2. Fingers and French Bread
Somebody kept knocking at my door. It was really annoying because cleaning my finger and wrapping it in bandages hurt a lot. But after ten minutes of non-stop pounding, I finally went to see who it was. When I opened the door, I saw my 70-year-old land lady, Eesha. Eesha is the sweetest person in the world. There are two people in Los Angeles who won’t screw you over and she’s one of them. But Eesha had some bad news, “Novi, your rent is overdue again.”
I just now remembered the Eviction Notice on my door. I noticed it when I got home, but my gnarled finger took precedence. “It’s only the 15th!” I said. She smiled nervously, “I know. You still haven’t paid for last month, honey.” I scratched my head as I usually do when I’m stressed and Eesha saw my bloody bandages. “What happened?” she asked. “I had an accident,” I lied. She grabbed my hand like a mother and inspected it, “This is bad. You need some cleaner for it.” I pulled my hand away. I didn’t care about my hand. I wanted to know if she was going to kick me out that evening or if I had another couple weeks to get $500. “Eesha, I just got back from an audition. I think I’m gonna get the part. Can you just give me a few days and I’ll get you the money?” Eesha clearly didn’t hear a word I said, “You stay here Novi, I have something that’s going to clean that up.” She waddled back to her room. She’ll probably forget what she is doing in a few minutes. I shut the door.
I really need to sweep my floors. There are dust bunnies and hair and little specks of white crap all over the place. You don’t really notice those things until you sit on the floor and get a look at them. I was sitting on my floor, thinking about my overdue rent, the part I wasn’t going to get, and my bloody finger. I started chewing the fingers of my other hand. I know it’s a bad habit but it really helps me think. As I chewed and gnawed and sucked on my fingers, I realized I just wasn’t getting what I wanted out of that hand. So I unwrapped the soiled bandages on my bloody finger to see how it was doing. It needed to be cleaned but there was still a little skin tab that needed to be ripped off. If I didn’t get it, it would tear itself off and become much worse.
So I bit back into my finger and started pulling. If I could just get this tab off, I would be finished with my finger. Then I could clean it and move on to my rent problems. But the little tab was tougher than I thought. My teeth cut through it like the wax covering of Gouda cheese and every time I bit off a chunk, another little tab would form. What I needed to do was pull that tab away so that it would rip off forcefully and leave no more tabs. It’s like how the French believe you should never cut French bread, you should only tear it. That’s why I named myself Novella, because the French are awesome.
Well, my finger wasn’t French bread and the tear didn’t work that easily. I was able to get a hold of it with my teeth without biting through, but as I tore, it ripped through my skin like the “Pull Here” tabs on shipping envelopes. As I pulled, my eyes widened at the sight of a centimeter wide cut slicing all the way down to my wrist. It drew down the top of my hand and arched over my thumb and continued to my wrist, just below my palm. Blood started gushing out like water over the edge of an infinity pool and a shoe string of skin hung from my wrist. It was disgusting, but most all, frustrating.
My hand was basically ruined and I would definitely need to go to the hospital. But this isn’t what frustrated me. After all of this work, that tab was still there, on my wrist, connected to the shoestring of skin. If I would go to the hospital, I wasn’t going to let them remove it and take the credit. That little bastard was mine. So I licked my lips and bit into my wrist like it was a burger. I still hadn’t eaten that morning.
Friday, April 8, 2011 at 6:00PM by Jimmy Weber
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