The Other Hand
By Mark D. Crantz
I write these columns. Send them in via Main Beach carrier pigeons. Indy places them. Then resounding silence. Every week, I write some jokes that crack me up. Then every week I worry, what if I’m the only one laughing? Clinically, I think that’s not a good thing. How is telling and laughing at your own jokes any different than the homeless guy talking aloud to himself? I’ll tell you. Not much. Only pushing the Ralph’s shopping cart full of stuff, makes the difference. So far, I’ve managed to leave my stuff at home and return the carts to Ralph’s. But this is little comfort, as I glance around for the little men in white coats. Whew, the coast is clear. So far.
Writers are a weird lot. They’re artists. Our canvas is the blank page. We sit alone staring at the blinking bar waiting for inspiration. Then we spew the alphabet. Make words out of them. String sentences together. Delete. Restring the words and sentences. Delete again. Stare at the blank page. Curse the blinking bar. That damn blinking bar taunting me…good idea…I’ll get a beer from the bar. A little lubricant, the nectar from the gods, just might due the trick.
Not. Nada. Nothing comes, but the burps. I take a deep breath and say to myself I can do this. On the one hand, I’ve done plenty of columns. Many good ones, even a few that have won awards. But on the other hand, this could be the time the tank runs dry. The anxiety creeps in. The other hand muses that I’ll be retelling the same tired jokes, or stealing the jokes from others. The other hand never tires to be super negative. It’s quite maddening. The other hand taunts me to click the AI button and write no more. The other hand whispers no one will know. Just claim the jokes as your own and only worry about running out of the nectar of the gods.
This other hand dominates the inner conversation, while the one hand quietly goes about the work of writing. I should just chop off the other hand. It’s weak and wreaking havoc. The other hand can’t write, golf, or produce even a decent pickleball backhand. Oops. I think I see the little men in the white coats coming. I say to myself, “So sorry other hand, I agree tragedy sells better. You’re right, if it bleeds it leads.” The men in white coats disappear into the marine layer fog.
I’ve convinced the other hand that he has cracked some finger joints and needs to be casted for a healthy recovery. Unbeknownst to him, the cast is sound proof and I can get about the business of positive writing. Plus the sound proofing works both ways. I can still consider chopping off the little bastard for good. If it worked for van Gogh, it could work for me. Just a different body part. I would never cut off my ear because I wear glasses. How the hell would I hold them up. And I don’t want to go the monocle route. The monocle makes me look like the Monopoly guy, who’s going to get pinched for holding counterfeit money sooner or later. So I don’t need the hassle of mistaken identity. Yes, chopping off the other hand is a consideration. And yes, the soundproofing works. I don’t see any little men in white coats.
I need a little bit of positive thinking. I look to the Indy articles for inspiration. I smile at the Pet of the Week. His name is George. Wait. There are two pets of the week. The other is named Gracie. George and Gracie. Ahhh, cute, named after the comedy team Burns and Allen. There were few better in dishing up punchlines. Let’s see how many clicks or eyeballs the dog comic duo garnered on the Indy website. George and Gracie received 260 clicks. Sounds like belly laughs to me. Let’s see how Pet Peeves measured up against the canines. Pet Peeves got 143 clicks.
I howl at the moon in helplessness. The one hand isn’t surprised. It’s an old wise hand that knows better. Any actor/artist knows not to work with kids or animals. You always get upstaged. It’s no big deal. I still got more clicks than Indy’s Street Beat, where it bleeds it leads. I’ll be sure to let the other hand know. I’ve decided to keep it, just so I can rub it in.
Crantz tells the Indy that he will continue laughing at his own jokes and hope you do too. Can I take your shopping cart back?
