A Toe For Jesus

a Casper Barnett Story by

John Weagly

“I want to hire you to find my toe.”

Candace Howard propped her right foot on my desk. She was wearing tan platform open-toed sandals. I had a clear view of the wrinkled scar where her pinkie toe no longer resided.

“It’s clearly not where it’s supposed to be,” I said.

She put her foot back on the floor. “I went through a wild phase while I was going to Loyola. I dated this guy, Duke Calhoun. One night we did cocaine and he said he wanted a piece of me. I said I’d give him my heart. He said he wanted something less ethereal. Long story short, I let him cut off my toe.”

“Kinky.”

“Since then, I’ve returned to the church. Some religions say you can’t get into Heaven if you’re not whole. I don’t know if I believe that, but I’d rather not take any chances. When I’m buried, I want that toe with me.”

I told her my fee and she said okay. I didn’t share her beliefs, but I figured I could look into things.

This wasn’t a pound-the-pavement, talk to witnesses type of case. After checking Facebook I found out Duke still lived in Chicago and after checking LinkedIn I found out he tended bar at a place called Hopleaf. That evening, I went there and had a sausage plate with a bottle of Belgian beer, keeping my eye on the toe-snatcher.

After his shift, I followed Duke home. As he unlocked his half of a two-flat, I shouldered my way in.

“Whatever you want, take it,” he said, fear clouding his eyes and tension straining his voice.

“I just want the toe.”

“The…”

“Candace Howard?”

“Oh, that.” He looked embarrassed. “I threw that thing away long ago,” he said. “It got moldy, turned black – it was disgusting.”

I shook my head. “A lady gives you a piece of herself, and you toss it?”

I punched him in the stomach for disrespecting Candace’s sacrifice and left. When I got back to my car, I had an idea. I called a friend that was always up for making a few bucks.

“You still work at that hospital?”

“Thorek Memorial, yeah.”

“I need something,” I said.

When Candace came back to my office the next day, I had a small toe in a Ziplock bag sitting on my desk.

“You found it?” she asked.

I picked it up, trying to keep the disgust off my face, and handed it to her. “Be more careful who you give yourself to.”

“Now I only give myself to the Lord.”

I smiled at her. “Sure.”

She paid me and went on her way. I figured she wouldn’t look too closely at the amputated treasure I’d found for her.

As far as I’m concerned, when you’re done you’re done – there’s no hereafter, sweet or otherwise.

But that didn’t mean I couldn’t make a little cash giving someone peace of mind. Isn’t that what religion is all about?

Bio:

John Weagly’s work has been called “exuberant” – Chicago Tribune, “charming” – Chicago Reader and “appealingly quirky” – Chicago Sun-Times. Locus Magazine once compared his short fiction to the works of Ray Bradbury and Nina Kiriki Hoffman and called him “a new writer worth reading and following.” As a playwright, over one hundred of his plays have received productions by theaters on four continents. A collection of his short sci-fi/fantasy scripts, Tiny Flights of Fantasy, has been taught at Columbia College. You can find more of his short stories in the collections The Undertow of Small Town Dreams and Dancing in the Knee-Deep Midnight.