***
One Hand Clapping
On Tuesday, March 7, Lowell Isaiah Tarleton first became aware that one of his hands had been replaced.
He was in the back of a crowded elevator, on his way to work at the fifth floor offices of D&K Title and Mortgage Company of New York, when his left hand suddenly reached out and goosed the rather prominent derriere of a young woman standing just in front and to the side. He was dumbfounded by this. Lowell Tarleton would never deign, dare nor design to such a crude and unseemly act. And even if he had he could scarcely imagine himself capable of dispatching the insult with such precision of placement.
The young woman’s head snapped around to Lowell’s position, her eyes filled with indignant heat. And perhaps it was his look of sincere and utter confusion that convinced her of his non-involvement. The woman redirected her glare to the man on Lowell’s left, who, having no hand in the matter and completely unaware of the reason for this sudden attention, nevertheless made the mistake of meeting her gaze and smiling politely.
“Pig,” she pronounced him.
Lowell shoved the errant hand firmly into his trouser pocket, stared down where his shoes would be if only the pooch of his belly were fifteen pounds thinner, and tried to make sense of what had just transpired.
Upon exiting the elevator Lowell stepped to a side wall and paused. He removed the hand from his pocket and examined it carefully. It was then that Lowell realized the hand simply was not his. This hand was an impostor. Oh, it was a clever forgery to be sure. He had to hand it to whoever did this, it was surprisingly well done and Lowell had little doubt that anyone else would ever detect the substitution. But he did. He could discern the subtle differences between this new hand and its predecessor. The cuticles were thicker and somewhat ragged, the nails unevenly trimmed. Obviously not as well tended as his right. Additionally there were fewer age spots and the creases on the palm were not positioned quite properly.
Foremost, as evidenced by its earlier behavior, this unsolicited hand-me-down was appearanced to be of highly questionable stock.
How had such a thing happened? Why had such a thing happened? Lowell Tarleton was not a man given to rash, hand-over-head displays of excitability, but really, for his own arm to change hands like this was quite unacceptable.
If Lowell had any idea where, or to whom, he could direct a complaint he would likely do so. But since he could conceive of no other possible liable party than God, in whatever format one chose to favor, and since he chose agnosticism, then lodging such a complaint would seem to force his hand into making a decision he was unwilling to even consider.
He left the wall and continued on to his destination, arriving early, as usual, before most of the other employees. Only a handful were already present. He strode toward his office, but paused beside the cubicle assigned to Clay Poletti.
Clay was not in the cubicle now, but apparently was on the premises. His computer was on, a two inch thick stack of documents (both legal and letter size) waiting close at hand next to the keyboard, and directly behind that sat Clay’s personal and very nearly full mug of still steaming hot coffee.
Lowell was bothered by this scene. Perhaps he was still somewhat agitated by the unwanted hand-over of flesh, perhaps not, but to leave what he assumed to be important papers unattended in an open cubicle was irresponsible. He stepped forward, intending only to confirm or refute the relative value of the documents (he refused to refer to them as docs like everyone else in the office). Instead Lowell’s left hand reached out, lifted the mug, tipped it forward and laid it down again on its side, emptying the entire contents of hot coffee and, if memory served him correctly, two heaping spoons full of sugar upon, into and under the thirsty stack of papers.
Lowell raised his eyes, glancing about over the tops of the five foot tall panels that formed the three sided cubicles. He could hear the clicking of a nearby keyboard, but that person was obviously seated and could not see him. And he could see one woman on the other side of the large room, but with her back to him.
He left the cubicle quickly, scurried to his small office and dropped into the padded fabric chair. Once again he tried, desperately, to understand why he would allow such underhanded behavior. Of course it wasn’t really he, it was his hand, he told himself, and it wasn’t really his hand, but as it was attached to his body certainly made any denial of ownership seem rather absurd.
The top sheet of the now sodden stack had been an escrow document. Not a trivial matter, but in all likelihood nothing in the pile was irreplaceable. However it was certainly possible that some items were the only copy on hand in this location.
Lowell noticed that his office door was closed and realized that his left hand must have closed it behind him. That was not the norm. Unless Lowell was with a client or in a meeting with someone, his door otherwise remained open. Briefly, he considered leaving the door as it was, but decided that might appear suspicious. Lowell alone in his office with the door closed- the two things simply did not go hand in hand.
Opening the door, Lowell heard an exclamatory cry followed by Clay’s voice issuing primarily a litany of foul-laced language.
Lowell paused, weighing what his normal reaction would be, and then calmly walked down to Clay’s cubicle.
“Something wrong?” he asked.
“No, no,” Clay said, positioning his body to shield the view of Lowell’s handiwork. “A little accident with my coffee is all.”
“Oh, dear,” Lowell smiled. “Can I give you a hand?”
“No, I’ve got it,” Clay declared, moving back and quite possibly sitting on the wet slop. “But thanks anyway.”
Lowell returned to his office, leaving the door open, and sat at his desk. Clay is a buffoon, he thought. A loud, boorish, irresponsible buffoon. What Lowell’s left hand did was wrong, certainly, but perhaps Clay deserved it. And if this left hand were suitably seated where it truly belonged it would be firmly attached instead to Clay’s left arm and currently brushing coffee from the man’s hindquarters.
Lowell spread both his hands flat on the desktop, side by side, and compared them. The differences, he saw now, were far less subtle than he’d previously imagined. Hands-down, the left one was coarser, earthier, and although Lowell was right-handed, more powerful in appearance. Of course, appearances can often be deceptive.
Later that day, Nirav Kadam, the K of D&K Title and etc, stopped Lowell as he was on his way out for lunch. Apparently, one of their best customers had called only moments before, upset after receiving word that two escrow packets they had been assured only yesterday would be ready by noon today were now delayed and not to be finalized until later in the week. The customer, and the customer’s customer, were not happy. Did Lowell know what this was about?
“No,” Lowell replied, cocking his head and projecting a deeply puzzled air. “Offhand, I can’t think of any reason for it. But Mr. Poletti was handling that one, and he was rather distraught about something this morning. Some sort of accident, if I recall.”
Lowell then enjoyed a pleasant lunch at a new café he’d been meaning to try. The soup and half sandwich were at best average, and the ambiance too noisome, and the service quite substandard, nonetheless he found pleasure in the moment.
He collected his receipt and change from the black vinyl check presenter, leaving only the coins, sixty-four cents, as a tip. More than the waitress deserved in his opinion.
As Lowell stood, a young couple at the next table also rose, the man dropping a five dollar bill on the table before turning to leave. Lowell followed behind, the fingers of his left hand lightly skimming the tabletop, handily snagging and palming the bill, and then, both hand and fiver now in pocket, made his way to the door and outside.
Lowell walked half a block, quietly fuming, before extracting the bill and switching it to his good hand for safekeeping.
This behavior is getting out of hand, he thought. Petty theft now. It was completely inexcusable. And then he corrected
himself. Because it wasn’t truly inexcusable. Lowell had not taken the money simply because it was at hand. The waitress’s service was lousy; she simply had not earned a gratuity of five dollars. Of that there was no doubt; he had firsthand experience of it.
In many ways he considered it a disservice to reward a job poorly done. And if Lowell were to redirect this small boon to a more deserving target that would actually provide betterment for the community at large.
Lowell pocketed the money, telling himself that he would hold this five dollar bill and have it in hand for the next meal when he received exemplary service from a waitperson, and would then add the five dollars to his own modest but reasonable tip.
Certainly that was preferable to sitting on one’s hands and doing nothing at all.
Wasn’t it?
Lowell returned to work striving to revitalize his pleasure of the moment, but with diminishing effect. Crossing a street, Lowell’s left hand displayed its middle finger at a driver who encroached too near the walkway, and then deliberately jostled the elbow of a man balancing a cardboard carrier, sending it and four large beverage cups to splatter the pavement and the legs of several pedestrians. In congested foot traffic, Lowell’s left hand blithely applied heavy-handed encouragement to a slow moving child causing a fall and subsequent spillage of tears, and not fifty steps further sent a box-laden hand truck near the curb toppling into the street resulting in at least one box meets bumper fatality.
It was increasingly difficult for Lowell to handcraft excuses for these actions, much less hand them out as reasonable or palm them off as deserving. He had tried his hand at absolving culpability but he was now ready to throw up his hands and surrender to the guilt, although he knew in his heart that his hands were truly clean.
Lowell’s left hand was out of his control. He was as much a victim as anyone else. He was helpless. He couldn’t wash his hands of it.
Because Lowell’s left hand was out of control.
But the worst of it was seeing the handwriting on the wall, knowing that sooner or later Lowell’s left hand was bound to be observed; caught, red-handed, in one of these deplorable acts. And yet his hands were tied to prevent it.
Because Lowell’s left hand was out of control.
In this day and age there might already be cameras rife with captured images of his handmade miscreations.
The anticipated shame of discovery was almost unbearable.
Film at 11. Lowell’s left hand out of control. Lowell’s hand gone wild.
He stopped on the sidewalk outside his building, unable to proceed. He could not return to the office now and show his hand.
Lowell’s left hand idly tugged at the front of his trousers, attempting to readjust his underwear.
The hand was a hideous abomination. Hairy. Bestial. A handicap impossible not to draw notice.
Lowell shoved the vile thing into his pocket and continued walking, at first uncertain but then quickly setting course for the subway. And from there, home.
He would call Mr. Kadam later with an apologetic explanation of suddenly taking ill during lunch (the sloth of service possibly contributory to some minor food spoilage) and thus returning home. Hopeful to return tomorrow.
And he would then smash his left hand repeatedly in the door jamb, or go at it with a hammer, or a brick, or a twenty ounce can of cling peaches, or whatever else he could lay his hands on and basher this hand into utilitarian impotence.
Or perhaps a handsaw would provide a truly hand’s off approach to life. Hand drill, hand torch, hand cuff, hand grenade; the providence of possibilities was immense.
By the time Lowell reached the subway platform he had begun to grasp that he’d strayed a mite too far into the realm of irrational thinking. After all, if a child is unruly you don’t split open its skull and scoop the brain into the waste bin; you teach the child, train it to behave properly. Some punishment and disciplinary action may be necessary along the way, but surely far short of decapitation.
The crowd on the platform was average in number and Lowell moved nearer the front edge to be somewhat removed from others lest his paw be tempted to make even more of a dog of itself. As the lights announced the arrival of a train and people began shuffling forward, a disturbance born on the right side of the platform quickly blossomed into a commotion. A teenage boy was racing, dodging and weaving, through the crowd, trying to escape the clutches of a second slightly older man in close pursuit. Some people were being run into or pushed aside; others were jumping to get out the way. For a few seconds confusion reigned.
Just as the commotion motion approached Lowell it veered left toward the stairs but not before one man, trying to get out of the way, tripped over his own feet and stumbled backward, dislodging the mahogany cane of an elderly woman, totally oblivious of all but her swollen ankles, perched impatiently near the platform’s edge. Thrown off-balance by the sudden loss of support, the old woman pitched forward toward the tracks.
Instinctively, Lowell lunged, reaching out for the old woman’s left arm. His hand, his right hand, his free hand, gripped the arm tightly just above the elbow and held on. For dear life. As literally as that phrase can be construed.
My right hand will save this woman, Lowell thought, and I will be a hero. My right hand, my handsome and good and ever right hand will make amends and purge all the misdeeds inflicted by the left and all will be forgiven and forgotten.
All this flashed through Lowell’s mind in that first second’s passage of time.
In the next second Lowell realized that the woman’s momentum was still carrying her forward over the edge of the platform. She was not a small woman. Short, but rolling with fleshy abundance. In truth, she was apt to continue forward and take Lowell with her. Any hope of saving the woman would require immediate and drastic response. He must plant his feet, muster his strength, and jerk his right arm back violently in order to have any chance of reversing the woman’s downward trajectory.
Better still, if he could bring his other hand to bear, that pound of useless meat now dangling limp and disinterested at his side; if he could make use of that hand also, then both hands, working together, hand-in-hand, could likely channel enough power to pull this poor woman to safety. And maybe, just maybe, his left hand would learn a valuable lesson in the doing.
And perhaps change its ways.
On the other hand, Lowell thought, as he relaxed his grip and watched the old bag drop to the tracks just seconds before the arriving train.
***
**
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Author’s note: On his way home Lowell’s left hand downloaded and fingered through another short collection “Abbreviated Magic” as well as the novel “APRIL 33” both available on this site. Please find a copy of each for yourself and enjoy it. Consider it an act of community service, because if you don’t read them some other less deserving soul may be coerced to do so.
If you would like to contact me with comments, criticisms, or sublime suggestions… email me at
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