Travel Reference
In-Depth Information
smooth in profile, not stumpy or ugly. I have a thumb, a middle finger, and a ring finger,
and the overall shape is that of a talon.
When I look at pictures of myself, I think my hand makes me look slightly of balance.
Other people, though, tend not to see it at all, unless we have occasion to shake hands,
which I always do firmly, with conviction. (Is this meant as a macho statement? A sub-
conscious declaration: I'm as much a man as you are, even though I have only eight fin-
gers? Reasonable hypothesis.) Then their faces tend to register briefly that something is
amiss and they are seized by a conundrum of etiquette. Say something? Or just plunge
forward, maybe with a stammer or a blush?
Kids are better; they're curious, of course, and don't much bother with manners. So-
metimes they think I'm pulling an adult prank on them, as if I've got a couple of fin-
gers in my wallet that I'll screw back on in a minute or two. A few incidents—a hand-
ful?—have been especially memorable. Once at work a colleague introduced me to his
six-year-old son. We shook hands and the kid freaked.
“He's a monster!” the kid wailed, horrifying his father, who continued to apologize
for days afterward, until I got tired of trying to placate his guilt, and, really, we could
no longer be friends.
That was a while ago, and as an event it didn't mean much. I'm insecure about a lot
of things, but not my hand, though I had a therapist who thought otherwise and I admit
that in a lot of photos of me my right hand is in my pocket; I've just noticed that recently.
I attribute my general equanimity about it to a few childhood influences, among them a
grandmother who knitted me three-fingered gloves that would always be returned when
I lost them; and a junior high school friend who cheerfully nicknamed me Claw and ini-
tiated the practice of greeting me with a particular handshake, two fingers extended and
the ring finger and pinky folded against the palm, a ritual that, among my remaining ac-
quaintances from that time, persists to this day.
Anyway, a few years after the “monster” business, I was walking with a friend's
eight-year-old child—it was Sharon Joseph, Billy's daughter, actually—and I took her
hand as we crossed the street. On the other side, she didn't let go right away and instead
was doing some exploring, feeling around a bit. After a moment or two, she stopped on
the sidewalk—we were in a crowded neighborhood in Hermosa Beach, California—and
placed her hands theatrically on her hips. “Three fingers!” Sharon announced. “That's
extraordinary!” and repeated the phrase, or versions of it—maybe she'd just learned the
word—several times as we proceeded down the street. Heads swiveled. “That's just ex-
traordinary!” she declared. “Really extraordinary!”
It was funny. Her father and I grew hysterical. But the incident has stayed with me
because the idea of what is ordinary and, by extension, extraordinary is interesting to
