Broken-winged bird

I have done my finger a mischief. Middle finger, right hand. So frequently exercised once upon a time on the 101 South and sundry other arteries of the pumping Southland, as well as more recently, pedaling up Church Street. In fact, this finger was the recent cause of a severe upbraiding I received from a suited gentleman near my work. He, in his SUV, veered in front of my trundling bicyclette to make a left turn, and as I turned down the same street behind him, I gestured an assessment of his driving skills. He stopped his vehicle, exploded out and began screaming imprecations at my approaching self. Oddly, I stopped to listen, as if it weren't directed at me at all. It was early in the morning, mind, so neither of us was at his best. After hearing a good forty seconds of vein-popping invective (while his female companion shrank visibly in the passenger seat), I suggested, in as calm a tone as I could muster, that he treat himself to a soothing tea. This did little for his temper, but thankfully propelled him back into his vehicle, after a few parting gems. I continue to see this squire around the neighbourhood, always in the same grey suit, and we register recognition with our eyes, but nothing more.

But I digress. My finger, mischiefed. It's a bland story, almost embarrassing, yet due to the conspicuous splint I must wear for the next 5 weeks, one I am called upon to tell with frequency. So, I'll get it over with. Went to movies, felt an itch, got home, stripped clothes, Silkwood-showered, took clothes down to laundry room to dry at high temperature in case of bug-infestation, pressed the dry button with rather more force than was required, causing my finger to slip and the first joint to buckle rather painfully. Said joint would not return to its position, but lolled forward lazily instead, no matter how often I nudged it back into place. So, off to Emergency Room. Free health care makes one seek it out for the slightest thing, though it's by no means a breeze. Four hours and more than one heart-wrenching sideshow later, I emerged splinted and cowed. I will never underestimate a Maytag again.

The hand specialist I saw later in the week assured me it is an extremely common injury, and easy to do, though more often the result of basketball, construction work, martial arts — something rather more dynamic than laundering. He also says it will probably not fully straighten, so this finger will always be a tad crooked from now. (I just remembered my grandfather had rather crooked fingers; but this was due to several of them having been severed in a railway accident and then rather hastily sewn back on by a village doctor. I shit you not.) The worst thing about it is navigating the simplest of things, the things one takes entirely for granted, and realizing how integral that one digit is to such actions. A recent example: the bowl of spaghetti I made for my supper. You try twirling pasta onto a fork with a decommissioned bird-finger.