POLYDACTYL YOU SAY?
I don’t know where this story will go but I do know that if I just let the words flow, rehash what I previously wrote and resist the impulse to drop the whole damn thing, the words will crank out the first draft and, for better or worse, the finale will miraculously suggest itself. We’ll see.
The rain had stopped and all that remained were dark skies and a depression I couldn’t shake, not even with one martini. So there I was sitting at the bar in the club lounge, a solitary drinker, anticipating a scheduled rendezvous with my wife.
She’s an avid canasta player and after her game, we meet and enjoy a pre-dinner cocktail. It’s not a bad life-style and lord knows we’ve earned it.
Anyway, I’m at the bar and in the mirror opposite me, I see some guy is giving me the eye. I check him out: he’s about 5’ 10”, has a full head of brown hair and the khaki pants he is wearing are fashionably short of his boat-dockers. I don’t know him and I can’t imagine why he’s interested in me. If it’s the salmon colored shirt I’m wearing, he’s getting the wrong signal.
What the hell, he’s getting up and coming over. I gulp down the rest of my drink and swivel around to face him squarely, fangs bared.
“Hi” he says, “can I ask you a personal question?”
I’m starting to boil but before I can think of a suitable answer that won’t get me kicked out of the club, he continues: “I miss your stories in the VIEWPOINTE. Did you stop writing?”
I feel like a fool and grin weakly, hoping my fangs have retracted. “What makes you think I’m a writer?”
He squeezes onto the stool next to mine, asking: “Mind if I sit down?” Before I can get my mouth in gear, he gets the attention of the barkeep, points a finger at my empty glass and then gestures to both of us. He is smooth and I’m hooked. “Come on, I know who you are!”
“My writing is thing of the past.” I said “I’ve given up on it.” Anybody who will stand for a drink is entitled to my life story. Good thing he’s not buying dinner. “I’ve lost the touch; lost the drive, most of all, I have run out of ideas.”
He swiveled his stool around and stared at me a good 30 seconds, long enough for me to drain my second martini. “I’ve got an idea for you. Why not write about me”?
I can feel the usual irrepressible ‘second martini vacuous grin’ developing and I ask him point blank: “Why would I write about you?”
“I’m a polydactyl. Do you know what that is?”
“Sure, Trudy Monk was murdered by a polydactyl; Hanibal Lecter was one also. But you look okay to me.”
“I have six toes on each foot. It’s nothing to be ashamed of even though the two characters you mention are far from admirable. Did you know that serious music has been written to be played with 12 fingers and there are many famous people with extra digits?”
“Okay, if there is a scent of a story about your 12 toes and I write about it, what’s to stop you from suing me for violating your privacy?”
“If you don’t use my name, you can write whatever you like and I’ll give you a release that will guarantee you’re off the hook.”
I could see my wife entering the lounge, and slid off the stool. “I’ll think about it; thanks for the drink.” I managed to keep my gait steady as I walked in her direction. “Hi, Babe.”
“I can tell by your grin that you started without me. No more drinks for you. Let’s go to dinner.” Waiting to be seated, she asked, as I knew she would: “Who was that man you were talking to?”
“Would you believe? That character thinks I should write a story about him because he has 12 toes. Actually extra digits are not that rare. One out of every 500 births produces a polydactyl.”
“Where did that come from? Are you sure about your figures?”
“Yeah, I’m sure. I once dated a gal with six fingers on each hand. I had to drop her because she couldn’t keep her hands off of me. It was weird.”
“You wish. But that fellow at the bar, if he is who I think he is, there is a story there.”
“Really?”
“He gets a pedicure at the same nail salon where I get my manicure. The manicurists are Korean and don’t speak English…or at least pretend not to speak English. About two weeks ago, I was getting a manicure and your bar-buddy came in for a pedicure. Once he came through the door, there was bedlam; all five manicurists were speaking at once. The Korean cackle was ear-splitting. I later learned that they all wanted to give the pedicure because, in their culture, 6 toes on each foot is a sign of sexuality and passion.
“When his toes and feet were being massaged, everybody watched fascinated. The only sound in the room was the hiss of the sterilizer. I have never seen anything more sensuous. Yes, my dear, I think there is a story here.”
“Well Babe, as usual, what you said is foot [sic] for thought. You certainly keep me on my toes, all ten.