SHORT STORIES: ‘I Lost My Thumb’

I lost my thumb. Seriously, this is no fucking joke. It was here an hour ago, but now it’s gone. Like Elvis-has-left-the-building gone! And I’m not talking amputated, maimed, surgically removed, or hacked off with a butcher’s knife gone either. If that was the case, then there’d be a gaping wound, bloody stump, stub, or scar proving my thumb was once there. Instead, my thumb’s absent, as in not there, disappeared, vanished, misplaced, nowhere to be found, MIA, walked off and ran away gone! It’s like someone took an eraser to my hand and wiped away any trace of my thumb, leaving a blank space of skin in place of a hitchhiker’s calling card.

Man, I’m in a real bad way.

How is this possible? Perhaps it’s a trick like the one grandpas like to do, the one where they hold two hands close together and then move one hand away, magically taking the tip of the other hand’s thumb with it. Sure, it was a good trick for a kid, and grandpa got a chuckle out of it, but it was just an illusion, no thumb was actually harmed or separated.

Maybe it’s a real magic trick then. Hey, kids, let’s take Johnny’s thumb and make it disappear. Cover it with a cloth. Say a few words, and Poof! Presto! Now you see it and now you don’t. If only the magician could make it reappear. That’d be a trick I’d pay to see. But looks like the trick is on me, because this is real life, and my thumb is really missing.

But where the hell did it go? Is it up walking around like that creepy hand from the Addam’s Family, shoving itself in places where it doesn’t belong? Look, there’s my thumb up Tommy’s ass! It’s hitching a ride up Kate’s birth canal! What’s that thing hanging out of Rover’s mouth?

It could be anywhere.

Shit, this is serious. I have to figure this out, but what do I do? So far, I’ve spent the better part of an hour scratching my head with my remaining digits. My fingers appear to be taunting me, making a jest out of my current predicament. Maybe they’ll start disappearing next, one by one. First, my ring finger will go, then my index, finally my pinkie, but who cares about the pinkie, it’s just there for moral support anyway. All that remains is my middle finger, telling me to go fuck myself.

Oh, the irony.

I need to find my thumb, but where to start? It’s not like I can call the police and have them fill out a missing person’s report for a thumb. I can hear ‘em now. Hey boys, be on the look-out for a suspicious, unhanded thumb, could be dangerous. Last seen roaming around people’s mouths and asses. I repeat, could be dangerous. Proceed with extreme caution.

If that doesn’t work, what’s next? Stick a picture of my thumb on milk cartons next to little Billy who has been missing for two years. Have you seen Thumb? Last seen on hand. Likes to associate with fingers, perhaps other thumbs. If you have any pertinent information, please call 1-800-MIA-THUM.

Jesus. They’d think I was nuts. Probably institutionalize me, check me into a room at the funny farm, label me insane, medicate me, and then lobotomize me. Afterwards, they’d name a new disease after me. Instead of lost his marbles they’d say he has a chronic case of lost his thumb-itis. For the rest of my miserable life, they’d test me like a lab rat, rape my mind with drugs, stick me with needles, probe my pie hole with tiny robots, and implant brain chips to read my thoughts. That way, they could conspire against my dreams. Total fucking mind control at work here. First, I lose my thumb, next, my sanity.

I can’t let that happen. I’m in a bad way and don’t know how to get good again. Get a grip, man! Focus! Focus! Focus! Don’t let the crazy take over. Okay . . . stop . . . think . . . why is this happening to me? Take a deep breath. Breathe. Relax. Slow . . . down. First things first, I need a drink, something strong to relax the nerves and then a cigarette. If that doesn’t work, I’ll smoke a joint, and if that don’t work, I can take a—no! No! No! I can’t go there, not again. No pills. That’ll be my last resort if all else fails. Yes, I’ll take the pill—the magic one—the one the doctor said would make everything sane again. What’s his name?

I can’t place it. Oh well, back to the matter at hand. Find my thumb, focus, and remain calm. Okay, Robert Stack of Unsolved Mysteries, who took my thumb, and what are they looking to gain from it? Open up the telephone lines, it’s time to get some answers. Let’s start with motive. Who really needs an extra thumb? What purpose would it serve? The truth is, you need another thumb about as much as you need a tail growing out of your ass. There’s no point to it. Unless . . . wait a minute . . . yes, of course. What if there’s a one-thumbed man running around stealing people’s thumbs? That sick bastard! Or perhaps this is a national conspiracy. Are the Feds in on it? Who to trust? No one, that’s who. I’m on my own here, no partner, no back-up, completely off the fucking grid.

Am I being paranoid here? What if this is all just a prank? You know, like one of those funny TV shows. Maybe I’m caught on Candid Camera. I could be making an ass out of myself on national TV. Oh man, that would be terrible. Those assholes are probably up in some TV booth, as we speak, laughing their asses off at my expense. Well, I wish they’d let the cat out of the bag already. It’s not funny anymore. You sure as hell don’t see me laughing, do you? HAHAHAHA, very funny! Yeah, it’s all fun and games until someone goes postal. I may not have a thumb, but I can still fire a gun. At least, I hope I can.

Maybe it’s just an optical illusion. Perhaps I’m seeing things or imagining things that aren’t there or, in my case, imagining things are not there when they really are. I don’t know if that even makes sense. Could it be all in my head? Am I suffering Schizophrenia? No, that can’t be. I’m perfectly sane. Ha! That’s the ultimate paradox, trying to argue you are sane, which only makes you seem all the more insane.

Alright, I need to find out if my thumb is really gone or just missing in my head. It’s time to test the theory. How about I hit the space where my thumb should be with a hammer? If I feel pain, it means it’s there. Yes, brilliant . . . no, wait a minute . . . that would hurt like hell. Note to self, bad idea.

Better idea, I can place my thumb under a window sill instead and see if the window shuts all the way. If my thumb really is there, then the window should stop and remain partially open. Yes, genius, I should have thought of that earlier.

That’s weird. My thumb’s right where it should be, but the window is shut all the way. If my thumb is really there, it’s doing a shitty job of keeping the window open. Maybe this is a faulty window. I’ll try the one in the bedroom. Shit, same thing. Okay, best three out of five. Let’s try the one in the bathroom, kitchen, and living room.
Oh no, this can’t be, 0 for 5. Shit, it’s really gone. Christ, I’m cooking my own egg here, and I’m not even hungry. I guess I should just say screw it and go to the emergency room. Who cares if they lock me up? At least then I’ll know if I’m really crazy or not. Listen, Doc, you gotta help me here. My thumb, it’s taken a leave of absence, and I don’t know why. The Doc is nice and comforting. He takes my hand, caresses the spot where my thumb used to be, and tells me everything will be alright.

Gee, thanks, Doc. That means the world to me. Wait . . . what? I’m not the first case you’ve seen this afternoon. There’s an epidemic going on, all over the world. Like the new SARS, Swine Flu, or Ebola. Holy shit, what a relief. For a second there, I thought I was the only one. You’re a real lifesaver, Doc!

I can just see the headlines now: “Missing Thumb Scare Sweeps the Nation.” People are terrified to leave their homes, afraid of losing their thumbs. Little Jimmy sits at home scared, but no thumb to suck. Tommy can’t even play videogames, due to lack of thumb. Oh my, what the hell is the world coming to? Wal-Mart becomes the first carrier of detachable thumbs, cornering the market. Their new logo is a big thumbs-up instead of a smiley face.

Just hold on a second. I talked to a doctor earlier. He was the one that gave me the medicine. Yes, he said to take the pill. Was it the red one or the blue? I can’t remember, just like I can’t remember his name. What was it again? Guster, Gizmo, or was it Gasper? I remember he had a whole suitcase full of prescription drugs. And he said he was from Venice or was it Vermont? No, it was somewhere out west. Damn, I’m losing my memory on top of losing my thumb.

My mother always used to say if you lose something and can’t remember where it went, just retrace your steps. So when did I first notice that my thumb was missing? It was definitely there yesterday so it had to be sometime today. Yes, because I was driving to a party last night, and I remember tapping my thumb on the steering wheel to a song on the radio. It was The Guess Who, one of my favorites. My thumb was with me at the party too. I used it to stroke the arm of some blonde with big tits. What was her name? Stacy, Anne, no it was Tina. I kept thinking of her as Big Tits Tina, so I wouldn’t forget her name. But then she left with some other guy, a real yuppie-looking creep. My thumb was with me later that night, as well. I remember using it to flush the toilet after taking a piss. I was pretty drunk by then, drunk enough to take the joint when it was passed to me. I had the thumb then too. I remember it pressing against my lips as I inhaled the joint. Then I passed it to some crazy-looking guy. He wore sunglasses, kept mumbling his words. Yes, that was him! The Doctor, what’s his name? Gabe, Gomez, no, wait, it was Gary. Said he was a doctor or a lawyer or something. Man, he was bat shit crazy, spoke incoherently, wouldn’t shut up, kept going on and on about seeing some bats in the desert, how the cosmos swallowed him whole and spit him out wiser than he was before. He said I was sick and needed my medicine. I kept telling him I was fine, but he said that’s what they all said.

“You don’t get it, man,” he explained. “The whole world is sick, slowly turning into zombies. I’ve seen it myself. You see, all of the madness of the sixties slipped into the mainstream. That was part of Nixon’s diabolical plan. If he couldn’t beat the masses, then he would join them. You see, he fought madness with madness. He became the drug, the one that was consumed by the masses. You see, we’re all sick, man. We’re all fucked in the head. When’s the last time you met somebody with their head on straight?”

I said I couldn’t say.

“Yes, you see, that’s Nixon at work, man. He filled the world with blood-thirsty yuppie mongrels that eat intelligence like it was candy, drowned academic discourse, and raped the wombs of women with the seeds of bazooka-wielding bastards who kill without thought or reason. All that remains are mad men, the blind leading the blind with Nixon at the reins, bringing carnage, brimstone, and fire with him. It’s the end of days. Better take your medicine before the world goes to shit.”

He offered me three pills: one red, one purple, and one blue. The red and purple were more than enough to save me, but why take any chances? I took him up on his offer, too buzzed to say no. I took just one, which one I can’t remember. After that, the party seemed to brighten. Colors suddenly made sense to me. They gravitated towards people. Red signified intensity. Blue tranquility. Yellow mellow. Pink spunky. Orange lackadaisical. Black, a dark hole. I stared at a lamp for what seemed like two hours. Maybe it was two days. I felt happy and alive. Everything was beautiful, and then—

I can’t remember. When I returned to reality, I found myself alone in my apartment, my mind heavy with strange thoughts, ones involving evolution in reverse. I kept thinking what if the opposable thumb exited humanity, bringing us back to the time when we were just primates, no more than animals. It was the thumb that made us stand out from all the other beasts and animals that roamed the earth. Without it, we would just be monkeys. That would mark the end of civilization—the end of the world!

Christ, that was exactly what he was trying to tell me.

Yes, him, the Doctor, Gonzo . . . his name was Gonzo . . . he said he was a doctor or a lawyer or a writer or something . . . he said to take the blue pill . . . or was it the red one . . . no wait, it was the purple . . . or maybe not . . . anyway the pill would make everything alright again. I need to find him and join him on his journey of spiritual awakening. Now, if only I could find my phone. I need to call him. Yes, my phone. I lost it. Where the hell is it?

I hear it ringing . . .