Waving Goodbye To The Five

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-by Alan Allen

This Just In...

There was a baby born several months ago in a distant land located in some remote, pointy corner of the globe. I can’t remember the name of the country, but I do recall its shape resembling that of a half eaten croissant. At first glance this child appeared to be a normal, healthy, baby girl, born to healthy, normal looking parents. By normal I mean that there were no antennae, and each parent had a face. But three weeks after bringing the offspring home from the hospital, mom and dad noticed something a bit off.  The baby had 6 fingers and toes on each hand and foot respectively.

 In scientific terms this is known as “polydactylism” from the Ancient Greek. “Polus” meaning "many”,”daktulos” meaning "finger" and “ism” referring to anything that is deemed as being something as opposed to being nothing.

When I first heard this story I thought, ”That’s just gross”, but my repulsion soon turned to sympathy when I realized the severity of the awkward phase that child was going to go through. Several minutes after that, the fundamental problem with this issue hit me. How could the hospital staff miss something like this? We’ve all heard horror stories about doctors amputating the wrong leg or removing a lung instead of a tooth. These things happen all the time. But this?

Then I remembered the time I saw my first newborn. When the vomiting stopped, and I got past the horror of seeing a head that looked as though it had just been removed from a pot of boiling water, I noticed how tiny its hands were. Really tiny. Like grains of rice stuck into a ball of Silly Putty. Chances are someone like myself would have easily overlooked the six-digit anomaly, (I was outside once and actually missed a solar eclipse), but these folks are trained professionals. And although the nurses are probably on the lookout for third nipples and making sure there’s a head, count the fingers man.

 Polydactylism is not as rare as one might think. It actually occurs in 1 in 500 children.  It is a dormant gene on the father’s side, and the resulting abnormalities are usually just “lopped” off once the child has had its first birthday. This makes circumcision seem like a haircut.

In most cases, these extra appendages are misaligned, non-functional, and tend to be more of an annoyance than an asset once the child starts taking piano lessons; however, this particular case is rare in that this child’s’ extra digits were fully operational, each one working independently of the others. They were arranged in an unobtrusive, normal fan-like progression on the hands and feet and were not even noticed until the girl was almost three weeks old.

Down The Road

They say that over the course of the next million years or so, there exists the remote possibility that six fingers and toes will become genetically dominant. No doubt this will create a problem for the glove industry, but more importantly it gives rise to a more serious dilemma…what to name the extra finger and toe.

As for naming the extra toe, I’m not seeing an issue here. “Toe naming” has never really been one of our top priorities. “Big Toe”, “Little Toe”, “That toe next to the other one that takes a sharp left”. Not very creative. Even the nursery rhyme just calls them “Little Piggies”. I don’t see a problem with having six Piggies as opposed to five.

But our fingers are a different story. They have become intertwined with our everyday existence. Next to shedding gills, I think it’s safe to say that the advanced use of our digits is one of mankind’s more important evolutionary breakthroughs. Of course some would argue that language is what separates us from the herd, but language is more of a cultural, anthropological advancement, which progressed at varying rates according to the needs of individual societies. Give me a fist over speech any day. I’d rather be able to punch a man in the throat than have to form a sentence in order to communicate with him. Hands down (ha!), our fingers have become our primary source of non-verbal communication.

So what do we call the new addition? Since we’ve already classified each of our existing fingers, I’m assuming that we’ll probably use this as a basis for naming the new one.

The Contenders

Let’s start with the thumb. Sure other species have them, but ours have evolved in ways that allow us to use them for other activities other than just “holding on”. A thumb can express positivityness as in, “I thought that movie was quite enjoyable”, or negativityness as in, “What a piece of garbage”. If you’re lucky, it can get you a ride when you’ve run out of gas. It can pull out a plum and light a cigar. We can suck it; twiddle it, flip a coin and can take a man’s eye out with it. It can wrestle other thumbs and we can put an entire person under it. Just ask my ex. Even though I think an extra thumb would look freakishly interesting, our thumb shouldn’t have to share the spotlight with a second thumb. There can only be one Thumbkin.

Let’s move on to the “Index” finger or “Pointer” if you’re under six. Next to the thumb, this is the finger with the most versatility. It gave birth to the index card and a family of sisters. It lets a sports fan show the world that his team is #1. It also lets me point at that same guy and say, “You’re an idiot”. When it collaborates with my thumb, I’m letting you know that everything is OK, but when I use it to make a circular motion next to my ear, I’m letting you know you’re nuts. Perhaps a second index finger could be assigned the sole task of picking your nose. “Picker Finger” might work. But that would exclude all the people who don’t engage in this activity.  The new limb can’t possibly be assigned a function that is practiced by only a percentage of the population. So that’s out. “Pointer #2” or “Second Index finger”? Too wordy. Onward. 

 Next in line we have the Middle Finger. This is a problem. With the introduction of a sixth finger, the term “Middle Finger” will immediately become obsolete. There is no “middle” in the world of even numbers. The Brady’s never had a middle child, a football game can’t have a middle quarter, and none of the Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse could ever say, “I wanna ride in the middle.” Our middle finger will lose all that it has worked so hard to achieve, and with it shall mark the passage of one of the great fingers in history. It is “The” finger. “The Flip Off”, “The Bird”, “The Toss”. It is so special that all other fingers bow down before it when it is called into service. Never before has a finger given so much and asked for so little in return, and one day perhaps, evolution will callously return the favor by forcing us to strip it of its identity. Mathematical constraints will kill the Middle Finger. Rest in peace my special f*cking friend.

Let’s skip ahead to the Pinky. A second pinky would be like a second little toe. You’d be stubbing that thing every day. It would stick out like…well a sore thumb, getting caught on and in everything. You’d type faster, but would you be more efficient? I dont   thinnk so.. This leaves us with the final finger….the “Ring Finger”.

The ring finger can bite me. It is a haughty, presumptuous, pretentious, self absorbed, arrogant little digit whose sole purpose is to sport some overpriced scrap of metal that says, “We found someone who understands us, who gets us, someone who gives us nicknames, and “to do” lists. Let me tell you something. If the middle finger could give “The Finger” to the ring finger, I’m pretty sure it would do so on a regular basis. I have no love for this finger, as it is mostly a supporting cast member. If we are forced to accept a sixth finger, I vote that we should name it “Second Ring Finger”. Knock that high handed, egotistic, pompous little appendage down a bit. Of course we could go with ”Bling Finger”, but then we’d feel obligated to burden it with that garbage. Gold is not my color, so maybe we could ultimately go with something a bit more modest. Something understated yet grand. We could give our new family member a unique identity all its own, bestowing on it a special place amongst its elders. Something like… oh I don’t know….how about “Alan”? I like it. “Alan”. Say it slowly with me, letting it roll off your tongue and waft gently out on hot, unbridled breath, floating effortlessly away as it mixes and mingles in an orgiastic embrace with the cool evening breezes, finally alighting on the ears of a world that is yearning for closure and conciliation. A world which has not seen a hint of human transformation in many an epoch. A world that thirsts for change while desperately clinging to familiarity. A world that is longing for an end to the madness, an answer to the insanity and an acceptance of inevitable evolution. “Alan”…oh yes.

Now that has a nice ring to it.

One Two Twenty

So I’m at the Thai restaurant this afternoon ordering some “Curry with assorted animal”, and the waitress asks me “How spicy?”
I say “Spicy”.
The waitress says “10?”
I say “What?”
She says “10 hot?”
I say “On a scale of what?”
She says “20”.
I say, “Are you kidding me?”
She says “No I no kid.”
I say “Seriously? 1 to 20?”
She says “Yes 1 to 20”

     For the record, I’m German. The spiciest food in the Fatherland is mustard. And that only comes in two types. Spicy or mild. If you’re lucky you’ll get a third option- “sweet”. But that’s about it. End of discussion. Seriously, I can’t comprehend this. My mind starts contemplating the subtle differences between a 5 and a 7. Are there any? Is there a magic number after which all following levels of hotness are too hot? And after that, does it begin to venture into calculus where a “12” is somehow exponentially hotter than an “11’? Does “1” hot have any hotness at all, and is it pretty close to “2” hot? Or does “2” hot make a quantitative leap into the “kind of hot” arena, but noticeably less hot than say a “3” hot or a “4”?
At this point I start wishing for a menu guideline, which would probably read something like this:

1 hot – Not hot.
2 hot – Hotter than 1 hot but still not hot.
3 hot – A little hot but still not really hot.
4 hot – Somewhat hot, but not too much hot.
5 hot – Kind of sort of hot but not really that hot.
6 hot – Hotter than 5 hot.
7 hot – Hotter.
8 hot – Hotter still but still not really that hot hot.
9 hot – Almost really hot.
10 hot – Hot.
11 hot – Getting hotter.
12 hot – Caution. Hot.
13 hot – Be more cautious. Hotter still.
14 hot – Hot Hot.
15 hot – Hotter than 10-14 hot, but not as hot hot as 16-20 hot.
16 hot – Almost too hot.
17 hot – Almost almost too hot hot.
18 hot – Too hot
19 hot – Way too hot.
20 hot – Not available at this time.

I had a similar problem the first time I went to Italy. I almost lost my mind when I was asked to pay 300,000 Lira for a cup of coffee. “No coffee is that good” I said to myself. But after doing the math I had no problem with the two dollar price tag.
Unfortunately the largest denomination of currency was a 20 Lira note.
People were walking around Italy with wheelbarrows full of cash just to have lunch.
Before switching over to the Euro, the Italian department of financial absurdities decided to shave off a few dozen zeros, leaving the cost of a cappuccino at a palpable 3,000 Lira.

On another occasion, I found myself in the emergency room several years ago, after my leg impaled itself on a cactus in the foothills of New Mexico. After filling out the required medical questionnaire, (read- novella), the receptionist asks me “On a scale of 1-5 (with 5 being the worst), how bad would you say your pain is?” For the record, an hour earlier on the hiking trail, doubled over in the throes of agony, the pain was definitely off the charts. That was a 20 hot. But now that I’m in the waiting room, I can’t possibly go with a “5”. What if a guy waltzes in with a pair of scissors through his head? He gets to have the 5 right? I can’t possibly take the “5” while I’m still breathing on my own.

By this time my leg is the size of a blimp and resembles an inverted porcupine but with the quills still on the outside. But I compare my pain to that of scissor head guy, and I say “3”. I’m definitely not going to go lower as I don’t want to be here all day at the end of the line. I figure that coming in at slightly above the 50% mark is a safe bet.
“Have a seat”, the nurse says, “The doctor will be with you shortly”
I know what “shortly” means in medical jargon, but I’m feeling optimistic.
Ten minutes later a mother enters the room with a screaming child, and I give a quick looksey to evaluate the competition. No foreign objects protruding out of the girl’s body…good. Turns out the urchin had only scraped her elbow.
And this is where it goes south. When presented with the paperwork, mom pushes it aside and states the obvious.
“This is an emergency”. She says.
 Really? That’s probably why you, I, and half a dozen other injured, maimed and malfunctioning people are all gathered in something called “The Emergency Room.”
“On a scale of 1-5 (with 5 being the worst), how bad would you say the pain is?” the nurse asks her.
“5” the little girl replies.
The nurse then instructs the mother to go through the door, down the corridor and into the first room on the left. “The doctor will be right in.”

Fantastic.
Unless she scraped her elbow on a meat slicer, this is totally unacceptable.
Why didn’t I just say 5?  I should have just said “Screw scissor guy”. If he’s still alive after driving all the way over here, he’ll be fine. Plus anyone who can’t handle scissors should be ejected from the gene pool anyway. It’s already way too murky in here.
Ten minutes later the little girl comes out with a Band-Aid on her elbow.
Thirty minutes after that, I see the doctor.

So take my advice. In the emergency room, on a scale of 1-5 (with 5 being the worst), always say 10. (Unless the scale is 1-20 then say 40.)

As far as the Thai restaurant story goes, I told the waitress that I couldn’t decide between “12 hot” and “13 hot”.
“Can you do a twelve and a half hot?” I asked.
“No problem.”, She said. “Red, Green or yellow curry?”
“How hot is the green?” I ask.
“On a scale of 1-50”.

I Am He

Spotted Fawn, Canary Beak and Lamb’s Belly.
Sassafras Glen, Quaking Aspen Shoot, Boysenberry Blossom.
Soggy Rain, Frostbite and Dripping Fog.

These are my words.
I am that man.
I am the paint namer.
To you, mine is a great job.
To me, it is “Destiny’s Desire”, “Inner Passion”,  “Love’s Pursuit.”

Where you see red, I see Crimson Beet.
Your blue is my Oceanic Flotsam.
Green? I don’t think so.
Emerald Fairy Wing? Most definitely.

You have only a general idea of what that color is.
But then I tell you what it really is.

And you say:
“Holy crap. That is perfect.  It could not be anything else.”

But the truth is...
It could be a hundred other things.

But it’s not.

It is what I tell you it is.

It is Burnt Toast, Elephant Ear and Golden Shower.
Prickled Passion Fruit, Half Ripened Banana, Gristle.
It is Puppy Nose and Kittens Paws.
Murder Of Crows and Cole Slaw.

One day, you will choose to paint your daughter’s bedroom.

And as you peruse the swatches, you will ask her,
“What color do you like?”

She will will turn to you and say...
“Unicorn Tears”

Little girls love unicorns.
And I know that.

But “Unicorn Tears” is not a color.

Until now.

I will show you that it is the only color which will work with the room.
With the light. And the drapes. And the dog.

I could have called it “Wandering Gypsy”,
But your daughter is afraid of gypsies.

And I know that too.

“Wandering Gypsy” would sit on the store shelf.

"Dusty Tin", "Forgotten Love", "Misplaced Youth".

A sad, lonely, depressing color.

You do not want a sad, lonely and depressed 9 year old living in your house.

But “Unicorn Tears”….oh yes.
She will come to realize, “This is who I am.”
It will complete her.
If it could, the unicorn would say to her,
“We were meant to be together”.
But you and I both know that unicorns cannot speak.
“Mute-icorn.”

-A color reflecting the quiet stillness of your lost inner child.

Available for a limited time.
Only at Lowe’s.

Unicorn Tears is only one of many lies which I have perpetuated.
Do not fight it.

For once upon a time he was the pet of your dreams.
Now your daughter’s walls are the color of its tears.

The living room once was white.
Now it is "Unspoken sympathy", "Unbridled Ecstasy", "Uncorked Chardonnay".

That does not rhyme. But that is fine.
Because that does.

And just when you thought I had reached my
“Midnight Climax”,

I am poised to shock and amaze with my new line of “Man” paint.

Because I know it is damn near impossible to sell a man on
“Mystic Mauve”,
When the pillows are already nestled in frilly cases.
And you have been poisoning him with potpourri
since the day you started shacking up.

He will need a color which is his own.
Something that says:

This is my color. Mine alone.

Sweat sock. Beer Foam. Pimple.

Women already adore me.
And before the paint dries,
Men will bow down to me.

For I am the God of the revised color wheel.

Shirt Stain, Five O’clock Shadow, Gas.

Who am I?
I am “Shining Star”, “Wondrous Conundrum” and “Riddle Me This”.

Of course It makes no sense.

But neither does $59.99 a gallon.

Now available in exterior.