Trigger Finger

My wife has a dark sense of humour. Maree says  that our neighbour Jack Ryerson had been alive for seventy-nine years before we moved in next-door but after six weeks of having us for neighbours he was dead.

Jack lived alone. His wife was long gone and son was interstate. I think he liked it that way or at least had become used to it. But our son Dylan took to him. Dylan was a self-composed kid, generally happy with his own company but he and Jack really hit it off.

The week before Jack died Dylan asked me whether he could get a job as a crocodile wrestler when he was grown up, maybe next year. I asked him why and he said that Jack had been one and that’s where he got his trigger finger. I looked at Dylan and explained that I thought crocodile wrestling was a little dangerous and anyway what is Jack’s trigger finger?

Dylan looked at me like I was stupid and said, “You know, his hand. It always look likes a gun.” Dylan extended his thumb and forefinger of his right hand and rolled the other three back making the outline of a pistol. I didn’t really know what he meant but played along.

The next day on the way to my car I saw Jack on his verandah sipping instant and shuffling the newspaper. I watched as he smoothed the pages and realised that Jack only had his thumb and forefinger on his right hand. I walked over and yelled hello.  He started and peered around the paper. He looked different from when we had first met. Something was draining away and I realised that Dylan might be tiring him.

 “Hey Jack, what happened to your hand? Dylan tells me you were a crocodile wrestler once but I’m not sure about that”

He smiled and took a sip from his dirty coffee mug.

“He passed that one on, did he? I also told him that I lost them trying to lasso a wild buffalo.”

He paused.

“Truth is years ago my brother and I were lighting fireworks. I was drunk, I think I was always drunk back then. Anyway I had the cracker in my left hand and the cigarette lighter in the right. I lit the wick then realised I wanted to throw it with my right hand, but I was so drunk I fumbled swapping the lighter and the cracker over and by the time I was ready to throw the bloody thing it exploded. Blew all three fingers clean off and my dog ate them.

 I haven’t had a drink since. People blame things like fireworks. Want to ban them but you know what? It isn’t fireworks; it’s our own stupidity that causes most of the problems in the world.

I would tell Dylan that but I don’t think he is quite old enough yet.  Make sure you do though.“

We miss Jack.

 Photo by Johannes W on Unsplash