Deep South v.3 n.1 Autumn 1997
I once knew a guy who had no nerves in his arm.
No, that's not correct - or precise enough.
I knew a guy once who had no feeling in his left arm because of a nervous disorder.
No, that's not quite it either. "Nervous disorder" has a connotation I don't care to, well, connote.
Allie Hoaglin had no feeling in his left arm. When he was very young he was hurt in a car accident and afterwards had no feeling in his left arm. To be more precise, his arm was almost severed from his body, and when the doctors reattached it, they didn't match the nerves exactly, and Allie couldn't feel anything. Pain, pressure, heat, cold. Ever again.
When I knew him, Allie was tall and wide and just smart enough to be indignant at the name his parents had chosen for him. His father named him after Allie Reynolds, a famous baseball player.
Allie himself couldn't play baseball. He couldn't trust himself to catch the ball.
He had no feeling in his left arm.
Instead, Allie took up carving. He was a true artist in his chosen medium: his left arm. It bore the scars of days spent at the back of a classroom idly carving shapes, pictures, a tree, a girl.
I couldn't watch. I knew that he had no feeling in his left arm, but still the sight of blood made me a little queasy, and the thought of the pocket knife slicing the unsuspecting flesh, tearing skin and muscle without even alerting them to the danger, was just more than I could bear.
That's not completely true.
All right, I once watched outside the cafeteria as he carved Dana Lynn Taff's initials into his arm, as she looked on with rapture, as we other boys stared on in disgusted jealousy. I had once maintained that I would carve Dana Lynn Taff's initials into my forehead if she would only recognize my deep and abiding love for her, but fortunately I was never put to the test; regardless of popular opinion, I do have feeling in my head.
Dana Lynn Taff was dark-haired, dark-eyed, nicely-shaped. Like any woman, she went where she thought she was wanted the most, and she must have realised that she would be hard-pressed to gain a more convincing sign of devotion.
I admit, Allie was a master with the knife. He carved her initials on the inside of his bulbous forearm, the scarlet seeping down into his left hand, which he cupped so that it held a tiny pool of blood. He captured her initials with a heart, almost perfectly shaped, and when he had completed his work he presented it for her approval.
She asked, "Doesn't that hurt?" and Allie Hoaglin, a man of no words, nodded solemnly and firmly.
I stepped forward, determined to tell her the truth.
At least, I had good intentions.
I would have stepped forward. Really, I would have. But just then, Allie Hoaglin looked at me - just looked at me, and smiled, and slowly poured his handful of blood onto the ground.
"Allie Hoaglin has no feeling in his left arm." Ted Loveless was speaking, not me. My lips were moving, but nothing seemed to be coming out.
Dana Lynn Taff looked at Ted and blinked, twice. She looked at Allie and his arm. For the longest time, she looked at Allie. Then, without a word, she turned and walked away.
Ted followed her.
Allie remained where he was. He smeared the blood oozing from his most recent masterpiece across Dana Lynn Taff's initials. The crowd dispersed. Life returned to normal.
If such a thing is possible.
I was one of a dozen boys who tried to carve Dana Lynn Taff's initials into my arm in the following week.
I completed the "D" almost, but the sharp pain stopped me. It was too bad; I had envisioned the scene as I lay in my bed late at night: how I would carve not just her initials but her full Christian name onto my arm and extending out across my chest; how she would drop to her knees in front of me in mute wonder at a love that could spawn such devotion; how she would reward me for the loss of my vital fluids.
We all failed. We had feeling in our left arms.
Still, the scene recurred nightly, and only the method I might use to attract her attention changed--after carving proved impractical, I decided to partially shave my head and spell out her initials with the remaining tufts of my hair.
While I planned, Allie Hoaglin took swift and dutiful revenge for his loss. When he managed to get Ted Loveless alone in the parking lot, he hit him, again and again, until Ted's lip was split and nose was mush and teeth were shattered, and he kept punching, punching, twice missing Ted and denting the car he was pinned against, once putting his fist entirely through the driver's side window with the amplified crack of eggs breaking, and still he kept punching, punching, until his left hand was only a twitching red muscle and the principal and three male teachers managed to pull him off Ted Loveless.
And, of course, Allie wasn't in the least bit of pain, although they took him to the hospital for x-rays.
He had no feeling in his left arm.
They kept him in the hospital for three days. To pass the time, Allie took to carving hearts and clovers and moons on his forearm, modelling them after the tiny colored marshmallows in Lucky Charms cereal.
By the time his suspension was up and Allie went back to school, Dana Lynn Taff had taken up with Freddie Delarosa. Allie seemed to take the news well. He went back to his carving.
We found him in a bathroom stall, white and drawn. On his arm, Dana Lynn Taff's initials were gone, gouged out as a peeler gouges out the eye of a potato.
Allie Hoaglin did not know he was bleeding to death. He did not even know he was in pain.
Did he? After all
Allie Hoaglin had no feeling in his left arm.
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