The Red Itch

Let me tell you about what happened to me last night. It was rather curious, what happened to me I mean, but do not think ill of me when I tell it. I am not a bad person, but I do get this horrible itch in my hands and I have never been a man of patience.

 I suppose I should go back to the beginning. Yes, it was yesterday, in the afternoon it must have been, when I get a phone call from my friend Allan, my best friend to be true.

 Allan is a respectable man, definitely neat, always with well-combed hair and clean hands, very clean. He does not slurp when he drinks beer and he never speaks too loudly, or slaps you on the back, or tells bawdy jokes, as many men have a habit of doing. No, he is tolerable, indeed tolerable.

But anyway, I am speaking with Allan on the phone and after the usual courtesies he finally gets to the purpose of his call. He wanted to know whether I would care to join him for a beer in this little bar he so enjoys. I must admit that the proposal makes me rather anxious, not Allan, naturally, because he is neat and definitely tolerable, but bars are filled with rude types with greased hair and wrinkled shirts and dirty hands in peanut bowls who laugh loudly and slap each other on the backs till the beer comes spurting out their noses. The very thought is enough to make my hands itch quite terribly, but I end up accepting all the same as I have no other plans and declining would be very impolite, and I am nothing if not polite, but I must admit that I am quite anxious.

It is not that I am not sociable, definitely not; it is only this horrible itch. At home it is not too bad, here I have order, and if there is something I appreciate it is order, but more often than not, when I go out, the itch is so terrible that it near drives me insane. Then my hands become flaming red with white blisters, burning and stinging and itching till it is all I can think about and all I want to do is scratch till my skin is raw.

Naturally, I have sought medical help in order to ease my itch. My doctor, who insists that I “just call him John”, says that there are no crèmes or salves for my condition. I must be patient, he says, but patience has never been my strongest suit, that I do not claim. He says that I am to ignore my itch; that I should just take a deep breath, count to ten, think about something else and not scratch, for God’s sake not scratch.

But as it happens my doctor is a man wearing leather sandals, also in the winter, and loose shirts with the first few buttons open exposing his dark thick chest hair. Naturally, I cannot trust in everything he says, and sometimes it is just so hard not to scratch.

But to return to the story, I am standing outside the bar where I am to meet Allan, in good time, naturally. Already when I step inside and am greeted by a mixed scent of hair grease, sweat and bawdy laughter I feel a slight itch so very teasingly in my hands and, I must say, it makes me very anxious.

Allan is waiting for me at the counter. His hair is combed flat to one side and his hands are folded neatly in his lap with no intention of reaching for a peanut bowl. Very neat.

We exchange the common courtesies and order each a beer. Allan takes a careful sip, no slurping, and I do the same. I feel the slight itch in my hands, but nothing I cannot handle. It is tolerable, definitely tolerable. I can handle at least a couple of hours.

We sit for a while and converse in all casualness when we are suddenly interrupted:

“Allan? Allan, my friend, good to see you! How funny I should meet you here!”

The man whom the voice belongs to is wearing a wrinkly shirt with the top buttons open revealing a chest full of dark hairs while the hair on his head is combed back with a large amount of hair grease. Despite his small stature his voice is deep and used with a volume that makes people turn in their seats making disapproving looks, a fact which the self-satisfied smile on his face reveals his own painful ignorance of.  

 The mere sight of him is enough to give my hands a flaming, almost insufferable itch which is not improved by the fact that he, simultaneously with too firm a handshake, slaps me forcefully on the back after Allan has introduced us.

I become anxious, most anxious, for I have never been a patient man, and the only thing I want to do is scratch and scratch to make the itching go away.

His presence is near unendurable and I become so desperate that I seek refuge in “just John’s” advice, but deep breaths have no effect. All I can think about is my poor hands and how I just want to scratch, scratch, scratch.

The man speaks to Allan about something which I in my state of pain cannot comprehend, but he laughs bawdily, beer spurting from his nose, as he reaches greedily for the nearest peanut bowl. I notice that he has dirt under his fingernails. My hands are tingling with the red itch and the urge is near irresistible. I just want to scratch, scratch, scratch.

I try to politely excuse myself from the company by mentioning that I feel unwell and better go home for the evening, but my nightmare will seemingly not take an end. The man asks me in what direction I am headed and when I tell him he exclaims delightedly that he is headed in the same direction and insists that he accompanies me.

At this time, you must understand, my patience is near at its end, but this man is so importunate that it is impossible for me to refuse.

As we walk down the street I make my best effort to ignore his much too loud, bawdy laughter, the rude jokes, which are continuously followed by a firm slap on the back, and the sweaty chest hairs that seem unable to escape my glance.

My poor hands: itching, stinging, burning. I am losing my head and at last I must give in. I just have to scratch, scratch, scratch.

My head is throbbing. I cannot see. I am in blind ecstasy of finally being able to relieve my urge. I do not stop. I scratch and scratch and nothing has ever felt so satisfying. I scratch for all the times I have retained myself, for all the times I have been patient. You must understand that patience has never been my strongest suit.  

When I am once again conscious of my surroundings I sit for a while breathing deeply in the total bliss of relief. Yes, I am sitting, but I do not recall having sat down.

The ecstasy is wearing off and silence presses against my ears as my heart rate slows down. First now I realise that I am alone, to be honest, I had not even given my companion a thought. But now, yes, it is indeed curious, I hear a whimpering sound a short way from where I am sitting.

A man is lying on the ground, yes; it certainly is him, his face all beaten and bloody.

I cannot comprehend what has happened, how it has happened. I look around; I am all alone.

Whoever the assailants might have been they must have fled the scene.

I become anxious, very anxious.

I am not a man of violence, I have never been, but had I not been so consumed by my terrible itch I might have been of some help during the assault, but sometimes it is just so hard not to scratch.

I squat down next to him. Naturally, I have to try and help the poor man.

The whimpering has stopped. I try to shake him back to consciousness, feel for a pulse, anything.

I do not know what to do. I must admit that I am frightfully anxious. I look down at my hands, it is very curious indeed, but I notice that my hands are all red and it is not because of the red itch.