The Haggard Mutterer interrupts, ask me to look at this. This being his thumb.

Strange characters come into the bar. Sure, yes, it is a bar: it is a place strange characters are drawn to. A few weeks ago a haggard guy in his sixties comes in; he is already muttering to himself. Sits beside me, orders a drink. Well whiskey, I seem to remember. I am talking to the Curmudgeon on my other side, about what I don't really recall. Most likely old rock or a movie; that is what the Curmudgeon likes to talk about. When he feels like talking.

The Haggard Mutterer interrupts, ask me to look at this. This being his thumb.

"Do you think it's broken?" he asks me.

It is red, dirty and swollen. I tell him I don't know if it is broken, but he should probably get it looked at. He says he thinks it must be broken. I nod, and resume my conversation with the Curmudgeon.

He interrupts again.

"Don't you think it's broken?" he asks me.

Again, I reply: I don't know if it is broken, but he should probably get it looked at.

He nows says he can't bend it. To help with my diagnosis, I assume.

"It could be broken," I agree, and turn back to the Curmudgeon. To resume what we were talking about: old rock or a movie, most likely. I think I said that before.

The Haggard Mutterer orders another drink, then interrupts again.

"I fucking think it's broken."

I don't bother turning to face him; I have nothing new to offer him or his thumb.

Now he is mad. He is going on about fucking doctors who will take his fucking money just to tell him his thumb is fucking broken, when he already knows that his fucking thumb is fucking broken. Fucking doctors. Like that.

I order another drink. He is still carrying on, and now he is upset that no one is listening to him, he has a broken thumb and we are not listening.

I tell him he is right in not seeing a doctor: he should wait until it needs to be amputated, and then pay for the doctor then, not before.

I did not think me saying this would help matters, and it didn't. He is now asking if I think the fucking doctors will need to cut off his thumb.

"Probably," I answer. "But only if it's broken."

He ponders this for a moment.

"Maybe it's not broken," he says, and I nod, drink my drink.

He asks the bartender for another drink, but the bartender tells him he has had enough. My guess is he had a few to drink before he got here. I am expecting a scene -- a lot of Haggard Mutterers don't like to be cut off -- but he accepts this. He leaves, muttering. It is a fucked-up world, what with broken thumbs, fucking doctors and bartenders who won't serve you another drink.

His thumb was pretty fucked-up.



- james james

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