I've always had bad hands. Like bad dogs. Or bad children, teens who open fire in their high school homerooms. My hands turn against me. Summer, winter, it just doesn't matter. They crack and bleed. Sometimes I seem aloof or germ-phobic because I don't shake hands. The reason is that I don't want to leave behind a trail of blood on the palm of a stranger's hand.
I am a heavy user of moisturizer. I'm a lotion addict. I've tried them all. My bathroom is filled with enough lotion to soften even the narcotized face of Laura Bush. But, alas, not my own digits. Then, as if directed by the very claw of God, the manager at the fine Jo Malone store in Manhattan's Flatiron Building sent me a gift: grapefruit-and-coriander body cream. This person had no inside knowledge of my lotion needs, which is what makes the story so remarkable. It was just a thoughtful person, reaching out. The lotion was amazing, its texture unlike any other. It began to heal my ghoulish hands, so I could grab things without leaving behind DNA evidence.
But I needed a runner-up. Something I could carry with me. Between nightly slatherings. I found myself stalking upscale department stores like Saks, lurking around the makeup counter. I hate shopping offline and wanted to be left alone, not harassed by heavily moisturized and even-toned women with long nails. "Could I interest you in a Calvin Klein body wash?" they asked. I wanted to reply, "Only if you let me jerk off in your hair," but remained mute. I inspected lotion after lotion. Most were too milky, created for the light moisture needs of privileged older women who don't use their hands. Many of the lotions had terrible odors--floral and weepy. They smelled of divorce and cash settlements. And then I visited the faux-medical Clinique counter where I found their Stop Signs Hand Repair. It was rich but not at all oily. My thirsty, bleeding, festering fingers absorbed the cream, and I bought a tube. After a week I had become addicted to the lotion and was finished with my only supply.
Then in Brisbane at the airport duty-free, I saw the Clinique lotion and bought numerous tubes. I felt like a heroin addict, cramming the boxes into my carry-on, crushing them so I could fit more, more, more. A few hours later, en route back to the States, I was handed a form for U.S. customs from the lovely flight attendant. I declared $200, slipped the paper into my book and forgot about it.
Much later I found myself in L.A., handing the form to a meaty customs agent. He looked at my form and said, "What did you buy?" I said, "Nothing." And I shrugged. He said, "It says here $200." Upon remembering, I said, "Oh, well. Hand cream."
He glared at me and sneered. "First you say nothing. Now you say hand cream? $200 in hand cream? Gimme a break."
I was being treated like a gay terrorist, and the man was ugly, and I hated him. I said, "Yes. Hand cream. You want to see it? Here, I'll show you." I unbuckled my carry-on. He spit, "No, I don't want to see it."
It was deeply humiliating. I wanted to poke his eyes out with sticks. Instead I did the next best thing. I assaulted his eyes with the bleeding sticks of my fingers. "Yeah, $200 in lotion." I held up both hands, fingers open like I was about to cup his head in my hands. I wiggled them.
On
his face was the clear shock of revulsion. "Go," he said, waving me through. But
I didn't. I lingered just a moment longer. I looked directly in his eyes, and I
mentally added him to my I Hope You Get Prostate Cancer List. And then
I left.
Augusten Burroughs is the author of Magical Thinking: True Stories (St. Martin's Press) and Running with Scissors: A Memoir (Picador).
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