On Warts
♠
The words on the back of the package read: “The common wart is easily recognized by the rough ‘cauliflower-like’ appearance of the surface.” This irritates me. I grudgingly admit that the wart on my thumb does, in fact, resemble a cauliflower, but I had not made the connection before and to do so now is to realize the absolute horror of my situation. A more sympathetic description that hewed closer to how I saw the wart—“The common wart is a rubbery, nubbly bulb that protrudes from the skin; it is flesh-colored when dry, but white and fluffy after a steamy shower”—would have put my mind at ease. It would have said to me, “Calm down, man, it’s only a wart for God’s sake. And look at it, it’s quite cute, like a pet or a wee friend.” But to imply that a cauliflower is growing out of my thumb is akin to saying my neck is developing a second head or that my body is capable of producing those green buds that sprout from neglected potatoes. And no amount of quotations and “-like” modifiers will lessen the impact of the fact that an utterly unwanted cauliflower has sprung up, of its own accord I might add, from somewhere within my thumb!
How did this happen? I cannot recall how it came to be… If it grew from a dot to the plump vegetable it is today, why did I wait so long to take action? Why did I not strangle it when it was a mere shoot? Or if it appeared overnight, as if by magic, perhaps a mischievous wart god descended upon me in my sleep and touched my thumb with his hoary, crooked finger: at least that would divorce the wart’s spontaneous eruption from any connection to me personally. Perhaps some of the toxins I both unwittingly and wittingly consume escaped the digestive tract and founded a colony beneath the skin of my thumb. Yes, that must be it! No more cigarettes, no more booze! But wait, but wait: while the wart’s birth is a frightening mystery to me, there are more pressing issues at hand: I have to concentrate all my resources, all my capabilities on killing the bastard.
The product I have in my hand is a “FAST-ACTING GEL” which “painlessly removes common and plantar warts,” is “safe, effective and easy to use,” and is not a “drip
formula.” Firstly, a plantar wart is one that inhabits your foot and is recognized by “its
tenderness and the interruption of the footprint pattern.” Now, it seems to me that any wart capable of interrupting the footprint pattern must be massive, and on the one hand I’m utterly grateful the wart god spared bestowing one of those behemoths on me. But, on the other, a wart on one’s foot presents no real danger of exposure, no threat of ostracism. It can be hidden, and as long as it does not impede your ability to walk about, would there be any reason to remove it? For isn’t one of the wart’s fundamental evils of a sexual nature—in its ability to mar an otherwise attractive visage?
Secondly, I have no clue as to what a drip formula is, but perhaps someone with previous experiences in wart removal can tell me. In fact, come to think of it, I would like to meet more people with warts in general. Already I feel the outside world turning a cold shoulder to my predicament, nervously averting its eyes from this external indicator of my decay. Perhaps those emotionally traumatized by warts, with a support group, could overcome the stigma of warts in toto. After all, why should we hide in the dark? Why should we cower in shame? It is not our fault, we did nothing to cause it, it is not a manifestation of what we are on the inside—but simply because it a canker of the body, by the mere fact that it exists, we feel shame. But why? If the world can forgive the pimple, surely it can embrace its older, burlier brother as well!
But hush, less talk, less talk, this is hardly the time to start a civil rights campaign: back to the wart. Per the directions on the box, I wash my hands with warm water, dry the area thoroughly, and squeeze one gleaming drop of salicylic acid on the wart. Under the clear dome of liquid, the wart does look like its own colony, its own world—though of course a world inhabited by evil pygmies who waste the land and pollute the environment. Slowly, the clear dome becomes hard and white, a bright shining disc on my thumb. This is awkward: the wart is appreciably more noticeable now and I fear people in the office will comment on it. Like: "Gross, what's that on your thumb?!" Or:
“Oh, I think you have a spot of mayo on your thumb.”
“No, no it’s nothing, thanks.”
“But I see it. Perhaps it’s a bit of paint? ...”
“No, I’m afraid you’re mistaken, there’s nothing there.”
“But I see it, it’s right there, will you not at least look at it?”
“I tell you, it’s nothing!”
I cannot think of a single response that won't result in a cringe and a slow backing-away. “Oh, it’s just a wart.” A wart is not “just” anything! It is infection! disease! and any attempts at nonchalance are futile. Perhaps I can pretend to be ill for the twelve weeks required for the wart’s destruction.
* * *
A week of acid treatment and the wart is subsiding. It hasn’t adapted to the salicylic solution and mutated into a more resistant, deadlier foe, which is encouraging. People at work haven’t said anything either, which is kind of them. They might be talking about it behind my back, and to those gossip-mongers I would say that warts, while a blight on society, should be discussed in an open forum. After all, the wart-afflicted are people, too.
The solution has burned the wart from top to bottom, and I’m currently looking at what I think is the heart of the wart, the seed of the problem. I have no epiphanies peering into this speckled-white, vegetal aberration, mortally crippled and crumbling—the mysteries of its origins and its life remain unsolved. Of course, I could put some research into it, some detective work, but that wouldn’t enlighten me in the slightest. For whatever its cause, whatever molecule floated along the winds of fortune and attached itself to my person, whatever internal mishap metastasized and blossomed into the cauliflower on my thumb, the knowledge of it would not in anyway explain the chaos and randomness that govern our wellbeing from one day to the next.
I did discover that warts recur. So while I'm bathing in the shining light of victory for the present time, I fear the war cannot be won. The wart will come back, perhaps with an army of its kin or perhaps in another, more menacing form, and eventually the battlements will be overcome, the fort will come down, and in the end I will have to surrender. In some ways, I would be less ashamed if this very wart did me in at the end. It would mean so much more that way.
—RS