by Ron Day

Other than those minor inconvienences though, the car was in operable condition since both doors opened and the lights worked most of the time.

One cold Saturday morning around the middle of January I heard the old Chevy pull into our driveway and greeted Lenny at the front door.

"Look at this!" he shouted out even before I'd gotten the door completely opened.

He was holding his right hand up in front of my face and I could see that the index finger was heavily wrapped with white gauze and tape. He was trying hard not to smile, but it was evident he was quite pleased with whatever it was he'd done to himself.

"What happened?" I questioned.

"Cut the sucker right off!" Lenny said proudly, once again holding up the bandaged finger for me to see.

"All of it? The whole thing?" I asked incredulously.

"Naw, not the whole thing, just to the first joint," he said as held held his hand up before his face and peeked beneath a few layers of gauze, looking for blood, I suppose.

I was astonished that he was taking the loss of a body part with such good spirits. I, myself, cherished my body and couldn't imagine what I'd do if I lost a part of it, any part at all.

"How'd ya' do it?" I asked him.

"Well, my car wouldn't start this morning, the battery was dead again, so I had to jump start it with my Dad's truck," he said.

"After I got runnin' I got to lookin' around under the hood and wondered if maybe the fan belt was loose an' wasn't chargin' my battery. Anyways, I just reached down to push on the belt, checkin' the tension ya' know, an' forgettin' that the motor was runnin'. Before I could even blink that belt just grabbed my finger and pulled it right through the pulley on the generator. Then, a split second later, it spit it right out again. Right on top of the air cleaner!"

It wasn't really a funny story, but the pleased look on Lenny's face as he told it, and the fact that my little brother, who'd been listening, had turned pale and ran into his bedroom, made me smile, then chuckle.

"Whoa! I bet that hurt!" I said.

"Naw, not really," Lenny said,".....well, maybe just a little.....but the doctor said it'll be almost as good as new in a month or so."

Well, whad ya' do with it?" I asked him.

"With what?"

"The finger! Whad ya' do with the finger?"

"Oh! Well Dad took it off the air cleaner. I think he laid it on top of that old wood stove out behind our garage. Ya' wanna' go look at it?" he asked.

The finger was there all right, sitting atop the stove like he'd said, displayed like some sort of wierd nik-nak in a second hand store. There was still a little blood clinging to the meat end and a somewhat mangled fingernail clung to the other end. No longer pink, but deathly white, the near zero temperature of the winter day had frozen it into a shriveled object that somehow resembled an oversized one-nutter peanut shell.

We both lowered our faces until the stove top was at eye level, then squinted silently at the missing digit for a couple of minutes.

"Ya' wanna' hold it?" Lenny asked as we straightened up.

I looked again at the object that had so recently been a warm part of my friends body. This ugly thing had once been alive, had helped him open doors, to eat his meals, to scratch his head and zip his pants. Now it was dead. Frozen. Useless. Now it was sitting outside on an old wood stove.

I quickly turned away as an unexpected series of dry heaves racked my body.

"Naw, let's just go on back to my place and play some pool." I sputtered as Lenny backed away from me,eyes wide in surprise.

Eventually I overcame my queasiness about the finger, even got to where I'd make a point of checking on it each time I went to Lenny's house. It was shown to everyone, whether they wanted to see it or not, and eventually it became a showpiece of sorts, somehow symbolizing our emerging manhood.....or perhaps our farewell to youth.

In any case, much to our dismay, we began to notice that it was slowly changing form as the days grew warmer. Then one day during the last week of February we saw some flies land on it.

Although the finger had become an important part of our lives we realized that we'd have to give it a proper burial.....and soon.

Besides, Lenny's Mom had started to complain, saying it was turning to gelatin on top of her old wood stove.

That's when someone suggested saving it by putting it in alcohol. It was a great suggestion, even greater because it really seemed to work. Before long Lenny's missing finger became a continuing source of entertainment for he and his friends.

Now that it was more or less portable, the finger, now preserved forever in a baby food jar filled with rubbing alcohol, had once again become an integral part of Lenny. It was with him where ever he went, Sometimes he carried it in the big pocket of his coat, sometimes in the glove compartment of the old Chevy. Sometimes he even carried it in the sack lunch he brought to school.

Lenny had always been a jokester, was always grinning or laughing loudly at someone else's expense. He had that rare ability which enables people to say tasteless things and to do tasteless things without worrying too much about manners, social etiquette, or even what their mother would say.

He could blurt out strange, seemingly innocent phrases that made adults uncomfortable, or girls to gasp and run away with their hands over their mouth.

Sometimes, while walking down the school hallway between classes, he'd make sudden, unexpected body gestures, or body movements, that caused even his closest friends to walk a little further from him.

There was nothing, it seemed, that Lenny wouldn't do for a laugh.

The finger in a jar amplified these talents to such an extent that he became nearly unbearable. It wasn't too long before the entire school knew about his "finger in a jar". He'd tease snobbish girls with it and pester underclassmen.

Often, during study hall, or in the library, places that were normally thought to be peaceful and condusive to learning, he'd distract the whole room by setting the jar in front of him and carrying on a rather animated converesation with the finger as if it were some long lost friend, which, in a sort of wierd way, I suppose it was.

Probably his best effort though, one that was talked about for years to come, occurred in the lunch room.

It started when he neatly laid out his sack lunch at a crowded table one day, then opened the finger in a jar and put a fork in it, jokingly telling his tablemates that this was the day he'd finally eat his own flesh.

This created such a sensation that he did it for several days in a row.

Eventually, though, as the joke grew old and stale, everyone began to ignore him and he was forced to look for another way to liven things up.

One day, a week or two later, he put a piece of Vienna Sausage and some water in a baby food jar then pulled it out of his lunch sack at noon. Standing up, he silenced the entire room by announcing very loudly that this was, indeed, the day he would really eat his finger.

So saying he climbed up on the table, paused dramatically, then pierced the meat with a fork and stuck it in his mouth and began to chew. After he'd swallowed with a big gulp he wiped his lips with the back of his hand.

"Ahhhhhhhh!" he said with a loud and satisfied sigh.

At first there was an astonished silence, during which some chairs toppled to the floor as two Freshman girls ran toward the restroom. Then there was a little sporadic applause from a few Senior boys and then a little more silence.

Finally, there was was pandemonium as three teachers tried in vain to apprehend Lenny as he ran laughing out the door.

By the first of April nearly all of his teachers had filed complaints about him to the principal, and his part-time girlfriend had told him in no uncertain terms to get lost.

He'd been having fun with the finger at home too, and his mother had taken to drinking an occasional scotch and water in the mornings, just to help her get through the day.

One afternoon as I was visiting his house he began to tease his little sisters with the finger. He eventually chased them down the hallway and into the back yard, threatening to dump it down their sweaters or inside their pants.

He pursued them relentlessly and their screams grew louder and louder as they began to realize that he was crazy enough to do exactly what he'd said.

It was great fun, and even I was beginning to join in, when Mrs. Larson appeared at the back door, hands on her hips and a manical glimmer in her eyes.

"Lennnny!" she shouted out in a voive that immediately stopped all running and screaming.

"I've had it with you!" she exclaimed. "I will not put up with your stupidity for one more second! Now give me that damned finger!"

One thing about my friend Lenny, he hardly ever missed an opportunity for a good joke or a prank. But, as I think back, I realize that he sometimes failed to use good sense in his pursuit of humor.

Otherwise, judging from his mother demeanor that day, I think he would have given her the finger she'd asked for, the one in the jar.

He certainly should have never, ever, even as a joke, given her ..."the finger!" The one all seventeen year old boys use quite regulary to convey a special message to their friends or enemies

Mrs. Larson's jaw dropped when she realized what he'd done, and her eyes opened wide in shocked surprise at the sight of her laughing son who was now dancing little circles in the grass with "the finger" held high above his head.

Suddenly I saw the mad glimmer leave her eyes, to be replaced by a sort of glazed, vacant look. And her lips pressed hard against her teeth and her nostrils flared wide. A savage sort of scream escaped from somewhere deep inside of her throat. I saw her muscles tense and her shoulders rise high as she took in a deep ragged breath.

Then, before my amazed eyes, Lenny's Mom lept like a Gazelle from her doorstep!

Lenny was fast, I've got to give him that, but he'd only run fast enough to torment his mother, to barely keep out of her reach.

Around and around the yard they ran, Lenny laughing and giggling at his Mom's attempts to catch him, and she screaming threats and surprising obscenities.

Occasionally she'd shout out for him to give her the finger. Each time Lenny heard her say this he'd turn more tight little circles as he ran, and sing "Naaa Na Na Na Naa Na" while holding up his middle finger. Then with a huge grin on his face he'd dash away again before she could reach him.

Lenny's mother had always been polite and nice to me. I'd grown to think of her as a second Mom, and that's why I was becoming a little frightened.

I'd never seen her, or any other woman for that matter, as angry as she seemed to be that day. I was stunned as I watched her sprinting after the elusive Lenny with her dress flying dangerously high and words I thought no mother knew escaping as hissing threats from her lips.

How could this wildly insane woman be the same person who had offered me milk and cookies only and hour previously?

Finally, she seemed to tire, and fell gasping to her knees on the grass, trying to catch her breath but still animated enough to shake a fist at Lenny, who had also stopped running.

But then he began spinning in circles again, laughing hysterically as he taunted his Mom.

"Naa Na Na Na Naa Na" he kept on singing with his finger held high in the air.

After but a short time of this behaviour his Mom seemed to get her second wind. I saw her nostrils flare out like they'd done before. And as she struggled to her feet I heard strange, whispered messages, coming once again from between her clinched teeth and still tight lips.

Lenny had had enough though, and as he ran by me one last time he motioned toward his old Chevy.

Thankfully it started on the first try and we were soon headed towards Wiley City, still laughing, still unaware that perhaps we'd angered the God's of Wrath just one too many times.

I mean, who would of thought that Mrs. Larson was angry enough to call the Sheriff?

As we sped down the road Lenny handed me the finger in a jar and I put it in the glove box. Still laughing about the joke he'd played on his Mom we were surprised when a white car pulled suddenly in behind us with red lights flashing and sirens wailing.

"May I see your drivers, please?" the officer said to Lenny.

He looked at the license for a moment then said, "Son, we just recieved a phone call from your Mother. She was rather distraught and said that you'd been harassing her and your sisters with an old finger you keep in a jar of alcohol. Is that correct?" he asked.

Well, Lenny was flabergasted. He couldn't believe his Mom had actually reported him for merely joking around with her.

"Well, no sir, I was just teasing her a little bit. I thought she was having fun, too." he said.

"Let me enlighten you, son", the officer replied, 'she wasn't having fun.....and she's not at all happy with you at this time. But you're lucky. All she wants me to do is take the finger from you and dispose of it. Do you have it with you?"

"Well, uh, yeah, I might have it," said Lenny, "but I promise I won't bother Mom or my sisters with it again! Can't I keep it? It's almost like a souvenir or somethin' and I'd sure hate to lose it!" Lenny pleaded.

"No son, I'm sorry. Your Mother was very specific. You've got to hand the finger over to me or I'm gonna' hafta' take you and your friend to the station" he said.

"But sir!" Lenny was trying his best to be polite, "Just let me have one more chance! I'll put the finger away in my room.....and I give you my word that I'll apologize to Mom!"

"Look son!" he said, his voice no longer friendly, "I'm not here to bargain with you! Your Mother has filed a complaint and I'm gonna' carry out her wishes.....or else I'm taking you downtown. Now, which will it be?"

"But wait....." Lenny started to say.

"I'm tired of playing games with you, son!" he interrupted in a loud voice. "You're taking up a lot of valuable time and I have other things to do besides baby-sit a couple kids!"

He pause briefly, as if waiting for a reply, then demanded, "Now, give me the finger!!"

As Lenny and I sat on the hard wooden benches lining the wall of "the station" we had plenty of time to contemplate the four words that had brought us here.

"Give me the finger!" Where did those words come from, I wondered. Where did they start? It was such a simple phrase, yet a phrase filled to the brim with hidden meanings.....and untold troubles for boys such as us.

I was still finding it hard to believe that we'd both laughingly flipped off an angry Deputy Sheriff while he had us pulled over!

And it had happened in an instant! We hadn't even given it a second thought! It had just come sort of natural like!

And now, here we were, waiting for our fathers to come and get us after we'd been fingerprinted and photographed and forced to watch as the deputy had flushed Lenny's body part down the toilet.

Was it instinct that had triggered our simultaneous response to the officers demand? Had some ancient relative learned it and un-wittingly passed it on through the generations?

Or were we just stupid?

Surely there must be someone we could blame for what we'd done. Some way to excuse our actions! Someone must have the answers!

Someone, of course, did have the answers. Our Fathers.

They said we were just stupid.