Every Monday he can be found at the corner deli, ordering five pounds of blood pudding and pig knuckles. And even though he always orders the same thing, Finn never fails to go through the motions of someone with an unmade mind, causing the line behind him to snake out the door.
Each Tuesday, you’d be hard-pressed to find him anywhere but the local record shop, buying up the latest polka albums released that day.
Wednesday was laundry day, and you could find Finn starching stacks of long johns and jock straps. He always uses the second to the last washer on the left-hand side at Worshell’s Wash House. If it was being utilized, he simply wrenches open the door and tosses some stranger’s partially laundered clothing into a heap on the cracked linoleum floor. “Been using that one too long to stop now,” he once said when asked what the fuck his problem was.
Thursdays, well, no one knows what Finn does on Thursdays. But anyone will tell you that it’s the only day smoke comes out his chimney.
And Friday. Every Friday, Finn returns home from work just a few minutes earlier than any other day and he peers into the small hole he drilled outside his bedroom wall, where he unfailingly catches a glimpse of his strumpet of a wife servicing the milk man. Story goes, Finn never busts in on them, but instead, silently backs away into the kitchen, where he gouges out the naughty-seein’ eye with a barbeque spear.
“It must be Friday,” we say, when we see Finn stumbling through town, half-blind and dripping with bloody eye jizz.