went all the way to Concord for the job interview. Five minutes in, they asked about the hand. I told them everything then needed to know: NOT YOUR BUSINESS. It's a long way to Concord. My mother said they were good people in Concord. That social worker told me they were good people. I don't ask for much.

I guess I was upset. Bad things don't happen, unless I am upset. I went to the passenger side first, and put my jacket and my file down on the seat, careful. Slammed the door on the hand. You know it hurt, enough to make you holler. But the real trouble was that the door slashed up my glove. I was mad enough to scream, but I held it together. Put the hand in my pocket. I would throw away the pants later, I thought, it didn't matter to me. What mattered was that I not make a mess in the car. The stench of the hand was everywhere. The oiliness poured out of the little cuts in the glove, soaking through my pants. I didn't make a sound. It had happened before that I had cut the glove. You've got to keep the mess contained. Ruin a pair of pants, that was fine. You didn't want to get the mess on the car upholstery. The key was to get home quick.
Damn them all, that got me all the way out there in Concord!
I made it 15 miles before the stench got to me. The hand felt hot with filth in my pocket. I could feel it seeping into the skin of my leg. Hot and wet. I had the windows open, but it wasn't any use. That stench was too strong. I started gagging. That was alright. I didn't think I was going to puke my guts out. I didn't think I was going to get sick. So much for the upholstery! That was all I could think. I didn't know I had so much inside of me to puke out. The whole dashboard was coated in frothy, milky mess. Anyhow, I rear-ended the car in front of me.
The asshole got out and came around to look at the damage. Licking his chops. He was a small guy with no hair. He looked at me. Pointed to the wreck like I hadn't seen it. I wanted to stay in the car, but he wasn't going to let me. I could see that. I got out and went over there. He looked at the vomit all over the front of my shirt, and then he looked at the hand. It was still in my pocket. I wasn't taking it out for anything.
Laugh it up, asshole, I thought. "Don't worry," I said, "I got insurance."
"What you got in the pocket?" He asked.
"It's hurt," I told him. "This isn't a hard situation. I'll pay for the damage." He still stood there looking at the hand.
Then I heard a police siren. He pulled up alongside us and got out. He was a big guy. He stood there and looked at everything.
"You need to keep your hands where we can see them," the cop said.
"Listen," I tried to be honest, "there's something wrong with the hand. It's better if I don't take it out."
"I need to see your hand, sir," the cop said like he was angry.

It was too much. The job interview, the drive, the crash and all these people looking at me. "Here!" I shouted, and I showed them. Both fat, stupid men jumped back. They made noises. "Here!" I shouted. "Here!"

"the hand" pen on paper. b.g.