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Andy was a couch potato. His life consisted of eating, sleeping, and sitting in front of his 32-inch flat screen TV, one hand wrapped around a two liter bottle of soda, the other clutching the TV remote, right thumb punching the volume and channel buttons as if playing a video game. Evolution had taken eons to develop the opposable thumb, but not every brain connected to one evolved at the same pace. In actuality, potatoes had more going for them than Andy.

Andy’s routine continued like clockwork until one night, dressed in T-shirt and boxer shorts, swigging cola and switching back and forth between a game show, a reality show, CSI Miami, and a PBS pledge drive, his hand, and thumb, suddenly went stiff, stranding him at a low point in the pledge drive. At first he thought he was having a heart attack, but there was no chest pain so he assumed it must be that “carpool tunnel” thingy he’d heard about on the Today Show. But he’d never typed a word in his life, his on again, off again career confined to fast food preparation. It had to be something else, a mystery suitable for that crazy Dr. House guy.

So there he sat, slumped in a quandary, nervously swigging his soda, sweat beading on his forehead, blankly staring at his hand. And that’s when his frozen thumb slowly swiveled around 180 degrees, and yelled at him in a baritone voice.

“Your indecision is driving me crazy! Get up off that fat lard ass of yours and find a job or something!” it blurted out, tiny eyes and mouth suddenly forming from the thumb’s flesh toned finger print, like a crudely drawn, wrinkled puppet face.

“Huh?” replied Andy, sluggishly stunned.

“You heard me, dumb ass! I’ve had all I can take from you! It’s time you got a life!”

Andy just stared at his talking thumb, as if watching it on TV. Just another talking head like so many others on the tube. Then, he shook his hand as if trying get the circulation back into it, like after having slept on it all night.

“Quit that, you idiot,” shouted the thumb in a thunderous voice, “or I swear I’ll poke your eyes out!”

Andy quit shaking his hand, suddenly fearful of the thumb. Then holding his hand, still clutching the TV remote, up again close to his face, he timidly asked, “Are you the real Tom Thumb? I saw the movie once on...”

“Do I look like Russ Tamblyn! And he was a tiny man, not a thumb. God, how in hell did I ever end up as part of your dumb body?”

“Who’s Russ Tambolin?”

“He played Tom Thumb in the 1956...Oh, just forget it. Can’t you see what’s in front of that bulbous nose of yours? I’m your thumb! Plain and simple! And I don’t have a name!”

“You don’t have a name?” replied Andy, a bright idea forming. “I’ll give you a name, then. How about, Bob?”

“Jesus. You want to name me Bob. How original,” said the thumb sarcastically. “Why not Jack? Or Phil? Or something more regal, like, Sir Thumbalot!”

“Don’t be silly. Bob is perfect,” said Andy with determination. “You’re my thumb, so I get to name you.”

“Fine. I give up, you win. Hi, I’m Bob. Glad to meet. I’d shake your hand, but...”

Andy laughed out loud at the thumb’s words, cutting it off it in mid-speech. Then, relaxed and seemingly forgetting the total strangeness of the situation, he said, “You’re funny, like Ray Romano, or...”

“Look. Enough mindless chit chat. We need to have a serious talk before I lose it and go ballistic on you,” the thumb said, staring straight into Andy’s bloodshot eyes. “Now turn off that damn TV, put down the remote, and pay attention.”

“But I’ll miss my Tuesday night shows...”

“Just do it, damn it, or else!”

Andy complied, roughly poking the power off button with the back of his thumb - which grunted loudly - then tossed the TV remote onto the couch nearby. Still clutching the soda bottle in his other hand, he stared down at the thumb, which glared back up at him.

“I’d appreciate being on the same level, eye to eye with you, if you don’t mind,” said the thumb, impatiently. “Which is to say, raise me up higher.”

Andy did so and found himself staring into the thumb’s beady little eyes. He wasn’t afraid, or even that surprised anymore. He didn’t really know what he felt, other than a dull kind of wonder. A memory of a Star Wars spoof flashed through his mind, where thumb puppets replaced the real actors. If only he could remember the name of the film...

“Hello! Bob the thumb here! Anybody home in there?” yelled the thumb.

“Huh? Oh, sorry. Did you say something?” replied Andy, focusing again on the thumb.

“I’m just getting started, kid. Now listen up.”

Andy slouched a little deeper into the couch, and concentrated on his thumb.

“You’re torching your brain cells watching all the crap on TV. Ninety percent of it is mindless drivel, content of the lowest common denominator, the target audience slobs like you with nothing better to do all day than cultivate cellulite and clog their colons with fast food slop. If someone tossed a lit match in your stomach, it would probably light up like a stove fire at a greasy spoon. But I digress.”

“Pizza’s my favorite,” Andy cut in, mildly defensive.

“I’m sure it is, the meat eater’s special, no doubt. But that’s not the point. As a saying from the Sixties once put it, “your are what you eat,” which is in reference to your mind and not your stomach. What you read, watch on TV, movies you go to, conversations you have with others, classes you might take, all are what feed your mind and help develop your cognitive abilities. In the simplest terms, turn you either smart or dumb. Now in your case, embilicalled to your TV for so long, I’m guessing the latter.”

“Hey. I finished high school you know,” Andy replied, squirming around in his seat.

“Congratulations. That was twenty years ago, if I counted right on my, uh, fingers. All D’s & C’s I seem remember.”

“Well, I graduated at least.”

“That you did, to a life-long career as a couch potato.”

“Screw you!” blustered Andy.

“That’s your middle finger’s area of expertise. I’m more of a problem solver. Now, let’s continue on with our little talk, okay kid?”

“I guess. But you’re not very nice, you know.”

“No I’m not, but I’ll try and lighten up just for you. I mean, we are in this together, so it’s to my benefit as well as yours.”

“Thank you.” said Andy, somewhat appeased.

“Now don’t get me wrong. There is some intelligent programming on TV. PBS, Discovery Channel, History Channel, et cetera. And movies from time to time fall into that classic category which includes Citizen Kane, Duck Soup, 2001: A Space Odyssey. Even some of the sitcoms have good writing and interesting characters. But the rest is crap, pure and simple. Especially daytime TV, which would drive most intelligent people to suicide if trapped in a room with nothing else to divert them. I’m talking broadcast TV here, not cable, though the later can be just as bad, unless you’re into cooking shows or old sitcoms. Then there’s what passes for news...but don’t get me started, or we’ll never get out of here.”

“Out of here? We going someplace?” asked Andy.

“That’s the plan, but I’m not finished yet. Just relax and let your wise old thumb do the talkin’. I’m almost done.”

“Okay. But I need to go to the bathroom.”

“Just hold it!” yelled the thumb. “Now, where was I? Oh yes. So TV is rotting your brain, or what’s left of it. As I said ninety percent of it is crap, and the other ten percent is pretty much ignored by the majority of your coach potato cousins out there. It’s an electronic babysitter for lazy adults and kids alike. It’s the “opiate of the people” and a soapbox from which tyrants and swindlers can spread their message, and become more empowered. It once had great potential for worldwide, real time communication, for intelligent programming that would help usher in a permanent era of peace and understanding. Instead, it’s turned into a boom box of stupidity blaring from every living room, bar, airport terminal, and prison, pummeling the brain with mindless chatter and paranoid fantasies. I’d label it a device of the devil, but then televangelists take advantage of its pixilated pulpit. So I can’t put the blame of the old horny one. Speaking of horny, you ever question why there’s more violence on TV than sex? No, I suppose you haven’t, my being privy to your most intimate secrets and all.”

“I really have to pee,” whined Andy.

“Jesus! Alright!”

Andy slowly lifted himself off the couch, set down the soda bottle, and shuffled into the bathroom where after dropping his boxer shots, he plopped down onto the toilet seat.

“Thank god you pee like a girl,” said the thumb. “I’m surprised you haven’t installed a small TV set in here. You’ll miss Court TV or something.”

“I couldn’t afford another one,” replied Andy, pulling up his boxers and flushing the toilet, knocking the thumb against the porcelain tank.

“Ouch! Watch it you jerk!”

“Sorry,” Andy half apologized. Then, he shuffled back out to the couch, where sitting down he automatically reached for the TV remote.

“Don’t you dare!” yelled the thumb. “No more TV! I’m still talking, and then we got places to go, things to do.”

“Where are we going?”

“All in good time, kid. Now let me finish.”

“All right, but you’re making me sleepy.”

“I can poke you in the ribs or something to keep you going,” said the thumb, nodding towards Andy’s side.

“Okay, okay. Keep talking.” Andy replied, trying to look alert.

“That’s my boy. So, as I said, what had promise never in reality panned out. Oh, it has its moments, but add up all the mindless ones, the commercials, and politician sound bites around election time, and mathematically speaking, it’s a bust. Just think how many minutes, hours, days, months, years of your life you’ve spent planted in that sofa, eyes glued to the tube, the vacuum behind the glass symbolically creating another vacuum inside your brain, the world outside passing you by like a Macy’s Thanksgiving Day Parade passing by a zombie. For all intents and purposes, you’re dead to the world. A full time resident of TV land. And dare I say it once more, a couch potato. I’m so bored being attached to your chubby hand, trapped in your mindless little routine, that I almost wish you’d find a job as a gardener, and accidentally—or on purpose—sacrifice me to the blades of your mower! It would truly be a mercy.”

“I would never cut off my own thumb. Are you crazy or something?” said Andy. “Can’t you just ignore the TV, or just watch what interests you? I mean...”

“No you idiot! I can’t ignore anything! What with my constantly having to click the remote buttons! It’s damn exhausting. And that’s not what I’m trying to get through your thick skull anyway. It’s all about you getting a life. Us getting a life. Getting up off your fat duff, and cutting the umbilical cord between you and your TV. We need to get out of here and live a little. See the world. Have some adventures. Meet new and interesting people. Create our very own reality show, just the two of us. What do you say. You with me? I can’t do it by myself, you know. I need your help.”

“I don’t know. I’m pretty comfortable here as is. And I have a job interview at Burger King tomorrow. And I’d have to talk to my mom in Florida first. She’d be worried about me. She helps out with the rent, you know. And...”

“And! And! And!” yelled the thumb. “Don’t keep piling up ands, ifs, or buts on me. You’re either with me or you’re not! Come on, it will be fun!”

“Saturday morning cartoons used to be fun. Bugs Bunny, Roadrunner, you know. When I was a kid,” replied Andy, remembering his past. “Now, it’s all so tame and politically correct.”

“Exactly! Not to mention boring.” said the thumb, trying to cheer him on. “It’s time you got out of this rut you’re in. We’re in. Let’s get out of here, out into the sunlight and see the world. Come on, what’d say? Right now. You and me. Pack light, and out the door.”

“Well I guess I could give it a try. But it’s night time. Can’t we wait till morning? I don’t have a car, and the buses quit running pretty soon.”

“Doesn’t matter. We don’t need a car or bus. Get dressed. Throw some clothes and toiletries in your old high school backpack, and I’ll lead the way,” said the thumb with enthusiasm. “Come on kid. Let’s go!”

“Well, first I should call my mother.” Andy said, hesitating.

“It’s one a.m. in Florida. You’ll just scare her. We’ll call her from a phone booth tomorrow morning. Okay?”

“I guess.”

“No more delays. Let’s go get ready. I’m already packed,” joked the thumb.

Andy half laughed at its little joke, and draining the final drops from his soda bottle and tossing it on the floor, headed into his bedroom. He dressed slowly in his usual outfit: T-shirt, jeans, and old running shoes. Then he stuffed a change of clothes and a small valise with toiletries into his old, blue backpack which had seen him all the way through high school. It had been a boulder upon his back all those years, but now seemed light as a feather. Taking a jacket from his closet, he put it on, then strapped on the backpack. His thumb, silent through all his preparations, finally spoke.

“Alright. All packed and ready to go. Hope those are comfortable shoes.”

“They’re all I’ve got. What now?”

“Follow me my good man. We’re off to see the wizard. To seek great fortune.

To go where no thumb has gone before. Well, maybe not that far, you know, problems with space and time and all that,” said the thumb excitedly, leading Andy from his room, down the hall, and out the front door into the warm evening air. “Just follow your ol’ thumb, Andy my boy. Trust me. I know the way.” And with those words, the thumb spun around 180 degrees to its natural position, and seemed to tug Andy out into the night.

“I hope you know what your doing,” said Andy to the back of his thumb, apprehensively, glad that no one was around to here him doing so.

“I do. Just trust me. And follow my lead.”

After walking a few blocks, they turned down a street leading to a nearby truck stop, the lights from its 24 hour restaurant shinning brightly before them. As they got closer, one of the semis started up, it’s lights switching on, and the thumb spoke. “Quick now. Cross the street and wait for that truck to pull out.”

“What?” said Andy.

“You heard me. We’re not going to walk to Oz you know. Too far. Hurry up!”

Without thinking, Andy did as his thumb instructed, hurrying across the vacant street to stand on the sidewalk next to the truck stop’s entrance. A few seconds later, the semi ground into gear, and with a belching of diesel exhaust headed his way, its headlights bathing him in light.

“Here we go, kid,” yelled his thumb, suddenly yanking itself high above his head in classic hitchhiker form. And the truck stopped opposite Andy and his thumb, the passenger door swinging open, country western music wafting out into the night, the bearded driver smiling down at them.

“Where you headed son? I’m pullin’ an all nighter to San Diego.”

Andy looked at his thumb, which just seemed like a normal thumb again. The decision to go on was all his now. He hesitated for a minute, then said to the driver, “That’s where we’re—I mean, I’m going as well. Thanks.”

“Alrighty then. Hop in. Name’s Bob.”

As Andy snapped his seat belt, his thumb rocked back and forth, as if silently laughing at a private little joke, the dark night unfolding before them.

© Copyright 2009 G. O. Clark