Toe

Take it from me, you should think twice before you claim a body part is yours when you know damn well that it isn't.  About a month ago I lost a toe.  It wasn't a major toe, so it took a while to notice.  I was walking around the city in my flip-flops when I just happened to look down and saw that the toe next to the smallest 'little piggy' on my left foot was missing!  Well, you can just imagine my surprise. 

A million things rushed through my head.  First I thought, did I misplace it?  I could recollect I jiggled the lock on my door before I left, but did I remember to count my toes?  Perhaps my toe was stolen!  This is the city after all, and there are pick pockets everywhere.  Maybe my toe met with foul play?  The big toe had been acting very suspicious as of late.  Then I remembered the last time I had seen my toe. 

I had been dining at a small café known for its aromatic coffee and its turkey on rye sandwiches.  I requested to be seated outside in order to enjoy the day.  Since I had the table to myself, I thought no harm would come from kicking off my shoes and wiggling my toes in the fresh popping hot air.  I propped them on the seat facing mine and watched them waving toward the sun as if they were waves greeting a beach.  I recall now how unhappy they were when I paid the bill because it meant an end to their fun, but I had errands to finish and I needed them to aid my feet in walking.  Perhaps, I surmised, I was dealing with a runaway toe. 

With visions of milk cartons and computer images of what my toe may look like at fifty haunting me; I ran back to the restaurant to see if my toe had been found.  I was out of breath by the time I spoke to the hostess and asked her if someone had found a toe.  She saw I was flushed, so immediately looked in the lost and found (a box kept under her desk) and ignored the anxious customers who had been waiting to be seated.  Sensing their irritation, she ignored protocol, thus didn't ask me to describe my toe.  Instead, she handed me a toe in a paper napkin and winked at me before calling, "Johnson party of three."    

I rushed home to reattach my wayward toe.  I made a tall glass of lemonade and then settled into my favorite reading chair.  I selected some silk thread from my mending basket (something pretty but not too showy).  Then I unwrapped the napkin and got the second shock of the day - this toe wasn't mine! 

It was a toe that had to belong to someone a few shades darker than myself.  At some point, long ago I imagine, it had been painted fuchsia because I could still see specks of the color stubbornly sticking to the yellowing nail.  It must have been confined into an ill-fitting shoe because it seemed callused and bruised; a scar was clearly visible on one side (perhaps from a fight with a neighboring toe?).  A fuzz ball from a red nylon sock clung to the crevice between the nail and the skin.  The nail, where it should have been smooth, was jagged as if it had been torn in haste. The worst offense though was the smell, much like circus peanuts melted on an old-fashioned radiator with just a touch of rubbing alcohol thrown in for good measure.  There was no denying it; this toe had been abused!

I debated if I should return to the restaurant.  Then I thought if there had been two toes in lost and found surely the hostess would have asked me which toe was mine - even if it meant that the Johnson party of three would have to wait a minute longer to be seated.  It was only logical.  So I sewed the foster toe to my foot.

Please don't think me crass.  It wasn't as if I had given up hope reuniting with my birth toe.  I did everything in my power to find it.  I went to the police and filed a missing toe report.  I canvassed my neighborhood with flyers asking, "Have you seen my toe?  It is a much loved toe and answers to the name of...toe.  If found please contact 555-5555."  I even offered a cash reward, but to no avail. 

In regard to my adoptive toe, I believe it still harbors hopes its original owner will reclaim it.  Even though it was mistreated, in some way it must have felt attached.  There are days it rebels - you know how toes can be.   I think most of the time it is happy to be on my foot, after all; it now receives regular washing, rubbing and trimming.  And I have to admit the other toes have been accommodating.

I, on the other hand, have had to adjust to the fact that I can no longer wear flip-flops or any revealing shoes without questions from strangers.  People who weren't raised right always want to know why I seem to have a large toe sitting next to my little toe on my left foot.  As if I owe them and explanation!

"No," to your question, the one you are afraid to ask.  I wouldn't do it all over again if I could.  Already it has been hell buying shoes that are two sizes larger on the left than the right.  I have given my new toe a good foot, but I still dream of my biological toe.  The toe that waved to the sun and didn't garner comment when seen inside sandals.  Sadly, it may be hooking in Vegas for as much as I know.

The other day I was in an elevator with a man whose right ear didn't match his left.  I just knew his story was similar to mine.  "Did you claim your right ear in lost and found?" I asked politely in an attempt to bond.  He looked at me with a hurt expression as if the confidence that had been part of his very being that lovely morning was suddenly drained from him. 

I wanted to put him at ease so I whispered, "I can tell your ears don't match."  He bolted out of the elevator as soon as the door opened.  He obviously was too embarrassed to talk - the pain must still be too raw.  I am sure, like me, he dreams of his right ear...a type of ear that didn't shout from under a baseball cap, "Hey, look at me, I'M IMPOSSIBLY LARGE!"  So I ask of you dear reader, if you have a few spare moments today, please keep a sharp eye out of both a single toe and an unattached ear.  They are loved and sorely missed.