Hammer, Nails and Toes
by Niko Krommydas

I watched with concern as the old man followed the dotted line around my ankle.
    The crooked teeth of his saw felt constant and slow as it shaved across the bone, but also tolerable, nothing like I had imagined a cut of this depth to be. In fact, the consistency of his sawing, both left to right and down through the ankle, sounded almost symphonic, and served as a pleasant distraction. I pictured the old man as a conductor, gracefully waving his hands over an orchestra pit, making hot water music.
    That is, until my ankle dropped into the laundry basket below.
    Thud.
    "What do you think?" the old man asked, bent over and noticeably fatigued.
    I examined my leg, which now ended abruptly at the shin, and peered into the dirt-colored wicker basket. The limb lay cushioned in a pile of unwashed shirts.
    I no longer heard the orgasmic symphony sliding in and out of my ears. No longer saw a conductor, confident and conquering, above an orchestra pit. Only a tired frump now hovered over my leg, beads of sweat trapped and collecting on his sunken face, his aged skin melting on the cracked tile below.
    "To be honest," I replied, "It's horrible."
    The old man looked away and slouched even lower. I continued.
    "You barely followed the line around my ankle and your hands were trembling toward the end of the cut," I told him. "The overall execution just wasn't what I'm looking for. Sorry."
    "I swear I can do better when it's for real," the old man pleaded. "I promise, didn't your mother tell you . . .”
    I cut him off.
    "Yes, I know you were immediately hired after Mother's tryout when this house was built, but that was some time ago."
    "Forty years," the old man whimpered on hands and knees. "I remember when your mother first saw her ankle . . ."
    I cut him off again.
    "Regardless, I need a reliable craftsman for my first home, and I just don't think you have it in you anymore. Take care."
    By this time, the old man resembled a fish that had been hooked, reeled and flung atop a dock: he lay flopping, gasping for air beneath the table where the tryout had occurred. Defeated, he peeled his sagging body from the cracked tile and left the house.
    Mother hopped in shortly after.
    "How did you like him?" she asked. "He did an amazing job on my ankle forty years ago. And the house is still standing, too."
    "Too old," I said, trimming the jagged edges from the stump. "Glad I had him tryout first."

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