Read by Anton Thompson-McCormick
I am sitting in front of the television, on my favourite chair. It’s been an uneventful day. Now, while I am sitting there, the doorbell rings. This in itself is unusual, because I’m not expecting anyone. I get up, walk towards the door and look through the fisheye. There’s a man outside, dressed in a blue uniform, almost like a postman’s uniform. He also has that typical unconcentrated ‘postman’ look on his face, like he’s already thinking about what he’ll do once the job is done. As I said, I’m not expecting anyone, so this is a bit of a surprise.
I open the door, and he gives me a flat look.
“Mr-” He glances at the pad he’s holding and says my name.
“Yes?”
“I’m here for your thumb.”
He shrugs. “Your thumb. I’m here to collect your right thumb.”
I am taken aback. “Why would you want my right thumb? Or any of my thumbs, for that matter?”
“It’s not that I want it. I’m just here to collect it.” He gestures towards the digit in question, and almost ashamed, I hide it behind my back.
Understandably, I’m quite confused. “Do you have a- a warrant? Something official?”
The man smiles and nods. He was probably as confused as me up to now, but now he feels on safe ground. “Of course I have one. Here it is.” He produces a sheet of paper from his bag, a sheet that has official government markings. I read through it, and although I don’t quite understand all of the bureaucratic lingo, everything seems to be in order. The man is entitled to come and collect my thumb.
“What-” I gesture somewhat helplessly with my two hands now, not quite clear what the procedure is.
“Ah. No problem, you just hold out your right arm. Like that, yes. Thank you. This won’t take a second.” The uniformed man takes a small device from his bag now, and I follow his directions. Holding the thing against my right thumb, he pushes a button, and the finger just comes off. I’m pleasantly surprised that there’s only a short tingling sensation, but no pain and no blood. As I look up from my hand, I see him put my finger in a government-issue plastic bag and putting it away. Then he hands me a receipt.
“Thank you, that’ll be all. Enjoy the rest of your evening.” He gives me a curt nod, neither friendly nor unfriendly and walks away down the hall. Still somewhat confused, I close the door on his back and look at my right hand. There’s no scar or anything, it’s almost as if I’d never had a thumb. After putting the yellow receipt on the TV table, I get myself a beer from the fridge and notice that it’s a bit more difficult now to open it. Finally I manage and sit down in front of the television, in my comfy chair.
A few minutes the doorbell rings again. I get up, spilling some of the beer over my sweatshirt, and wiping at the stain with my sleeve, I open the door. It’s the uniformed man from before, giving me an apologetic smile. “Sorry to bother you again, sir. It’s just that I have to collect your left arm.”
“My left arm? All of it?” I am stunned.
“I’m sorry. I have the paperwork here, you know.” The man shifts his weight from one leg onto the other, looking past me into my flat. “Nice place. I like the print over the television.”
Feeling uncomfortable at him looking into my home, I move forward and obscure his view. “Can I have a look at the papers?” He says yes, and I quickly scan over the sheet. It looks practically the same as the previous warrant, only now it contains a claim for my left arm (10 cm below the collarbone). With a sigh, I say, “Go ahead.”
With a larger version of the device he’d used on my thumb, he removes my left arm. Again, no pain, but it feels strange not having its weight there below my left shoulder. “If you have any complaints or objections, you can file them at the address printed on the receipt. There,” he says, pointing at the yellow sheet of paper he’s just handed me.
“Yeah, yeah, yeah. Good evening.” Not waiting for his answer, I close the door, crumpling the receipt a bit in the process, then I walk over to my chair and sit down. I take a close look at the two receipts, but they’re not very helpful. Sure, they look official and correct and everything. The print is not too small, clearly legible, and the language is not too obtuse compared to other government documents. The only thing they’re not really clear about is the reason why I had to give my thumb and arm. I read through the receipts, twice even, but don’t get anything useful from them. I decide to write a complaint letter tomorrow, knowing that I probably will have forgotten by the time I go to bed tonight.
I have just seen a news report on atrocities in a faraway country when the doorbell rings again. I push myself up from my chair with some difficulty, awkwardly trying to keep my balance with only one arm. It’s the man again, and he’s holding out the warrant for me to read. “Busy evening for you tonight, eh?” I say wearily.
“Busy evening for the two of us, I’d say,” he says. “I know it must be a nuisance for you, but...”
“Oh, it’s not your fault, I’m sure,” I reply, with less conviction than might be called for. “It’s like taxes – everybody complains about them, but we all know they’re probably necessary, right?” I give him a smile, feeling sorry for him. He looks as if he’d prefer to be somewhere else, doing something else. I know the feeling, but I try not to make him too uncomfortable. One shouldn’t shoot the messenger.
“Absolutely. Right leg, just below the knee this time.” He’s already taken out his gadget, and I hold out my leg.
“Well, right leg, that’s not so bad. I should be able to keep balance with my right arm.” I give a somewhat forced laugh. “You’re not going to take that as well, are you?”
The uniformed man shakes his head. Like many people, he’s one of those who lose their sense of humour when he puts on a uniform. I would too, with that kind of uniform, I guess. “No, just your right leg. There we are. Thank you.”
“Thank you,” I say emphatically, but the sarcasm obviously is lost on him. I watch him put my right leg into a large government-issue bag; the scar on my shin is clearly visible, although I can’t remember where I got that. Unfortunately the limb doesn’t quite fit in his bag, and I catch a glimpse of the toes through the plastic. I shake my head, close the door and hop back inside. Fortunately, I manage to make it to my chair before I fall over. The TV is still showing survivors from enemy attacks down in that faraway country. They’re a lot worse off than me, I think, looking at the stump just below the knee. They say that people who lose limbs still feel phantom itches in them, but I don’t feel anything. I still don’t know the reason for all this, but the government wouldn’t spend its money – actually, the taxpayers’ money, our money – on this if it didn’t have good reasons. My friends tell me that my attitude is almost criminally naive, but still, it’s better than their cynical, jaded attitude. I am startled from my thoughts when the doorbell rings. Not again, I think and with a groan try to get up.
“Just a minute,” I shout, propping myself up on my chair. With two uneven jumps I make it to the table and finally get to the door, my knee wobbling from the unusual exertion. No surprise as I open the door.
“Working long hours tonight, are we?” I say, and the uniformed man shrugs. “What is it this time?”
He points, and I blush. He can’t mean that. I point as well, and he nods. My Fruit and Nuts, for want of a better metaphor. My gear. You know. The man seems somewhat embarrassed, which I find comforting, and to his credit he turns away as I pull down my trousers and boxer shorts. At least he won’t need one of the big bags this time, I think and almost choke on the hysterical laughs that get stuck in my throat. This would be just the moment for old Mrs. Caldey across the hall to open her door and see us, and I can imagine what kind of gossip she’d spread. “Okay, that’s it. Really sorry about this.” Yeah, yeah, yeah. I pull up my trousers, half surprised because they used to be a tight fit. “Here’s your receipt. Good night.”
I don’t really notice him leaving, nor me closing the door and hopping back to my chair, for that matter. There must be a reason behind this. It couldn’t be a mistake, I’m sure. There must be some kind of system, something I’ve done wrong. Anxiously, I try to remember exactly what I was doing when he turned up for the first time. One thing comes to my mind immediately, and I quickly grab the remote, knocking over my half-empty bottle of beer in the process, and turn off the telly. What else? I can’t say. There must have been something, I’m sure. There is always a reason. I let go of everything I’m holding and close my eyes. Very slowly, almost by instinct, I curl up in a ball and start to breathe more slowly. Just to make sure, I empty my thoughts, ready to be interrupted any moment by the ring of the doorbell.
(c) Matt Kimmich, 2017
Matt Kimmich lives in Switzerland. He used to teach English Literature and the occasional spot of Creative Writing at university until reality and the promise of a higher monthly salary got in the way.
Since graduating from Drama Centre London, actor-writer Anton Thompson-McCormick has played Konstantin in The Seagull (Fox&Chips), Malcolm in Macbeth (OH Players), and the singer in short This Song (dir. Alexis Casdagli). A WW2 docu-film Captured on Crete (dir. Alexis Casdagli) comes out in 2018. He is excited to be making his Liars’ League debut!
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