Carl’s Hands

CARL, fidgety, wiry, 37 year-old mill worker dressed in a black and red-and-black plaid, deer camp jacket (a field coat colloquially known as a Kenora dinner jacket) and steel-toed work construction boots, a pair of Nipigon nylons tucked in his back pocket. To Carl, this is business casual. Throughout his monologue, Carl wears a “We’re #1” foam finger and adjusts himself with it as he relates the story of his ex-girlfriend’s dismay at his unusually small hands.


So my girlfriend, eh,
she broke up wif me last year.
We been goin’ out since grade 6.
Haven’t had a date since.
Don’t know why women won’t date me.
Gotta good job at the mill. (Seniority, too, eh.)
I ain’t missing no teeth or nuttin’ like that, and
it’s like I almost own my own house, SO AS I don’t see what the big deal

Maggie, that was my girlfriend
says I’m missing dat other stuff.
I says, Hey! I been readin’ . . . ain’t no such thing as a “G” spot.

She says “is to” but then says that she don’t mean that.

I says, well whaddya mean?

Then she goes all quiet-like in a way I ain’t never seen her before and
says something about me hands. I feels like smacking her, but I don’t
hit no ladies. Never! Plus, I says to her: I need these hands so as I kin
hold yer boobies. (Always give a lady a compliment when the opportunity
presents itself.) ‘Sides, Maggie always did go in for the odd
spankin’ and I been using both me hands to reach the way ‘cross her crack to
hit both them cheeks at once.

Ah, she was a feisty one that Maggie. In the sack I mean.

Not that she didn’t have me to work off of. I’se pretty darn good,
too. And I ain’t even one to toot me own horn. But, hey! When it comes
to horns, I got plenty of horn to go ’round.

You know what I’m sayin’.

So I gets t’ thinking’ ’bout all the things I kin offer a woman.
Besides, you know, the usual stuff.

And I makes a list of it all. Just like Oprah says.

I don’t watch her much, Oprah that is (but I do spy on Mag. Mostly she
don’t see me, but last Whens-day night I falls outta the tree and lands
smack on her ole dog, Jed. I spied her again at Jed’s funeral last

So, like I says, I sees her sometimes. Oprah, I mean. That don’t make
me no fairy. Mind you, my brother George is one of them homey-sexuals,
so it ain’t like I think sump’ems wrong with it, but even George don’t
watch no Oprah!

But I-I-I likes to watch the lady.

I sit in my shorts and watch her guests, xpecially them ladies
that Dr. Phil gets crying and eats me

They make me laugh, them ladies.

Harf the time I can’t figure out what them bags is bawling about. Maybe
it’s ’cause they ain’t got a man. Don’t know.

But I could get ’em smiling again, I tell ya. My sex-U-AL prowess is
legendary ’round here. So Mag told me. She said once that all the
girls ’round town whisper ’bout me.

Don’t I know it!

And I got lots to offer them girls. And I’d cheer up them Oprah ladies
in one helluva hurry, I tell ya. Heh, heh.

So like Dr. Phil says to them bawling cows: Make a list, he says. Make
a list of the reasons you’re so darn good, he says. So I makes me a
list . . . and I LIKES what I sees.

I keeps me list in my pocket, right down there, with me most valuable

That’s right. Right down there with wit-da family jewels.
Precious as all that, it is.

K. You wanna hear it? K. Here goes.

Here’s me Top 10 reasons I’m such a darn-good catch.

  1. I’m a good lookin’ man. (All vir-ile and stuff).
  2. Like I said before I got a nice set of choppers. No leftovers stuck between them neither.
  3. I got hair like that Fabio guy only mine’s better ’cause it waves behind me. Like a Canadian flag in the wind when I’m skating down centre ice.
  4. I gotsa good job. Make some good scratch . . . oops, them’s two things.
  5. This summer I’m getting my car on the road. Hardly no Bongo neither..
  6. I got the whole basement to myself, so as me and my special lady can have lotsa privacy from Ma, who’s hell on wheels if she comes home from Bingo and catches us all oingo-bongo on her couch. You know what I’m sayin’.

So that’s my Top 10.

‘Course I didn’t list you know, my thing.

That’s ’cause I’m a spectacle guy. I likes to keep it were it belongs,
you know, til it’s BUSINESS time.

Heh, heh. Then look out! I’m like a twenty-fer-are Mike’s Milk. Op’n
fer business!


And that Maggie, she sure is gonna miss me ‘n all.

And one thing I kin tell you, just as sure as Kakabeka Falls. Ain’t no
man’s hands a measure of his joystick.

Nope. No matter whatever Mag says. I knows diff’rent. And ain’t no
girl never told me I was too teeny in the weeny.

Then again . . . I does have . . . these . . . awfully small hands.

From the archives. March 2003. Written for HJ as a performance piece for an annual girls' weekend.