Five of Pentacles

The City—AFTERNOON

I find myself outside Spike’s trailer in Andrea’s little Japanese car. He wears the green wool jacket that I loaned him last winter and paces his tiny lawn, nodding into his cell phone. He spots me, flips off the phone and approaches my open window.

“You found it this time?”

“Yea.”

“So, what do you want to do? I’m up for anything so long as it doesn’t cost more than 15 bones.”

“I’ve got a little money. We could have a beer at the Whale at least.”

Spike climbs into the passenger side and we roll back unto the road. Spike’s curiosity is soon peaked.

“Let’s pull over and check this out.”

I pull over into a Christmas tree lot, where Spike jumps out and wanders off. I trudge around, and stop to watch two Mexicans wearing latex gloves. They are behind a chain link fence, delicately pruning white pines. To my right there is a rack of the little, shiny stainless steel snips they use. But, mindful of the sore on my left index finger, I also don a pair of latex gloves from a nearby box before trying the devices out.

As I reach for the shears they practically seem to leap into my hand, stick to the gloves and dig into the sore. The Mexicans watch as, trying to yell, I rip the shears and the gloves off my finger. One Mexican shrugs.

“That always happens the first time.”

Spike returns as I squeeze out the pus.

“Oh, fuck!” I curse. The finger is red and swollen, and the sore, adjacent a healing blister is now cavernous, it is so large—

I think I can—

And then try and can, put a finger into it. I grimace, knowing the solid bottom of the wound is the finger bone.

“I need someone to look at this, Spike.”

But I regret this statement even as it leaves my mouth—I’d rather attempt to heal it myself then have a doctor amputate it.