The Hand of Jesus

Jesus is a maintenance man at my work. Not the messiah, although that Jesus was a carpenter, and would undoubtedly prove skilled at managing the position, but regarding the common Spanish name Jesus (pronounced hey-soose). Jesus is a good guy, an amiable muchacho, but it would not be a stretch to say that he’s not all there. And I don’t mean in a having lost his mind sense (a distinction belonging to a former maintenance man who, in lieu of his assignments, smoked crack cocaine and drank liters of cheap vodka in his shop), but literally, in a having lost some body parts way – most notably, quite a few fingers.

When Jesus shakes my hand, several wiggling stumps burrow into my palm, never failing to give me the heebie-jeebies. My hand swallows the entirety of his, making it feel less like we’re shaking hands and more like I’m grabbing the paw of a golden retriever.

I often wonder what happened to those digits. He’s a maintenance man, so the tendency is to assume some mishap involving an electric saw. Oddly, the fingers have been edited at uneven lengths, suggesting that each one was lost in a separate accident. It’s this theory that causes me to chuckle.

Now, there’s nothing overtly comical about a man who’s lacking fingers, but you have to wonder about someone who keeps losing them. One by one, his fingers disappear. You can understand losing one finger, but after that you would think he’d be a little more careful.

I imagine Jesus, standing over a crimson-dappled table saw, exclaiming, “Oh, for the love of Pedro… I have lopped off another one!”

And then some time passes, and before you know it Jesus is pruning, not paying close attention, and promptly laments, “Dios mio! My third finger in as many weeks! Only two left on this hand…”

By the time he lost his forth finger, the whole ordeal must have seemed old hat for him. I picture Jesus, more exasperated than anything, grumbling, “Oh, great. Just great… another one. Get out of the damn way, fingers! Damn it!” while slamming his hand – or what was left of it – onto the blood-splattered tool bench.

Jesus walks with a bit of a limp, so it is not inconceivable to assume he’s rid himself of a few toes, as well. I guess once you’ve gone through all your fingers, your toes would be the next logical place to start. A protruding nail here, a black widow spider there… an overaggressive sewer rat. You would have had a hard time playing ‘This little piggy’ with Jesus. …this little piggy had none, and this little piggy went wee, wee, wee, all the way into the meat grinder.

Or maybe I have it all wrong. Maybe Jesus got in too deep with a cartel, amassed a debt he couldn’t pay off. He doesn’t seem like the type, but do you ever really know? This hypothesis would explain why none of his missing phalanges were able to be reattached, being that they became sobering, gruesome warnings mailed to other defaulted debtors. Or maybe he had gangrene, or frostbite, or reached out in the misguided attempt to pet a snapping turtle. There is Jesus, howling in pain with a giant turtle locked onto his hand while his family stands around shaking their heads and exchanging bemused, knowing glances. That Jesus! He’s at it again! He is one pathetic hombre, isn’t he… Maybe the answer is all of the above.

Carolina suggested that he might have been born this way, which, though plausible, is not a presumption that I particularly care for. While sparing Jesus considerable pain and embarrassment, hers is a possibility that rules out intrigue. I want to envision the time Jesus went eeling and got a little too adventurous or the party at which he had one too many Coronas and wagered somebody that a blender couldn’t cut through bone – what a terrible bet that would be to lose. There’s no cachet in someone simply entering the world without fingers; it’s much more exciting for that person to have had – and subsequently lost – them in a tragic accident(s).

Whatever the explanation, imagine the consequences of losing your fingers when you’re a handyman. While no one will ever confuse me with somebody at one with manual labor, my thinking is that you needed – for starters – a functional hand for this type of work. Is says so right there in the word: how handy can you be when your mitt consists of a palm with several nubs?

I was reminded of my old barber, a pleasant, soft-spoken Pakistani man named Bob. One winter years ago, Bob abruptly disappeared from the barbershop. Questions naturally arose, and the other barbers were forced to relate the grisly tale that accounted for his absence. Apparently, after a heavy snowfall one day, his snow blower had become jammed, and, well, Bob went about his problem the wrong way. While he eventually returned to duty, his haircuts were never quite the same.

But, despite their limitations, both Bob and Jesus persevered tirelessly in their lines of work without complaint. You had to hand to them.