Some of the cruel kids made fun of him in elementary school. Some of the more creative ones called him things like “tripod” and “wingnut.” He just brushed it off. Pretended it didn’t hurt. Why should it? The doctor once called it “tridactyl,” which made him think of Pterodactyls. Like most kids, he was a dinosaur enthusiast, so that made him feel better. His handwriting was never as legible as anyone else’s, save doctors and police officers. He once wrote a note to a girl in junior high asking her to a school dance, but she must have misread because she showed up that night with another boy. One who had all his fingers. But Tripod just blew it off. “Why should it matter?” he thought. “She was stupid anyway.” In high school, he became involved with the debate team and the track and field team. He wanted to run relay, but the looming fear of dropping the baton kept him away. When he debated, he pummeled his open hands into each other, locking and turning the fingers frantically. He said it calmed him, helped him remember he was an individual, but his teacher said it looked unprofessional. And she was right. He always blamed his loss during the competitions on his hands. “The judges are just biased. They don’t want some deformed kid to win. It’d look bad in the papers.” That’s what he’d tell people, hoping they hadn’t seen him stumble on his words during the competition. After a while, the kids stopped making fun of Tripod. Maybe they were growing up. Maybe they had something better to do. Maybe they stepped out of their complacent shells and started thinking of other people. Either way, it didn’t matter to Tripod. He was just glad they stopped. But he wasn’t quite ready to go back to being called Corey again. By the time he went off to college, he had gotten used to people trying to sympathize with his “condition.” It came as no surprise when his roommate showed him his bent nail from a car door accident. “We can be hand-freak buddies,” his roommate said, genuinely delighted. Tripod brushed that off, too. It was snowing the night he lost his virginity. He drove down to a bar, wearing mittens, and ingratiated himself with a lonely girl. She seemed nice enough, he thought. Maybe a bit shallow, but otherwise personable. Her glasses were a bit clunky, but she had a nice smile. After they went back to his house, he realized he still had his mittens on. He removed them nonchalantly. Neither of them said anything. She never called him back and he never went into that bar again.
When he got married, he put the ring on his pinky. The salesman was hesitant, until he saw Corey’s hand. Then he became reserved, a bit embarrassed, and went out of his way to be extra-nice. Corey was used to it by then. The priest at the wedding was informed ahead of time, just so everything would proceed smoothly. When he got divorced, he kept the ring on his finger, as a reminder. His job wasn’t hindered by his lack of fingers. He substitute taught high school students. Most of them didn’t even mention his fingers. And the few who did were generally pleasant. Only one time did a student say, “Holy shit! What happened to your fingers?” “Nothing,” he said with a condescending smile. “I never had those.” After his death, when he was embalmed, the embalmer placed his hands in his pockets, rather than the traditional cross-chest. During the viewing, his son took his hands out of the pockets. “What are you doing?” asked the funeral over-seer. “He would have wanted his hands out. He was never ashamed of them. It was a part of him. A mark of individuality.” The over-seer just nodded as the son placed his father’s hands across his chest, locked in that position that he employed when nervous on the debate team. The son became glass eyed as he turned and walked away from the casket. It was a memory that would be etched in his mind forever. |