The fly circled twice and landed, just above the elbow. I stood perfectly still, content to let it taste me and leave a viral trail in its wake. My wife says I'm poison, rotten to the core. Maybe the fly will drop dead. It circled my graying blond hair, usually tied in a ponytail. This late July day in Seattle felt wonderful compared to yesterday's record heat, so I let my hair hang loose. My favorite faded jeans and pocket tee, dotted with small holes from constant wear and washings, gave me that casual, relaxed look, though not by choice. I couldn't afford anything better. The fly never landed on my jeans, something about the blue I guess. It loved my elbow.

I lost track of it for a few minutes and finished my ham sandwich. Stale bread, no cheese, and a squeeze for all she's got squirt of mustard accompanied my three week old ham. Chips and a lukewarm soda rounded out the main course. That's what you get when your wife buys booze instead of groceries. She's on a liquid diet; I get two week old bread with little pieces picked off where the mold grows.

The fly returned. It moved in random starts, stops, and zigzags like a drunk flunking a sobriety test. First it landed in the overflowing trash can near the door, swapping eggs for clumps of decaying food in its feet and limbs, then went to my soda where it undoubtedly left a backwash of mucous. As my nose caught the pungent odor of rotting food rising from the trashcan, I shivered at the thought of the magnificent buffet the maggots would enjoy by the end of the week.

But I had plans for this one. It circled my earlobe again, the irritating buzz resonating deep into my brain. I knew its destination. Tucking my elbow into my loose shirt, I quietly reached for the Cabinetmaker magazine kept close by just for this purpose. The magazine stayed permanently curled, its end stained with the dried remains of other flies unfortunate enough to enter my lair.

It swooped back and forth several times looking for its roost on my elbow. I could almost see the confusion in its multi-faceted eyes.

'Just land. You big, germ infested bastard.'� I cocked my magazine pistol over my shoulder.

We always had flies. Whether the many species of wood attracted them, or the sweat from the men working in the shop, whatever it was, it attracted them like the gut wagon does a buzzard.

I was the only man in the shop that had the speed, the accuracy, and for that matter, a lot of time on his hands to deal with the rancid pests.

And so I lay ready, magazine in hand, bloodshot eyes straight ahead and focused. I was the harpoon thrower waiting for the whale to surface. Okay, so it's just a Barracuda. Still has to be dealt with.
It landed ten feet away.

'Closer,'� I coaxed.

It whizzes by my head, wings a blur, and lands on my knuckle. The one with the blood drained out from holding the magazine over my head. I shake my hand. It touches down near my sandwich wrapper on a perfectly flat, nothing in the way, plot of table.

With a flick of the wrist, I send his asshole through his eyelid in a millisecond. 'Gotcha!'� Lights out. Another trophy for the Jeremy Nobles hall of boredom.

'Get your lazy ass back to work. Lunch's been over for three minutes now.'� The shop foreman, Dickey Barnes, screams at me from the top of the stairs. I don't hear the lunch buzzer go off, but ol' dickweed's always right.
I throw my trash on top of the trash in the trashcan and stretch my arms behind my head. My back is stiffer than shit and its not even 1:00 yet.

The stack of pine boards I left piled in front of the table saw didn't get cut up by the wood elves while I had my gourmet meal, so I put on my safety glasses and fire up the saw. The fourteen inch steel blade with forty super sharp teeth screams at me, reminding me to get my earplugs; the greatest things known to man. You roll up the little foam cones and shove them as far in the ear as possible. They swell up and drown out everything around you.

I grab a board off the pile and guide it into the spinning blade. I hear nothing. The sound of my heart thump-thumps in my head. It's like being underwater. Your breathing is magnified a thousand times, like a life support unit at the hospital. Thump, thump. Kuuu'�shuuu. Kuuu'�shuuuu. It's the purest solitude. My mind drifts to the words my wife spat at me this morning'�.


'Today's payday. Get your butt right home and don't stop off at the book store.'� Greta's breath still carries the echo from last night's bottle. I back away from her as she spits out the words. 'Go straight to the bank and cash your check. I need to get my meds.'� She looks like a skeleton with a skin coat, wiry and feeble, most teeth gone and thinning hair.

She knows I love to read, stopping at the bookstore as often as three times a week. I need something to spirit me away from this reality I live.

Pills for her imaginary illnesses and liquor to wash them down, that's where my pay goes. I barely keep the lights on with what I make, but it's the best I can do because millwork's all I know. I'm lucky to have a job at all.
Greta has never worked. She had a drink in each hand the day we got married, but I overlooked it, like she overlooked my disfigured face. Most women are repulsed by the sight of a man with half a face, Greta didn't seem to mind. The birth defect kept my face from fully developing on the left side, causing my eye to be a half-inch lower and a little smaller than the normal one. Large red blotches cover my face like lost continents. I have no left ear. There's a hole but not the soft, fleshy tissue that gives the side of the head character.
For twelve years I've been trying to get out, trying to run anywhere but here. I can't, either stupid or scared shitless. Take your pick. Always broke too. Can't stand to stay, can't afford to leave. I'll be forty-eight next month; too old to start over.

The blade rips through the wood like butter, taking years of growth by Mother Nature and grinding it into fine sawdust. I don't hear it. I'm listening to my breathing which sounds a little congested. I wonder if a colds a comin'.

Don't need more doctor bills, any bills for that matter. I've stopped answering the phone and lying to the bill collectors. They don't want to hear what I got to say. I just try to stash a bit of money for a six-pack for myself, has to be the cheap stuff. Doesn't matter anyway, my taste bud's haven't known good food or drink for years. Meals are usually some strange concoction my wife dreamed up in her last drunken stupor. I don't even know what I'm eating.

I grab another board and shove it through, this one's a little longer. Some moron put a wood cart at the end of the saw table. As I push the board through, the end pushes against the cart, but it's not past the blade yet. I decide to use the board to push it out of the way, after all, the carts on wheels. My plan works to perfection as I push the cart back and reach over the blade to pull the ripped lumber off to the side.
But the cart pushes back at me, and in an instant, droplets of blood and tiny bits of flesh splatter my safety glasses, blinding me. A sharp sting, then a numbing sensation, crawls up my arm to my elbow. I jump backward and cover my wound with my other hand, panicked and horrified at the feel of mushy, mangled flesh under my fingertips. And then there's the breathing under water part. My breathing sounds like a tornado. I feel the veins pulsing in my head and my chest heaves in and out like swells on the ocean.

I take a half step back and throw my glasses to the concrete floor. I hold my hand up in front of my sweaty face and watch the wood shavings in my knuckle and arm hairs soak up the oozing blood. I stare, my mouth agape, at the one-inch nub that used to be my right ring finger. My watery eyes look toward the cart, then at the board lying on the table, looking for something to blame.

The guys would later joke about it being the thirteenth board in the pile that got me. Lucky thirteen, my ass.
The blade is still whistling. My flesh and bone didn't slow the blade any more than a bug would slow a freight train. I still can't hear it. Thump, thump. Thump, thump.

Dickey comes running out of his office. He's hollering and yelling, I think. I see his lips moving. His man boobies are bouncing like crazy as he runs at me. It's sort of funny but I'm not smiling. The shop is spinning a little. A chill runs through me, my skin sticky. Dickey takes me by the arm and leads me to the washtub near the bathroom. Clean me up where the glue rags are rinsed out and the cockroaches get their daily drink, good idea. What an idiot!

I pull away. I've forgotten something over by the saw. As I stagger toward the demon with teeth, I see what I'm looking for. I'm pretty sure I may need it some day, my missing finger. It's lying on the metal table, fingernail side up, turning a shade like pea green. My wedding ring lies next to it, nicked up and bent, must have slipped off when the knuckle was removed from my finger. There's sixty dollars down the drain.

The carbide blade had made a clean cut. I was sure that if I turned my severed finger over and put it against the remaining nub, it would make a perfect mitered ninety-degree turn, no wood filler needed. Just a little glue and a few brad nails would do the trick.
My brain somehow told my hand to turn off the saw, so it did. I don't know how, I wasn't there. The sight of my own finger lying on the saw forced me out of my mind. I left willingly, hopefully for just a short while. It wasn't the first time'�.


'Get up here on top of me. You somebitch.'� Greta had pulled off her clothes and left a trail from the front door. At least she had stripped naked in the house this time. I pulled the shades and followed her to the bedroom, picking up her clothes as I went. I prayed to God she would lie down and pass out. Not this time.
'I said get your thang over here.'� She licked her dry, cracking lips and took another drink from her bottle. 'I know ya want my goods. Come get it.'� She spread her legs and leaned back on the pillows, her eyes swirling in their sockets.

The room smelled of urine, booze, and cigarettes. I wretched, just a little, but enough for her to notice. The liquor bottle missed my head by an inch at the most. She reached in the nightstand drawer and pulled out her revolver, pointing it at me. I knew it was empty because I take the bullets out after she loads it, when she passes out.

'Take them clothes off. I aint got all night,'� she drooled.

I got nowhere to go. I do as she says, I guess. I wasn't there, gone you know, out to lunch. It seemed strange at first, like floating in mud. My body experienced things, but my brain didn't register them happening. No feeling, no bitterness, and no pain. I didn't know she reeked of tooth decay and sweaty armpits, or that the worst odor came from her rotting crotch. I wasn't there. When my body and mind came back together, I was reading last week's T.V. Guide in the living room with Greta snoring from the next room.


Dickey pulls me away from the saw. I'm distant, circling around overhead, watching from above, and then I'm back. He's talking to me.

''�to the hospital. Now!'� he says. I'd reached up with my complete hand and pulled out an ear plug.

The pain hits me like a sledgehammer, white hot and blinding. The end of my finger pulses in agony, but there's nothing there. My shirt is sticky wet. I look down and realize I've been holding my blood-pumping finger against my chest. Blood is everywhere, blotches on the boards, droplets on the rough concrete floor, and splatter in a straight line from the top of my head to my belt buckle. I stagger back, woozy, and Dickey holds me up.

We finally get in a truck and head toward the hospital. I'm talking nonsense, sitting on my mummy wrapped hand.
'I really need that finger. They gotta fix it.'� I'm bouncing up and down. 'My wife's gonna crap. No work. No pay.'� I wince as a dangling nerve ending sends a lightning bolt up my spine into the back of my brain. 'Less than forty hours an' she's gonna be furioius. You take me back to work,'� I yell at Dickey, not understanding the absurdity of my request.

Dickey squeals up the drive of the emergency room and barely gets the truck in park before he's opening my door. He's ghost white. If he wasn't such a prick, I'd feel sorry for him. He helps me out and points me toward the automatic doors. I'm forgetting something again. I turn back and open the passenger door, searching the cab, my eyes darting. On the greasy floor mat, mixed with a few French fries, lays the end of my finger. The rumbling shake of the engine makes it appear to move, to live still. I'm scared to touch it. I take a bloody rag from the dusty seat and pick up the dying flesh. It's soft, yet firm. I turn and hand it to Dickey, my three-week-old ham sandwich halfway up my throat.

I'm sitting in room 9-b staring up at a nurse with three chins. She smells, or maybe it's me. She dips my hand in a bowl of reddish, orange liquid. The cold runs up my arm and buries itself in my teeth, but the hurt is fading, the pill they gave me making me not care. I need a lot of those for when I get home, for when I have to explain how I lost several week's pay on a flesh hungry table saw.

'How you feelin','� Dickey asks. He pulls a chair over next to me.

'I'm okay, I guess.'� I hear my own words like I'm in a tunnel. 'Thanks for getting me here.'� I gesture around the room with my good hand. It feels like it weighs a ton.

'You'll miss a couple of weeks. I'll keep your job open though,'� Dickey stares at the commercial tile flooring, twirling his baseball cap on his thumb.

'Thanks,'� I tell him, thinking no one else will do my job for the lousy wages they pay me. 'I can't believe I'm gonna miss two checks.'� I toss my head back, the lights spinning above me.

'Don't worry about it, man. We got them accident policies a couple months ago. Remember?'� He stares at me. His face looks funny, kinda lopsided. 'They pay you for lost body parts. So much per finger. Crap like that.'�

My brain's trying to work. His words start to make a little sense, and then I'm spinning again. Dickey now sounds like the zit faced kid with braces that does the drive through at Burger Queen, like Charlie Browns teacher.

A week later things were looking up. I was right, Greta had been furious. But I had stashed enough money to keep her in liquor for a while. The money was supposed to be for me to move down south, maybe Texas, but I'd have to put that off for a month or two. I told her it was from the company I work for. Restitution I called it. She didn't know any better, didn't care as long as the alcohol didn't run out.

I didn't tell her about the two grand I got from the accident policy. In another week I'd be back to work and back to saving for my freedom. My days were numbered as a mill worker, and as provider for Greta Nobles.
Saturday morning, I decided to risk a trip to the corner market and buy a few items I had done without; razor blades, dish washing liquid, and bread and milk. I never bought much at a time. It wouldn't be wise to show Greta that I hide money from her. I peeked in on her as she snored softly, curled up in the fetal position on her bed. My heart tightened in my chest as I wondered, when the time came, could I really leave her. She was the only woman that ever loved me.

I'd spent most of my life being ridiculed and laughed at, even spit on and beaten bloody just because of the way I looked. School had been a joke. My nicknames were Frankenstein and Hunchback, and sometimes just 'Hey ugly! Take the mask off'�.

The management at Advance Millwork had been encouraged to hire handicapped or challenged workers. I was fortunate enough to be in the right place at the right time. All the other jobs I had held didn't last long. If the management of a company didn't turn their face in disgust and did hire me, other employees or customers complained about the freak and I usually got my pink slip soon after.
With the clock on the wall chiming ten in the morning, I slipped out the front door and down the sidewalk. I'd given up trying to hide my condition, so I walked on the sidewalk like a normal person. Most of the folks in our neighborhood had gotten to know me and accepted who I was, but they never liked Greta.

Mrs. Patterson, a kind, sixty-something widow living next door to me, passes me on the sidewalk with a quick hello and nod of the head, but I can see the pity in her eyes, not pity for the way I look, pity for the woman that she hears cursing at me and throwing things in her drunken rages.

I give her a polite smile and the look, the look that says I'm okay. Don't worry about me. I can take care of myself.

I reach the corner market and grab a basket, then walk the isles grabbing what I need. As I approach the checkout counter my heart races. I reach for my wallet; it's not there. I search every pocket of my jeans, bumping my bandaged nub of a finger on a belt loop and sending fire up my arm like molten lava. People start to stare as I dance around holding my hand with the bandage turning red. I curse a long line of foul words in bitterness and anger. I've learned a lot from my darling wife.

The cart of groceries is forgotten as I storm out of the store and race down the street. I realize it's very difficult to run in a straight line, holding my mutilated hand up in the air, trying to soothe the throbbing pain.
If Greta goes through my wallet, she'll find the check from the insurance company, and my life will end, not in the physical sense, but she'll destroy every dream I've worked for. I can't let that happen. Sweat streams down my face as I drop my hands to my side, the blood soaked gauze forgotten, and run as fast as I can.

I reach the front steps of the house and bound up them two at a time, reach out for the doorknob, and freeze, listening for any sound in the house. Sweat trickles down my brow as my heartbeat pounds in my ears and through the ghost of a finger on my right hand. The clock inside the house chimes eleven. I hear no other sound. I stand on the porch, my hand turning white from gripping the doorknob, for how long? Two minutes? Five? When my pulse settles to slightly above normal, I take a deep breath, turn the knob, and step back into my home sweet home.

The house is silent aside from the warble of the ceiling fan trying to maintain balance with a crusty layer of dust clinging to the blades. I pad across the carpet stained yellow and brown with patches of mold, spilled drinks, and vomit and piss impervious to any household cleaner, and hold my breath as I lean into her bedroom doorway. Greta lay sleeping in the same position I left her.

The air comes out of my lungs in a gush as my shoulders slump. I made it. I stumble over to my recliner and throw myself on the faded flower cushion with springs poking out the seams, and let the world slow down around me. Long, deep breaths cleanse my mind and slow my heartbeat. Five minutes later the room fades, my snores pacing my much needed sleep.

'Sweetie, wake up.'� Greta pokes me with her finger. I startle awake with the scent of jasmine filling my nostrils and the soft sound of humming dancing in my ear.

'Wha'� What's wrong,'� I say, my eyes darting around the living room. It's bright. The shades are open and the evening light fills the room with a color I haven't seen in a long time. I shield my eyes and try to focus on the floor, waiting for my eyes to adjust.

'Get up you sleepy head.'� Greta's soft and playful tone makes my heart gallop in my chest. What's she up too?

And what in the hell is she wearing?
With her hair neatly brushed and tied back, and a clean pair of pressed jeans with a bright pink sequined shirt, Greta looked'� Normal!
She smelled of jasmine soap and a hint of Passion perfume, her favorite. A light powdering of makeup and a subtle shade of red lipstick took years off of her appearance, and left me speechless.

Greta noticed my shock and reached out and lifted my open mouth. Her touch was warm and gentle, and the shake she normally has when she's been drinking was undetectable. I closed my eyes and leaned into her hand wishing the moment would last forever.

She pulled away from me and I stared at her with questioning eyes. 'What's going on,'� I asked.

'Well, I thought we might go out to eat for a change. Get out of the house and have ourselves a night on the town.'� She whirled around and shook her bony rear end in my face, taunting me. My stomach lurched. And then I understood.

My hand lashed out to the end table and snatched my wallet up like a cobra strike, flipped it open, and dug through the folds tossing driver's license, maxed out credit cards and bits of paper across the room.

'Is this what you're lookin' for?'� Greta waved the insurance check over my head, a wicked smile creasing her face.

My mind raced. 'Give me that,'� I said, trying to grab it from her hand. She snatched it back, toying with me.

'You been hidin' things from me? After all I done for you?'� She stood slightly cocked, her hand on her hip. With her face reddening, she glared at me, then slapped me across the face hard enough to rattle my teeth.
And then her face softened again and the playful smile reappeared. 'I know you too well, Jeremy. You got the bills paid. Least the important ones anyway.'� She circled around behind me swinging her hips and tracing my neck with her finger. 'Let's spend a little on some fun. What do ya say?'�

I squeezed my eyes shut and forced the words up out of my stomach toward my throat. Now is the time. Tell her how you really feel, my mind screamed. Tell her you want to leave this shit hole and get as far away from her as possible. Tell her! She laid the side of her hand on my disfigured cheek and sent a chill down my spine. The words settled back into the churning pit of my stomach.

'You know I love you, Jeremy.'� She stroked my face, tracing a line where my ear would have been. I shuddered. 'Nobody cares about a deformed outcast of a man.'� She walked in front of me and leaned in, nose to nose. 'You think any other woman would sleep with you?'� She scoffed, the smell of breath mints and cheep whiskey filling my nostrils.

My shoulders sagged as she went on browbeating me with the truth of my feeble existence. 'I'm the only one that wants you,'� she said. 'Was you plannin' on leavin' me?'�
I sat motionless, helpless to defend myself. I knew she was right.

When she finished and I hadn't said anything, she grabbed my hand and led me out the door. We made a quick stop at the check-cashing place and filled her pockets with twenty-dollar bills. Greta laughed and danced her way through the most expensive stores in town, throwing my money around like she just won the lottery. I trailed behind, carrying her bags and trying not to bleed on her new things, my finger throbbing with each step we took.
Later that evening she decided to skip the meal and go straight for desert. She pulled me into a nightclub and ordered their best bottle of bourbon, threw several twenties at the bartender, and drank a fourth of the bottle in a single gulp, nearly choking on the liquid fire.

She drank, I stewed. She danced, I watched as she rubbed her body on any man within five feet on the dance floor. I felt my mind leaving again, and wondered if it would come back.

Around one in the morning, I helped her into the house and tried to put her to bed, the smell of jasmine and Passion long gone, replaced by spilled beer, sweat, and cigarettes. She pulled me close and whispered into my ear, 'I love you Jeremy.'� My chest tightened. When she closed her eyes, I pulled the covers up and tucked her in.

She opened her sunken, hollow eyes and grabbed my collar, pulling me close to her again. 'Come to bed.'� I tried to pull away. 'I want you,'� she whispered. I didn't want to hear this.

'I need you.'� Greta whispered, staring into my eyes.

I stood staring at the drunken shell of a woman I once loved and accepted my fate, pulled my clothes off, and slid into bed next to her, letting her have her way with my body as my mind visited Texas.

Ten days later I went back to my job at the wood shop, my hand only lightly bandaged now. I'd been in a trance since Greta spent my two grand. I fed her, bathed her, and took care of things around the house. And I worked to pay the bills and keep her in liquor.

Now I stood in front of the demon saw and pushed boards through like a robot, my earplugs drowning out the world around me. Thump, thump. Thump, thump. I wondered how long I could go on. Tears welled up in my eyes threatening to flood my burning cheeks. I slammed another board up on the table and shoved it through the spinning blade. Kuuuu'� Shuuuu'� Thump, thump.

My dreams were gone, driven away by the devil sharing my bed. I would never see Texas, nor California or Florida. I pounded my fist on my face as hot tears clouded my safety glasses. I didn't feel the stitches tear in my shortened ring finger, nor the splinters burrowing into my calloused skin. I only saw red.

Another board was fed to the saw, my knuckle barely missing the blade. You'll never get away, my mind said.
The blade screamed, I didn't hear it.

She won't let you go.

I cupped my hands over my ear and missing ear and closed my eyes. 'Shut up. Leave me alone,'� I scream.
She took your money. What are you going to do now?
Despair filled my mind and saturated my soul with hatred for everything around me. Rage swelled inside of me. How could Greta steal my dreams like that? Why had I let her?

No! I won't let it happen.

As I sliced another piece of lumber in half, I resolved to find a way, a way out. Greta would not drain the life blood out of me any more. I stood tall and pushed back the sobs coming from my mouth, biting down hard on my tongue. With my jaw clenched and my eyes on fire, I fought back the urge to give in. There must be something I can do to get myself away from her.

I grabbed the next pine board off the stack and started it through the spinning blade, then stopped. The blade spewed blue smoke as I held the board still. I began to wonder.

How much would they give me for a hand?

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