The Curse of the Itchy Finger - A Jack Jackson Story

Note: This is a story I wrote last spring that I just got around to revising. I hope you find it interesting, if nothing else. R.


On a cold September afternoon, Jack Jackson rumbled into town in his ’68 Dodge Dart. The wind blew cold off the mountain slopes to the south. Jack Jackson pumped fifteen dollars worth of fuel into the Dart and headed to Bill’s Market.

On the west side of the grocery store a row of parking spaces nestled in between the Old Highway overpass and the wall of the building. After Jack Jackson finished his business in town he headed there to meet some friends.

Rob Roberts was already there with his big black Chevy truck. Mark Chestnut blared from the truck stereo and a crowd assembled around the vehicles.

Jack Jackson backed the Dart back against the railroad-tie barrier one space away from Rob Robert’s truck. A dimpled girl with a lot of make-up made her way through the crowd to Jack Jackson as he climbed out of his car.

“Hi,” she said as she leaned against the scuffed and abused paint of the fender.

“Hi Rosa,” said Jack Jackson while Rob Roberts watched them intently. “What’s everyone doin’ tonight?”

“Rob Roberts wants to go up to Arrow Hill and build a bonfire.”

Jack Jackson shrugged and walked over to Rob Robert’s truck. Rosa walked very close to him.

“It’s about time you got here,” said Rob Roberts.

“I had stuff to do,” said Jack Jackson.

“Did you get the pallets?” asked Rob Roberts.

“I’m not haulin’ pallets in my Dart. Take your stupid Chevy out and get pallets yourself.”

“The paint’s still fresh. I’m not scratchin’ up my bed with pallets.”

“You’ve been saying that since senior year,” answered Jack Jackson.

“You guys are so funny,” said Rosa.

Jack Jackson and Rob Roberts both blushed and stammered barely coherent replies.

“We’ll need wood for tonight,” said Rob Roberts.

“Not if we cruise Kennedy Avenue. I want to do some racing.”

“Racing is so immature,” said Rob Roberts.

Rosa had an arm draped through both Jack Jackson and Rob Robert’s arms.

“Is your car fast?” she asked Jack Jackson.

“It has a 318 bored and blown,” Jack Jackson said reverently.

“Your mind is blown,” said Rob Roberts. “There’s not a blower on that thing.”

“There will be soon. I aim to get one.”

“You’ll have better luck kicking yourself in the butt than you will finding a blower for a 318.”

“They make them. And I’m going to get one,” said Jack Jackson.

“That’s lame. Why don’t you leave your blowing car here and ride with me up to Arrow Hill?” asked Rob Roberts.

“Last time I left my car here all night I had to have a new windshield sent clear from Illinois. It cost me a fortune.”

“You wouldn’t have that problem if you would just get a truck.”

“I like my Dart,” said Jack Jackson.

“I like your Dart too,” said Rosa. “I’ve never been racing before.”

“I guess that seals it then,” said Jack Jackson.

Rosa ran and climbed into the passenger seat. “Are you going to come?” Jack Jackson asked.

“No, I’m going to build a fire. And you will wish you were there.”

“I doubt that,” said Jack Jackson, looking back to see Rosa playing with his car stereo.

“You will.”

“Why would I?” demanded Jack Jackson.

“Because if you don’t come with me, I’ll curse you.”

“Curse me?”

“Yeah . . . I’ll give you the Curse of the Itchy Finger,” said Rob Roberts.

“That’s stupid,” said Jack Jackson.

“You’ll see.”

For a while Jack Jackson and Rosa cruised Kennedy Avenue. Of the dozen or more races he put the Dart through, Jack Jackson won against all but two – a black ’77 Ford short-wheel-base pick-up that was cammed so that it could hardly idle, and a Chevy Luv running NOS. Around eleven o’clock a cop started to tail him and Jack Jackson decided to ditch the strip.

A tall bluff ran from east to west on the north side of town. They drove up to a dead-end street where they could overlook the lights. Jack Jackson made his move and kissed Rosa. She kissed back and Jack Jackson reveled in the smell of her hair and her perfume and her synthetic-whale-fat based make up.

Just as they started to get a rhythm going Jack Jackson’s left pinky began to burn. Soon it went from burning to itching and Jack Jackson started rubbing it on his pant leg, hoping Rosa wouldn’t notice. It didn’t help, so Jack Jackson slipped his arm off her shoulders and slid it between them so that he could claw the offending digit.

“What are you doing?” Rosa demanded impatiently.

“It’s my finger. Rob Roberts cursed me,” Jack Jackson answered.

“What are you talking about?”

“He’s jealous that you are out with me tonight, so he gave me the Curse of the Itchy Finger,” said Jack Jackson.

For several minutes Rosa sat in the passenger seat of the Dart, her dark hair splayed out against the fogged-up window. “I want you to take me home.”

“Fine,” said Jack Jackson as he fired up the old Dodge.

The 318 roared as Jack Jackson raced to get Rosa to her house twenty miles outside of town. It seemed like a long time to both of them, but according to the stereo clock it took less than thirteen minutes. Jack Jackson pulled into her driveway, and she jumped out of the car before it stopped moving to sprint to her door. She flew through and shut it swiftly behind her.

Jack Jackson left and drove as close to Arrow Hill as the Dart would get him, and hitched a ride the rest of the way up. Rob Roberts had just ripped a tree out of the ground with his truck, and he and a bunch of others were standing around beating their chests and celebrating both his coolness and his Chevy’s prowess.

Jack Jackson walked right up to him, and Rob Roberts laughed when he saw him coming. “It was the Curse. Wasn’t it?” Rob Roberts roared, tears coming to his eyes.

Jack Jackson whipped the sword of his hand out at Rob Roberts’ throat. Rob Roberts grasped his neck while his breathe wheezed in and out. “I bet you don’t have any smart-allicked thing to say to me now that I’ve crushed your laranix.”

Larynx, thought Rob Roberts, Larynx, as he sank down onto the tree trunk.