Thumbnail sketches

Table to right: Man with blackened right thumbnail. A good old fashioned working class thumbnail, been through the wars, industrial accident, hammer gone astray when a pretty girl walked passed, or stamped on in a fight? Made of stern stuff though, no sign of pain, grips round the pint glass, tightly, possessively. Handles matches, loose change, scratching bum and numerous other activities unhesitatingly, fearless almost.

 

Beside him his mate’s thumbnails. Working class too, but clean, well-kept, like the rest of his hands. Neatly trimmed, like a girl’s, long and smooth, though bigger, more masculine. No rings on his thumb, but on every other finger. A thumbnail that has had attention lavished on it; the sort of thumbnail that women fall for.

 

Other mate: No thumb on right hand. A clean slice, well-executed. Not a vengeful lover, too professional, no that thumb was definitely a victim of the criminal fraternity it inhabited. Sliced off, nail and all, for cheating on a deal, perhaps popped into an envelope and delivered as a warning to another errant thumb owner. Thumb on left hand: heavily bitten, nervous. Thumb doesn’t touch the pint glass, not used in arse scratching, nose picking, fag cadging procedures, a thumb living in fear, wondering if it will be the next to go.

 

Barmaid: Serves me on autopilot, thumbs do their job unspectacularly; operate beer-pump, hold glass, handle fiver and count change. A working girl’s thumbnails, cut short, neatly but not over-care-fully, practical thumbnails. On nights off though; done up, varnished, thumbnails out on the town having fun. Perhaps even a pair of falsies, thumbnails dressing up for the weekend. The thumbnail is young, a full life ahead of it, lots of beerpumps to pull, lots of fivers to handle.

 

Beside me at the bar: the oldest thumbnails in town, knotted and gnarled with age, slightly shrunken, as if washed too many times, stained and chipped by life. Grips tightly on pint glass, clasping as if clutching last lifeline, not moving, as if enjoying letting beer evaporate. Thumbnail sits tight as watch ticks on wrist below, time passes as great speed, rushing by with a whoosh, but the thumbnail’s in no hurry. It’s seen it all before.

 

Table to left, a man. I can’t make out his thumbnails, too busy twirling his thumbs, tweaking beermats, generally moving around in a nervous manner. The man is saying something earnestly to the girl he is with, thumbs revolving anxiously as he speaks. She, though, half listening, half looking at her nails. Her thumbnail glistens; newly varnished bright pink. The best looking nails in the pub; real eye catchers. Trim, well looked after, but big, round, standing out flashy as a peacock, eye-catching, desirable. Wet still, but glistening, winning the attention of the girl as she checks they are just right, and of the man on the table beside me, not the man she is with, leaning over and admiring bright pink thumbnails with a winning smile. Too many thumbnails, too little time.

 

My own thumbnail: bitten to the core. She still hasn’t come. Curses. Boredom leaves me nothing to do but stare at my own thumb. I can seen the red underneath the white nail, the red of blood, clearly the nail of a living person. I have a reddish tint of nail, therefore I am, as Descartes would undoubtably have said had he lived in these image conscious less philosophical times. Clattered with little dents, moon holes, scratched, well used, the thumbnail equivalent of an V reg Metro.

 

Her thumbnail: Still not here, late. V reg Metro held up somewhere, thumb left tapping impatiently on steering wheel. Or, don’t even think of it, thumbnail not coming. Thumbnail running through hair of another man, affectionately scratching stubble, then moving down. Or, just forgot, a million and one things a thumbnail has to do.

 

I tap my glass with my thumbnail, just for the noise, just through boredom. Her thumbnail still not arrived. My thumbnail swivels, to help me look at watch. I wonder why I bother, but know of course. Thumbnails – you can’t live without them.