Ick Factor: Incalculable

It should have been a run of the mill question and answer. The older woman wanted to know about our computer classes and if they were suitable for a novice like her. I showed her the sheet with the classes on it, and began to steer her toward the absolute beginner class.

Then the pinky was deployed.

As I spoke, a real spelunking expedition was launched as she shoved her talon-nailed little finger deep into her ear and scraped away while I told her about the classes at the library. I tried not to stare in horrified fascination as she dug for treasure, reached to the bottom of the cereal box for the prize and generally diddled her cochlear nerve. I was hoping to be done before she was, but evidently I couldn’t talk fast enough. She extracted her drill bit of a finger as I gave her the times for our Intro to Microsoft Word class, and, while asking a few more questions, absently played with the gob of rust-colored goo she had extracted, eventually rolling it into a compact little sphere. As a sort of yucky coda to our conversation, she flicked it to the floor as she thanked me for my help and walked off, as oblivious to this whole thing as I wish I had been.

Dear reader, thanks for hanging in there with me: I'll buy this round of Purell shooters.