How I Lost My Finger

  

   After you've known me awhile, you'll notice I'm missing the ring finger on my left hand. If this sort of thing interests you, you'll ask what happened. I don't like to talk about it, but to be polite, I'll say I lost it opening a can of tuna fish. You won't believe me, but that's your problem. We either go on to other things or you unfriend me.

   Now that I've entered my fourth and probably last quarter century, I have decided to come clean about all my stories. The truth is I lost my finger in the Navy while on a secret mission. I'm still not allowed to say where it happened other than that it was in Latin America.  I was chosen for the mission because I had worked one summer for a Portuguese fisherman out of Gloucester, Mass. and knowing Portuguese would be vital to the success of this mission.

   There was a revolution going on in this country and the U.S. wanted the rebels to lose. I was to make a reconnaissance run up the country’s main river to ascertain where the rebel camps were. Then the Navy would decide what to do about it. Well, my fisherman's Portuguese was pretty much worthless when I got in-country. All I knew how to say was, "Good Morning," "Where's the bathroom?" and "Are there any piranhas in this river?"

   My guide, Pedro, made me understand by signs and body language that yes, the river was teeming with multo feroz piranhas, and that I was to keep my hands in the boat at all times. You can probably guess where this is going. The afternoon was warm and languid. The throb of the engine was low and steady. I drowsed on the stern cushions and soon I was asleep. I guess I let my arm dangle in the river.

   It didn't hurt at first. It never does. But the sight of my finger stripped of its flesh was shocking. And soon it started to hurt. Pedro gave me a bottle of rum to suck on and wrapped his tee shirt around my skeleton finger. I grew feverish and kept muttering médico, médico, as I lost consciousness.

   When I awoke I was in a field hospital. A rebel hospital! Dr. Sequeiera told me he could attempt a transplant since there were plenty of fresh digits available, but he said there would be no anesthesia, and he could only guarantee a 50/50 chance of success. I made a motion that he should cut off the finger. I still have my skeleton finger. It looks awesome on my keychain. When people ask where I got it, I tell them I found it in a can of tuna fish. I hope those people are reading this.

   Today is the day I lost my finger, so long ago and so far away. Be sure to check your calendar before you go out today, because there's no telling what kind of crazy stuff you might run into.

I said pick any finger, not take any finger.