* * *

Charles de Gaulle had weird, wicked parents, who named him that for the sheer fun of it. Their name had been originally been Friedrichs but as soon as Glorina found out she was pregnant, the two had gone to city hall to petition for new names. King de Gaulle and Queen de Gaulle, and their son Charles.

Chuck grew up with his parents, so he should have found their oddness commonplace but he didn't; maybe there was too much real world for him to totally absorb his parents mania. He grew up first resenting them, despising them, and finally hating them. He'd been dedicated to the idea of changing his name himself when he turned twenty-one, and the only thing that had kept him from it was an indecision as to what to call himself instead.

* * *

Chuck doesn't sleep well and he gets out of bed a good four hours before usual. He hobbles around, though he's in no pain, and gets dressed. He goes down to the library, giving up on his limp halfway there. They've just opened for another day of smirking sweaty students searching for and losing books in the dusty stupid stacks. Chuck tries "toes" in the on-line catalog, then "nails" and then "injuries." He's thinking too broadly. Finally he decides to borrow a human physiology book from a guy in the reading area who's snoring. It says his toenail will grow back in a month.

* * *

Some of his parent's weirdness must have rubbed off on him, however, because he had few friends, themselves a bit strange, and the only girl Chuck could get to date him was odd in her own way. She refused to tell Chuck her last name, for one thing, and insisted on complete silence on Sundays. When asked if she was religious, she merely laughed.

One day after they'd been dating for a few months he was in her apartment, chopping onions and beets for a salad, when the knife slipped on the week old rapscallion and bit a chunk out of his thumb. The pain was intense and exact, made triply so by his immediatly crushing his palm with his other thumb to check the flow of blood. His reaction, otherwise, was a rather calm, "sonofabitch."

Feona tore herself from the back cover of a Rachmaninoff LP and looked at him, discerning at once what had occurred. She rushed over, almost gleefully, and took his thumb into her mouth. The gesture was sexual and comforting, and disgusted Chuck so suddenly that the pain disappeared. Fee closed her eyes, enjoying the experience a little too much, and Chuck suspected it was because she could tell everyone in her sorority about it later. He yanked his hand away from her violently.

"Are you some kind of god awful freak?" he asked in that same, calm voice.

Fee tried to look hurt at his implication, but when his hard gaze didn't change, she decided to switch things. "Look who's talking, bleeder. Your blood tastes like onions." Deliberately, she fingered a drop of the oddly dark red from the cutting board and licked slowly with her mouth open and tongue lolling.

Charles wanted to tell her a lie: "The first time I ever went to a frat party I met these two residence hall girls who'd crashed and were handing out 'finger jobs': if you chugged a beer in ten seconds they'd suck your fingers for a whole minute. I did it four times and puked all night; every time my hand gets soggy, I get nauseous." But he didn't say it, because he was a terrible liar and Feona would delight in the tale and forget she'd offended him. Instead, he explained. "That's because I was slicing some." He walked away, tried to kick the radio to make the record skip, failed and was glad for it because it was a childish thing to do, and searched for band aids in her bathroom with his elbows, holding his palm again.

* * *

Chuck is walking to the grocery store to buy some cotton balls and a file, but he stops in front of a Red Cross branch office. He stands with his hands in his pockets, squinting against the sun that is setting behind the building, squinching up his toes and relaxing them in his over sized sneakers. They stay on his feet because he wrapped the laces around his ankles. Somehow, he sees an elderly woman trying to come out of the building, so he runs up and opens the door for her- on the way out she steps on his foot. Surprisingly heavy for such a wrinkly old thing. Chuck decides she's stepped on his good foot so he moves along to the store.

* * *

Charles was as undecided about his studies as he was about his name, which is to say, he knew he hated them, hated what they meant, but didn't know what else to do. He'd started college on a partial scholarship, winning a little money for accidentally making sense on a few essays. The rest he earned through part time work on campus and loans. Once he asked his apponted advisor, "Why do I hafta choose a course of study?"

"You don't!" was the reply from the thin haired, worn-sweater-wearing, 'Call me Gary' chain smoker. He had no cigarettes on his desk, no ashtray, because smoking was illegal inside campus buildings, but Chuck saw him almost every day standing outside, and the man reeked. "At least, not yet. You can put it off until you accumulate sixty hours or so, or..." He shuffled papers around on his desk, searching fruitlessly for an apparently important document. Chuck noticed that most smokers were either hopeless slobs or scary neat freaks, "you can do the general studies, thing... where the heck is that..."

Chuck wrinkled his brow, playing idly with his sheets and enrollment forms and deans stamp cards. He gave himself a paper cut, but ignored it to ask, "What's that good for?"

Professor Tanning, (no matter what he insisted one call him) looked up. "Not much, unless you go on to graduate school, and there you'll definitely have to choose what you're going to pursue." He squinted, "Are you bleeding?"

Chuck looked at his finger. He made as if to lick the blood away, but wiped it off on his chin instead. "What if I just want to get this over with-"

"And get a job?" Tanner seemed undisturbed by Chuck's chin, if only because Chuck did it so mildly. "Then I'd suggest business school. Easy, uninspired, and they'll even get you a job if they can."

"I'll think about it." His finger had stopped bleeding and he left less confused, if not more disinterested, in the whole thing.

* * *

The toenail grows back, and Chuck picks up the phone book one day. "Do you do pedicures?"

"No, we do manicures and facials."

"Thanks."

He tries another number. He can feel sweat running down his back and the Chinese girl is watching Mtv again. "Do you give pedicures"

"What"

"Do you clip toenails?"

"No, no we do not."

"Know anybody who does?" The Chinese girl looks like she lost a little weight.

"No."

* * *

Charles liked some of his classes, and it wasn't the ones where vivisection was practiced, or where massacres where chronicled, or where weird or odd things were the spice. He liked math, because it was straightforward, uncontaminating. He enjoyed journalism, because it was dry, pathetically boring, and pointless. He hated philosophy, and got a B. He disliked sociology, and got a B. He was indifferent towards English, but managed A's. In his fourth semester, he sat next to a girl that had shared a room with Feona when Fee had still been at the sorority's house. Her name was Dalma and she was an ecologist.

"Do you know Feona's last name?"

"No- do you want to give blood at the Greek blood drive next Saturday?" she had one of those voices that moved too fast to be understood, but was understood nonetheless.

"I'm not Greek."

"That's okay, It'll be from eight a.m and oh my god I have no idea who would give blood at eight a.m. I would just pass out and go back to sleep and we'll go until five in the afternoon." she smelled like soap and perfume and cigarettes.

"Will they take it out of my finger?"

"No, we'll have chips and cookies and this really sweet orange punch but I'm not going to drink any of it because Mary said that giving blood gives you pimples even though it's for a good cause." Her hair spray was starting to lose it's power and her bangs were slowly falling.

"I think I have AIDS."

"That's sucks, but if you give blood I here you can catch a wicked buzz by just drinking a little and that means no throwing up and no hangover, and of course a cheaper beer run for everyone." She was wearing a sweatshirt that was probably three sizes too big, and inside out.

"I have leukemia too, and I'm allergic to stainless steel."

"Okay, tell all your friends but don't tell any of the gross people since it's gonna be in our house and we just got new curtains and Feona said she'll give half a pint which is silly because you have to give a whole one." Charles wondered what kind of socks she wore.

* * *

Twenty bucks for the taxi. Thirty for a pedicure, and a manicure for only an extra five more. He has to sell a few CD's because he can't wait until payday, but Charles thinks it will be worth it. He wears loose socks, like the lady on the phone told him to, and he would of biked in, but the lady told him to take it easy. "Otherwise, your cuticles puff up and it's harder to do my job." He figures he'll tip her another five.

When he gets there, she sits him down in a chair and raise it up, then she's goes into a back room to get supplies. The shop smells like wet hair, shampoo, and the hot fuzzy copper of over-heated hair dryers. There's a picture straight out of "Joy of Painting" hanging on one wall. Chuck takes his shoes and socks off before she gets back. She's got lots of red hair in huge curls, and lipstick exactly the same color. She's wearing a loose blouse buttoned right up to her neck. She looks at his bare toes. "Feet first, then."

* * *

One Sunday he forgot and called Feona, and only remembered when she answered and said nothing. "Feona."

Nothing. Not even her breathing.

"Why do you answer the phone if your not going to talk?"

He could hear her breathing, softly.

"Is it so people can tell you stuff, just in case they think you need to know it?"

Sunday is the only day in the week she wouldn't play music, wouldn't watch tv.

"Feona, I found out what your last name is, and I've called the police." She even kept her windows closed, and the fans and air conditioner off, if it was summer.

"What would you do if I was bleeding like a stuck pig and and I couldn't call the ambulance myself Feona?"

If it was winter, and thirty below, she'd pull out more blankets before she'd turn on the heater.

"I chopped off all the toes on my right foot, Fee- I think it was an accident but I'm not sure.

If he knocked on her door, she opened it, or sometimes she'd come and see him- they could make love, read, eat dinner together, anything except communicate.

"I'm kidding Fee. Call me at midnight if you feel like it."

He waited for her to hang up, but she wouldn't, so he did.

* * *

She's almost done with his right foot, which means she'll be moving up to his hands in a minute. Those would be quick, the lady had said. Except for the middle finger of his right hand. It was already manicured, and painted. Feona had liked it when he brought her to satisfaction orally, while one finger, his middle finger traced the rim of her belly button. She had absolutely loved that.

"I saw that when you walked in. Want me to leave it alone?"

Charles de Gaulle shakes his head. "No. Take it off, please."

She didn't dump him, or leave him, or drop him, or ditch him. She's just wasn't his girlfriend anymore.

"Told ya that would be quick. Go ahead and put your shoes on- I'll ring ya up."

Charles takes a clean pair of socks out of his pocket and puts them on slowly, smiling as the smooth white cotton glides over his perfectly clean, round toes. He stuffs his feet into his shoes and goes to the counter. "Thirty seven ten, after taxes."

He gives her two twenties. "That's yours. You are a perfect human being."

She blinks and laughs. "Tell me about it." He walks out, and she says after him. "Now have a nice day."

Chucks' got five and change left, enough for the taxi. He hails one, and decides he likes the sound of that word. Hail. He gets in and thinks maybe he will enroll in some business classes.