Chapter 2: Little Finger, Big Man
by Miguel Ramos
George Mariz opened his eyes. He didn’t know where he was. He slowly sat up and looked around him. Metal desk, two folding chairs, a long, padded examining table, no windows. His office. He could hear music coming through the thinly plastered old walls. The bodega must still be open.
George stood up from the floor where he had been laying. His body wasn’t too stiff, so he must not have been out for long, though he couldn’t recall clearly when he must have fallen asleep this time.
He could hear heavy footsteps walking down the hallway between his office and the bodega. They got louder as whoever it was approached his door, and finally stopped. After a few seconds, during which George stared at the door, his head bowed expectantly, a series of loud knocks rattled the door in its frame.
Only business used that door. Paying customers. No one else would venture down the hallway (lit with flickering, old fluorescent tubes that George refused to replace), past the stock room with its locked, iron-barred door (through which the smells of Mexico and South America wafted), past the janitor’s closet (its door long missing, with a wheeled bucket and stiff, dry mop the sole occupants), and finally to George’s unmarked door (which used to open into the manager’s office when the building had housed workers from the local textile mills and included a private bathroom, years of cigar smoke stains, and a hidden exit beside the bathroom sink (that George did not know about)).
George crossed to the door and opened it. The man who stood there clutching a bloody rag around his left hand towered over him. The top of his head disappeared above the door’s lintel. George backed up and motioned the giant man in. He had to turn sideways and duck his head to get through. He had solid, wide legs and a full stomach that pushed at the buttons of a red silk shirt he wore beneath an open, black sports coat. He had long, dark hair pulled back and tied into a ponytail, a gold hoop through his left ear, and a thin, long nose. He stared down at George through narrow, slanted eyes, looking angry, then took one step back and bowed.
“Mariz-san. My name is Hideo Nakata. Salvatore Contadino-san sent me to you. He said you could repair this.” He thrust out the hand covered with the blood stained rag. George picked up one corner and took a look. Hideo’s little finger was missing just below the first knuckle. It had been tied off with what looked like dental floss. George looked up at Hideo.
“Please, Mariz-san, I need to you repair this.” Hideo reached into his coat’s pocket with his right hand and pulled out an ice filled zip-lock baggie. The missing finger swam inside the pink tinged water. George saw that Hideo’s right hand was already missing the little finger.
“Go over to the table and sit down Hideo.” While the giant man sat George closed and locked his door. He then walked to his desk and opened up the top left drawer, pulling out a bottle of penicillin and one of Demerol, as well as two syringes. He also gathered a pair of latex gloves, a large pad of gauze, saline solution, forceps, suture and needle from the middle drawer. He then opened the bottom drawer and pulled out a bottle of Knob Creek bourbon and two glasses. George put everything on a tray and walked over to the table.
“Hideo, did Sal tell you how much this would cost?”
Hideo grunted and reached into an inside coat pocket, pulling out a roll of twenty dollar bills. He handed it over to George. George counted out $300 and gave the roll back to Hideo. He then poured them each a drink.
After they had each swallowed the bourbon George started working, injecting the Demerol and preparing to sew Hideo’s finger back on. He placed Hideo’s hand flat on top of a piece of gauze cleaned the wound with the saline. The cut was fresh and straight.
“It’s good that you used a sharp knife and came here right away. That will make it easier to sew your finger back on. I can’t guarantee that it will heal properly, though. If you’re lucky it will, but if you start to see any signs of infection you should come back and let me take it back off.”
Hideo, who was watching George work, nodded.
“I understand, Mariz-san, but it is very important to me that the finger heals well. I’ve already lost one finger. I would be very shamed to have missing fingers on both hands.”
“If it doesn’t heal properly I may be able to get you a prosthetic. Then it wouldn’t be as obvious.”
Hideo smiled and shook his head. “No, it must be my real finger. I feel that it will heal. I trust your work.”
George looked up from his sewing and stared at Hideo. “Why do you trust me? You don’t even know me.”
Hideo straightened his back. “You are wrong. I do know you. It is you who do not know me.”
“You know my son, don’t you?” asked George.
“No, Mariz-san, but I knew his parents. How is Tenuchi fairing?”
George turned back to Hideo’s finger, concentrating on the sutures. “The material I’m using for these stitches is called Dexon. It will dissolve in about three weeks, so if the finger is healing normally you won’t need to come back.”
“I am going to tell you a story, Mariz-san, of how I know your son’s parents, and why I am here in the United States. You continue working, and listen.”
George Mariz opened his eyes. He didn’t know where he was. He slowly sat up and looked around him. Metal desk, two folding chairs, a long, padded examining table, no windows. His office. He could hear music coming through the thinly plastered old walls. The bodega must still be open.
George stood up from the floor where he had been laying. His body wasn’t too stiff, so he must not have been out for long, though he couldn’t recall clearly when he must have fallen asleep this time.
He could hear heavy footsteps walking down the hallway between his office and the bodega. They got louder as whoever it was approached his door, and finally stopped. After a few seconds, during which George stared at the door, his head bowed expectantly, a series of loud knocks rattled the door in its frame.
Only business used that door. Paying customers. No one else would venture down the hallway (lit with flickering, old fluorescent tubes that George refused to replace), past the stock room with its locked, iron-barred door (through which the smells of Mexico and South America wafted), past the janitor’s closet (its door long missing, with a wheeled bucket and stiff, dry mop the sole occupants), and finally to George’s unmarked door (which used to open into the manager’s office when the building had housed workers from the local textile mills and included a private bathroom, years of cigar smoke stains, and a hidden exit beside the bathroom sink (that George did not know about)).
George crossed to the door and opened it. The man who stood there clutching a bloody rag around his left hand towered over him. The top of his head disappeared above the door’s lintel. George backed up and motioned the giant man in. He had to turn sideways and duck his head to get through. He had solid, wide legs and a full stomach that pushed at the buttons of a red silk shirt he wore beneath an open, black sports coat. He had long, dark hair pulled back and tied into a ponytail, a gold hoop through his left ear, and a thin, long nose. He stared down at George through narrow, slanted eyes, looking angry, then took one step back and bowed.
“Mariz-san. My name is Hideo Nakata. Salvatore Contadino-san sent me to you. He said you could repair this.” He thrust out the hand covered with the blood stained rag. George picked up one corner and took a look. Hideo’s little finger was missing just below the first knuckle. It had been tied off with what looked like dental floss. George looked up at Hideo.
“Please, Mariz-san, I need to you repair this.” Hideo reached into his coat’s pocket with his right hand and pulled out an ice filled zip-lock baggie. The missing finger swam inside the pink tinged water. George saw that Hideo’s right hand was already missing the little finger.
“Go over to the table and sit down Hideo.” While the giant man sat George closed and locked his door. He then walked to his desk and opened up the top left drawer, pulling out a bottle of penicillin and one of Demerol, as well as two syringes. He also gathered a pair of latex gloves, a large pad of gauze, saline solution, forceps, suture and needle from the middle drawer. He then opened the bottom drawer and pulled out a bottle of Knob Creek bourbon and two glasses. George put everything on a tray and walked over to the table.
“Hideo, did Sal tell you how much this would cost?”
Hideo grunted and reached into an inside coat pocket, pulling out a roll of twenty dollar bills. He handed it over to George. George counted out $300 and gave the roll back to Hideo. He then poured them each a drink.
After they had each swallowed the bourbon George started working, injecting the Demerol and preparing to sew Hideo’s finger back on. He placed Hideo’s hand flat on top of a piece of gauze cleaned the wound with the saline. The cut was fresh and straight.
“It’s good that you used a sharp knife and came here right away. That will make it easier to sew your finger back on. I can’t guarantee that it will heal properly, though. If you’re lucky it will, but if you start to see any signs of infection you should come back and let me take it back off.”
Hideo, who was watching George work, nodded.
“I understand, Mariz-san, but it is very important to me that the finger heals well. I’ve already lost one finger. I would be very shamed to have missing fingers on both hands.”
“If it doesn’t heal properly I may be able to get you a prosthetic. Then it wouldn’t be as obvious.”
Hideo smiled and shook his head. “No, it must be my real finger. I feel that it will heal. I trust your work.”
George looked up from his sewing and stared at Hideo. “Why do you trust me? You don’t even know me.”
Hideo straightened his back. “You are wrong. I do know you. It is you who do not know me.”
“You know my son, don’t you?” asked George.
“No, Mariz-san, but I knew his parents. How is Tenuchi fairing?”
George turned back to Hideo’s finger, concentrating on the sutures. “The material I’m using for these stitches is called Dexon. It will dissolve in about three weeks, so if the finger is healing normally you won’t need to come back.”
“I am going to tell you a story, Mariz-san, of how I know your son’s parents, and why I am here in the United States. You continue working, and listen.”
posted by Miguel at 5:13 PM
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