Table for One

By Joseph Sidari

Hammer toe. Trigger finger.

The noonday sun bakes my skin. I swipe at the sweat on my brow and place my hand over the hollow of my belly. Will it rumble? Does it remember how?

“Not a peep,” I say aloud. “That ship sailed ages ago. Ha!” I laugh at my own joke, and then bend to examine a patch of grass. While sizing up the plumpest, tastiest ones with my thumb and forefinger, my ring finger decides to lock up. It throbs in protest, tendons whining.

With my other hand, I forcefully straighten the finger, massaging the joint. Such an odd term for my condition: trigger finger. I hate guns; I’ve never even held one. Definitely a term created by a man. I would have called it a musician’s finger.

The doctor told me it was common in professional cellists—from pinching the neck of my stringed instrument—and I thought my life was over.

“How can I play in the symphony with this crap finger?” I said.

The doctor suggested hand therapy. I did it. Compulsively. My cello was my world, and I wanted it back.

It helped—mostly. When I had two performances a day, it locked up, but I compensated. I could still play anything—from Bach to Rachmaninoff—with just three fingers. I’d never make first chair, but I made a living.

I pick the blades carefully, making sure the roots are attached. If I close my eyes, I can imagine it might be… uh, spinach?

Mm-mm. Yes. Spinach.

After harvesting a few more of these spinach leaves, I probe the ground, looking for insects. Finding none, I wrap my bounty in a makeshift sack—just the sports bra I was wearing when I washed overboard. I walk toward another bit of greenery.

I kneel at the next tuft and sigh.

This isn’t spinach, or even grass. It’s straw. And I plucked the best of the worst yesterday.

I stand, arch my back, and survey the barren beach around me.

My kingdom. Or is it queendom?

“All hail Queen Olivia of Grass Island! The first of my name!” I look around to see if anyone challenges my claim. I lift my t-shirt to wipe my face. The shirt’s lettering, Just Do It, stares back at me.

A challenge?

These words are supposed to be motivational. Empowering. I find them frightening. What if I don’t want to?

I trudge toward another grassy spot on my island.

Island—ha! What a grand term. Really more of an islet. Or is it i-little? But when you’re washed overboard, survivors can’t be choosers. At least the rains brought me fresh water. Otherwise the Caribbean sun would’ve baked me into human jerky by now.

If only there was a mango tree. I’d savor its sweet flesh, its running juices. I laugh. “But then it wouldn’t be called Grass Island—duh.” I look at the horizon. Water, water everywhere, and not a ship to save me.

I dip my head and shuffle back to camp.

Trigger finger. Hammer toe.

My second toe—the bad one—catches, and I stumble. Almost fall. I hold my forage tighter.

Last year, when that toe started to arch up and deform, I saw a podiatrist. She diagnosed me with hammer toe.

“From wearing high-heeled shoes,” she said.

“Well, what am I supposed to wear when I take my bows at the Philharmonic?” I asked. “Loafers?”

“Exactly,” said the doctor.

So I did.

“First world problems: hammer toe and trigger finger.” I snort. “My world’s problems: I’m all alone. And I’m going to die here.”

No one argues with me on either point.

I return to my camp. Well, if this is an island, then the clearing where I keep all my stuff is camp.

My stuff includes two mutilated sneakers and the remnants of a life vest. Early on, I had ripped apart the sneakers and joined them by the laces to create a basin. I then stripped off the waterproof cover from the vest and set it inside my sneaker-basin to collect rainwater. It also doubled as my cooking pot.

The fresh water I collected earlier should now be heating in the noonday sun. No fire, but the warming water will soften the grasses. I drop the vegetation into my “pot.”

“But my best customer has been waiting a lifetime for today’s meal. How can I make the soup du jour extra special?”

I debate the question one last time: Hammer toe or trigger finger?

I need to walk to those measly patches of grass. But I don’t need all five fingers to pick the blades. And what I wouldn’t give for a good meal like this. A satisfying, stick-to-my-ribs stew.

I pull out the plastic buckle from my life vest. One side is sharper, and I use that edge to cut a string from the vest. The effort causes my ring finger to trigger up again.

Volunteering, perhaps? “I thank you for your service.”

I wrap the string around the finger’s base. Tight. And then tighter. Blood fills the digit until it is plump and swollen. A beefy, red sausage. The tip tingles, burns, and then falls silent. I study the purpling meat attached to my hand. I use the sharp plastic edge to prick it, waiting to feel a pain that might dissuade me.

Dark blood swells up, but nothing hurts. I dribble the blood into my pot.

My stomach, as if suddenly aware of the plan, surprises me by letting out a low rumble.

“Be quiet. I know your vote.” I dig the plastic deeper. Further. Past muscle and tendon. I wiggle it as far as I can, into the joint of that damnable finger, and then twist. There is a pop.

It’ll take a while to free it completely. And even longer for the warming broth to soften the flesh.

My mouth begins to water. I resume sawing as I savor the thought of my first proper meal in ages.

Can you guess which song from the 1960's inspired this story? Share in the comments!

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Joseph Sidari writes from outside of Boston. He has been published in Daily Science Fiction, and Third Flatiron’s Anthology, Monstrosities, to name a few. Although he is a practicing physician, please consult your own doctor before cutting off and eating any of your body parts. He is patiently waiting for his agented novel, LITTLE GREEN MEN, to find a publisher. Follow him on Twitter and his website.

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