The Finger
by Jason M. Heim

Eric checks the time again. I ask if he needs another beer.

“One more then I'm out.” He gulps down what's left at the bottom of his bottle and slides it away from himself.

“They'll be here.” I hold up a twenty but the bartender walks past me to help out the two brunettes at the end of the bar.

Eric chuckles. “Shit luck we got.”

“It's just good business.” I rub my eyes. “Don't take it personal. I mean, would you risk making those two wait for a drink? They leave, and every guy working up the nerve to talk to them leaves.”

“That is your fucking excuse for everything. For everybody.” He leans back, rolls his eyes and draws quotes in the air with his fingers. “Good business.” He snorts.

“What do you want me to say? It's the way of the world.”

“Way of the what?” He sighs. “We should start our own bar. Call it Fugly's. Gotta be a market for a bar called that.”

I slap him on the back. “Now you're talking!”

The bartender walks by my outstretched twenty again. Eric mutters something but I can't make out much beyond a curse or two.

The bar is thick with the layers of drunken conversation, each speaker trying to talk over the next until the brunettes at the end of the bar giggle and the decibels dip, each guy straining to figure out if they're laughing at something he said.

It's hard not to fantasize that one of them might be Alexandra. Her e-mail didn't include any details, no picture, no hint of what she or her friend would be wearing. These brunettes, both of them wear long dark hair. One has curls that tumble over her shoulders, dark eyes, she's taller than me. The other wears tight clothes on a tighter body, a runner, maybe a gymnast at one time.

There's no way that either of them is Alexandra. At least, there's no way Eric and I are that lucky.

Eric nudges me out of my trance. “How late are they now?”

“Forty-five. Do you think...?”

“Think what?”

“Nevermind.”

The bartender strolls by again before I can hold out my cash.

Eric sighs. “Use your other hand.”

“Fucker.” I switch the bill to the my other hand.

“Sorry.” He snickers. “Just good business, right?”

“Sure, whatever.” It's called macrodactyly. The index finger on my left hand is the size of a bratwurst. A growth defect, like gigantism contained to a single digit. Hold out a bill in that hand and it's easy to understand why the bartender keeps on walking. He probably thinks it's a prank.

“Another round fellas?” The bartender plucks the bill from my friendlier hand.

“About time!” Eric tries to sneer, but the burn scars make it hard to tell where his lips end and his nose begins. He looks more like he's holding back a sneeze.

“Whatever dude.” The bartender twists the tops off of two more light beers without even asking what we want. I stick out my left hand to get the change. He hesitates and the quarters spill onto the bar, skip and clank and plummet all the way to the floor.

“Sorry.” He turns to another patron.

“Man, fuck this.” Eric takes a big swig of beer, a trickle of foam leaking from where the corner of his mouth never healed back.

“Easy, Eric.”

He slugs down half the beer and smacks it down on the bar. Foam erupts and flows onto the lacquered wood surface.

The bartender glances at us then back to the taps, filling glasses for some other schmucks.

“Leave the quarters on the floor.” Eric belches. “Plenty for a tip.” He stands up.

“Dude, not yet.”

He puts on his coat. “Face it, this internet chick and her friend aren't showing. That, or they came, saw us, and bolted.”

I look down to the brunettes.

“I'm out. You coming?”

I shake my head.

“Fuck you then.” He zips his coat. “Call me later.”

Eric marches out stopping only to stare down a few gawkers. “What's up? Something on your mind?” He scoffs and walks out. The door slams behind him.

I sip my beer. There's a soccer game on the TV but it's silent and I pretend to watch. The team in red scores a goal. I chug what's left of my beer and pick up my coat.

I glance at the brunettes again and fold my coat over my arm, my hand, my sausage finger, and I whisper “Good business” under my breath.

I walk toward the door but stop by the brunettes and ask them if either of them know Alexandra.