Judy Finger
- May 4, 2018
- 3 min read
by C. Cimmone
Sometimes when the waters rose too high and the intercoastal was too dangerous to pass, our bus would turn around right in front of the drawbridge and Judy Finger would wave her gross knuckles to those of us who were less than fortunate. Her claymation face was distraught but relieved and I assumed she would retire to her rickety beach house and play with her vagina well into the morning.
Judy Finger kept no secret that she had a vagina. She was not embarrassed of its smell or tackiness; she was not concerned with a tampon scrimmage to the bathroom — the tampons and bulky pads sat on the edges of her open, crochet purse as if announcing the typically mysterious menstruation we all avoided, “ON THE RAG! ON THE RAG! RAGG!” I cringed at her paper products and envisioned the tampon handing Fat Pad a cigarette right in the middle of Mrs. Maynard’s homework assignment rundown.
Judy’s hair was more wild than mine and her bangs were uneven and cut too short. She kept no hairspray or gel in her reach and when the AC came on, her light brown strands drifted toward the ceiling in a poor attempt to escape her ill fame. Her mouth was always crinkled and drawn up to her nose, as if in thought; and her eyes were too big and far away. Judy Finger accepted her decayed popularity well, making no attempts to rebrand herself each returning school year; however, when the blows came too hard and too many, she lashed out with spitting stutters and lisps and her ticks took over her bent, bony body.
With more defenses, came more attacks, and Judy Finger always ended up stomping out of the room, to the bathroom, to play with her vagina behind a closed, handicapped stall door. I, too, exercised genital therapy, and I never judged Judy for anything besides her low test scores. I wanted to ask Judy about Mr. Vagina and what he brought to the table, but any association with the ugly Judy Finger would highlight my own frizzy hair and single pocketed men’s t-shirts — color varying day-to-day, respectively. We all speculated about Judy’s real age and it had been rumored that she had failed the first grade three times.
“How do you fail the FIRST grade? What are you a fucking retard?” Bobby Landing lashed.
Judy’s mouth quivered and her neck jerked left and back and left and right. Her mumbles were short and her eyes jerked back and forth, searching the floor for a comeback.
“Hey! I’m talking to you, you fucking weird retard! Can you even hear me through your stupid fucking poncho? What are you playing with your pussy under that fucking thing?” Bobby snarled.
I had been known to slip a digit into my undercarriage from time to time to check for drops of unexpected period, but Judy was more brazen and obvious with her slips. Her slips were longer and her caressing smile that capped her waving elbow always made me feel better about my Y and what I did first thing in the morning, after Full House and at bedtime. Judy Finger was my vaginal vigilante; and with her absence, Bobby Landing shifted his attention from the rising intercoastal waters to my own tacky fingernails.
C. Cimmone is an author and comic specializing in blue and observational comedy, short fiction, and narrative nonfiction. Cimmone serves as the nonfiction editor for Forth Magazine, contributing author for Arouse Magazine, and editor-at-large for Trampset. She also is a contributing journalist for The Austinot and has served as a volunteer reader for The Literary Nest literary magazine. Her prose has been featured in The Fiction Pool, The Penmen Review, GNU Journal, Embodied Effigies, and Belle Reve Literary Journal. Her creative non-fiction piece “Chip” was recognized as the Judge’s Choice in Heart and Mind Zine literary magazine in 2016. Print publications showcasing her narrative nonfiction include Crux Magazine, 2015 Story Shelter Anthology, and Jokes Review inaugural issue. Cimmone’s chapbook When I Was Alive was released via Underground Voices and is available on both Amazon and Barnes & Noble.
