Peter Cherches

The Finger

by Peter Cherches

I met Sandi in 1984. She was a dancer in a performance piece I did in collaboration with choreographer Kathleen MacDonald called “Five Women.” I interviewed each of the dancers, none of whom I’d met before, and put together tall tales about them based on their true stories, which I delivered wearing a suit and chomping on an unlit cigar as a prop, like George Burns or Alan King, as the women took their solo features. Little did I know that my tall tales were nothing compared to what would befall Sandi not long after, truth indeed being stranger than fiction.

Sandi and I hit it off during rehearsals. She was a real wise guy, a great verbal sparring partner. We started seeing a lot of each other.

One summer evening, when we were heading to dinner in the East Village, Sandi suddenly called out, “Wait!” I waited as she bent down and picked up a five-dollar bill.

She told me she was always finding money on the street, that the secret was to always look down when walking, especially near parking meters. Sandi found hundreds of dimes and quarters this way, and occasionally even a twenty-dollar bill.

A few months later, she called me and in a quavering voice told me she’d found a finger on the street—a severed finger with a gold wedding band around it. It repulsed her, but she knew she had to pick it up and bring it to the police. So she wrapped it in a Kleenex and put it in her purse. She took a cab to the police station and handed the finger over to the officer at the desk, explaining where she had found it. The policeman assured her that there would be a thorough investigation and asked Sandi for her address, in case there were any further questions.

For months Sandi couldn’t get the finger out of her mind. She told me of dreams filled with severed fingers and fingerless men. She had one dream where, at her own wedding, as she was putting the ring on the groom’s finger, the finger fell off the groom’s hand onto the floor. She woke up screaming.

“I’ve stopped looking down when I’m walking,” she told me. “I don’t want to know what’s on the street; I don’t care how much money I’m passing up.” She was eventually able to put the finger out of her mind.

Then, one day about a year later, a policeman rang her doorbell and handed her a package.

Nobody had claimed the finger, so now it was hers.

Richard

by Peter Cherches

Six men wearing surgical masks stood in a small public square. Why they were called there, and by whom, none of them knew.

Some of these men knew each other, some didn’t. Some could easily recognize the ones they knew, while others had trouble without the lower half of the face visible; the eyes and hairline were not enough. John called Sam “Richard,” and Sam said, “You’re mistaken, I’m not Richard, I’m Sam.” Nobody said, “I’m Richard,” because there was no Richard in attendance at this gathering. Sam and John did not know each other.

Actually, John knew none of the other men once it became clear that Sam was not Richard. Sam, on the other hand, knew two of the others. Not well, just casually, just in passing. Neither of these two men were what you would call friends of Sam, and neither recognized him, either because of the mask or because he never really made a lasting impression on anybody.

Gregory knew Wallace, but did not recognize him. Wallace recognized Gregory. “Greg, I’m Wally,” Wallace said to Gregory. “I wouldn’t have recognized you in a million years,” Gregory replied.

Wallace did not recognize Desmond because Desmond was wearing contact lenses instead of his usual aviator glasses. Desmond saw Sam and said, “Hi, Richard.” Clearly, above the mask Sam very much resembled someone named Richard.

Gabe and Gregory were once great friends, but they’d had a falling out. Only one of them recognized the other, and he said nothing.

“Does anybody know why we’re here?” Gabe asked. Nobody responded.

Then John spoke. “It sounded urgent.”

“Now what?” Sam asked.

“Let’s give it another fifteen minutes, and if nobody shows up, we leave,” Wally suggested.

The others nodded in agreement.

Fifteen minutes later they said their goodbyes and returned to their respective homes and removed their masks.

Wally’s husband Hal was the first to notice the strange transformation. Through gasps he said, “What’s happened to the bottom of your face?”

“What do you mean?” Wally asked.

“I mean it’s not you! It’s the bottom of someone else’s face!”

Wally ran to look in the mirror. Hal was right. He had the bottom of someone else’s face.

When Desmond took his mask off, his wife Alma said, “You’re not Des.”

“What do you mean?” Desmond asked.

“You have his voice, but not his face.”

Desmond laughed. “Ha! You’re just not used to my contacts yet.”

“No. That’s not it. It’s your eyes, I’d know those eyes with my eyes closed, but the bottom of your face—it belongs to somebody else.”

Desmond looked in the mirror. Alma was telling the truth.

John lived alone, so he didn’t notice his own transformation until he was brushing his teeth later that evening.

Sam and his girlfriend Tish hadn’t been getting together too often since the pandemic had started, but they’d been doing a lot of FaceTime. “Who’s this?” Tish asked when Sam called on FaceTime. “It’s me, of course!” Sam said. She recognized his voice. “What happened to your face?” she asked.

Gabe, who was staying at a motel while his apartment was being renovated, didn’t notice until he was shaving the following morning. The shock made him nick himself in several places.

Gregory’s wife Eva didn’t notice anything unusual, but she was probably thinking about her lover, Richard.

All six men received calls to return to the same spot the following day at the same time.

When they had all assembled, everyone acknowledged that they had experienced a weird, unexplainable transformation to the bottom half of their faces. They all agreed to briefly remove their masks, as they were standing more than six feet apart and there was a pleasant breeze.

“Richard!” they all blurted out in unison.

Called “one of the innovators of the short short story” by Publishers Weekly, Peter Cherches has published seven short fiction collections since 1986. His writing has also appeared in scores of magazines, anthologies and websites, including Harper’s, Bomb,

Semiotext(e), Fence, North American Review, and Fiction International, as well as Billy Collins’ Poetry 180. His latest book is Things (Bamboo Dart Press, 2023), a collection of experimental short prose and poetry. A native of Brooklyn, New York, he is also a jazz singer and lyricist.