The Finger

The Finger

The phone rang again.

“Piper Jaffray, Eric Omar’s office,” Jane answered hurriedly. If only it would stop ringing for minute!

“What’s going on with Mr. Omar today?” the operator asked. “The switchboard has been jammed with calls for him. Isn’t he taking them? He didn’t leave any message about going out.”

“I don’t know why, but he isn’t picking up, If the phone will just stop ringing for a minute, I’ll check. It isn’t like him,” Jane said. She had been his secretary ever since he came to the firm, and she thought she knew him pretty well.

Eric was an amazing man; he’d proved that in the three years he’d been with Piper Jaffrey. He had quickly gained the reputation of being “the man you want to handle your accounts.” One trade journal had called him “The Prophet of Wall Street.” He had an uncanny sense of knowing what to buy and when, and when to sell. So accurate were his forecasts that his competitors were sure he had inside knowledge, but no one had ever found a single fact to taint his reputation. He was simply brilliant.

“He was, well, kind of moody, when he came in this morning,” Jane said. “He closed his door and said he didn’t want to be disturbed. I asked him if he wanted his calls held—which he never does—but he didn’t answer me. I started telling people he’s in a meeting, but they’re used to getting his personal attention and they’re upset. That last call--the woman was almost hysterical. And the man before that was really angry, but I haven’t had time to do anything but answer the phone.”

“Well, call me back when you find out what he wants us to do. “

Jane tapped on the door to Eric’s office. No answer. She opened it slightly and called his name. Still no answer.
Alarmed, she rushed into the darkened room. Eric lay on the couch, staring blankly.

“What is it? What’s wrong?” she cried. “People are calling, and I don’t know what to tell them.”

“I’ve lost it,” he said, his voice filled with despair.

“You’ve lost what?” Jane asked.

“My finger.”

“Oh, my gosh! You’ve cut off your finger? How? With the paper cutter?” She fumbled for his hands, realizing at the same time that the paper cutter was in the outer office.

“My finger is gone!” he wailed.

“There’s nothing wrong with your hands. I’d better get some help.” Jane was thinking fast. Who should she call, security? The company shrink?

“You don’t understand,” he said. “It’s been my source. All my good ideas came from it. It has moved on.”

“I’ll get someone to help you,” she promised and ran out of the office.

Mark lay there, still talking, unaware of her absence. “’The moving finger writes, and having writ, moves on.…’ I should have known it would eventually.”