Monkey Toe Palminteri

• Lori Palminteri
• Uncategorized
• March 26, 2024

I open up my lap top to write in a cafe next to a table of older gentlemen discussing politics. It crosses my mind to ask them if any of them are interested in foot videos.

But I’m running ahead of myself here a bit, on my fast, apparently very, very sexy feet.

Flashback to any summer in the 90s. Glorious. The sun is shining. My family is out on our 25 foot Four Winns boat, aptly named “M.T. Pockets.” God, I loved that boat. We’re anchored in the bay. Probably with the Winter family. Maybe with our cousins, the Butchers. Mom has music blasting on the boat. Tom Petty, Red Hot Chili Peppers, Sublime, Sugar Ray, No Doubt.

Off the bow of the boat, Mom has raw chicken legs tied to rope, one end the chicken leg, one end on the cleat of the boat. Lisa, my older sister, has the net ready for when the blue claw crabs come for the bait. What they think is an easy meal is our con. There is no meat sweeter than that of a blue claw crab. Meanwhile, my Dad, brother and I are in the shallows of the murky bay, digging with our feet for clams. To find clams, you simply dig your toes in the sand, which, is semi-slimy here. As gross as that sounds and is, it’s better for clamming. Our toe nails will be black after this. So you got your toes there in the sand and you do a little twist to get down. And, if you come across a clam, that’s like finding a gold nugget to us.

You learn quick what a clam feels like under your toe, as opposed to a rock or something else. Sometimes you cut your feet on a razor clam, or broken shell. It’s not exactly pretty.

But we loved it. The sun, the sea, the music, the family, and the reward of a crab and clam seafood fest we’d later have on the deck in the backyard. Dad had a bucket on top of a boogie board for the clams we found. There were times we’d fill up two. That’s a lot of clams.

I was especially skilled with my toes. In fact, I could dig up a clam with my toes and grab it without using my hands at all. In the water, I’d contort my body so to hold up the clam in my toes above water, “got another one!” The family would rejoice anytime anyone got a clam. That’s good eating.

I forget now if it was my dad or brother who called me “Monkey Toe.” We were big on nicknames, especially if they were funny. So that was me that summer. And many summers to follow. Monkey Toe Palminteri. The clam digger.

However, I perpetually put my feet through hell. For reasons I cannot explain now as an adult, I never cared for shoes as a kid. My guess is because shoes meant it was cold out or school. Whereas barefoot meant beach and fun and no school. I remember, often, coming home from school and kicking my shoes and socks off and then running about in the backyard, grass between my toes.

One time, we were off to a family trip to Costco. Costco trips were an ordeal for the the struggling middle class. Because they gave out samples. This was almost as thrilling to us as finding clams. We’d go as a family and that would serve as a meal for the whole family. Circling around, getting sample after sample until we were full. We were scrappy like that. On this one trip, I got in the car without shoes and I didn’t even realize until we got to Costco. My parents were not happy. “How did you forget shoes? Are you a hillbilly?” My sister and brother laughed. “Lori is a hillbilly!”

My mom suggested we could just grab a pair of flip flops inside and have me wear them. But instead, I just walked around Costco barefoot. Some people noticed, and probably thought our family was trash, but I was only self conscious in the beginning and then I didn’t care. If I was going to be a hillbilly I’d own it. “The Beverly Hillbillies” was one of our favorite shows. I was Monkey Toe Palminteri after all.

Back then, wood decks would splinter the fuck out of your feet. More painful memories involve my dad holding me down while mom had a tweezer in her hand, surgically extracting the sharp splinter. Mitch always cried the most about splinters. He’d never admit to now, with all his manhood pride, but he could be a real simpering mama’s boy back then, especially when it came to splinters.

Sometimes, at the beach, on the really hot days in August, the sand would become scorching hot. Once, Mitch, my cousin Ed, the Winter boys and I were exploring the dunes. Well, the sun got so hot it caused the air to look like it was folding in on itself. None of us had shoes. The sand became unbearably hot. We had to run from shadow to shadow of the shallow dune grass. Later, the bottoms of our feet would blister in their third degree burns. I’d peel off the blisters two days later to reveal raw, bloody skin. I wish I could say this only happened once. Some mistakes must be learned over and over.

Stubbing your toe is one of more painful surprises life has to offer. And it always hurts more than you think it should. Well, I stubbed my toe so bad once, a chunk of skin hung loose. It got infected some days later and would puss. It was a ghastly sight. I was a teenager then. Sometimes in June when the weather was good enough, we’d all skip school and go to the beach. Half the school was there. It was just kind of accepted. My parents didn’t even care. Especially for me since I was mostly a straight A student (except for math).

My friends and I are playing hooky on the beach on a beautiful June day, playing truth or dare. I don’t remember exactly how it came about, but someone told my buddy Andrew they’d give him like $20 to lick my bloody, sandy and pus filled toe. He actually did it. It was repulsive. All those kids are still my good friends to this day.

I’m sure I broke toes on more than one occasion. Though my dad didn’t see a bruised up and probably broken toe a cause to go to the doctor. “Just tape it to the other one.” And that’s what we did. I have one toe that bends to the right. It bends down, proper, like a toe is supposed to. But it also bends to the right. That can’t be normal.

In 2016, I published a blog called “Tickle Model.” To this day, it is my most commented on blog. In short, it’s a tale of someone trying to recruit me to be a tickle model— aka, someone tickles my feet and they video it for $1000. Initially, I thought one of my friends were pranking me. But it turned out to be legitimate. I didn’t go through it, if you’re wondering.

Mostly recently, when I was in Hawaii, I was cutting up my feet every other day on the reef breaks when I surfed. More than once, pulling sea urchin spikes out of my flesh. You got to pay to play, I guess. The Hawaii trip was somewhat of a dream, until I found out I was losing my job. No, I was not getting fired, my job wasn’t going to exist because I was being replaced with AI. Jokingly, I posted on social media pictures of my bloody feet, “will people still buy pictures of my feet if they are fucked up?”

Apparently so. I got messages asking if I were serious. With offers for $50 or $100. What a world. I can spend a year pouring my heart and soul, typing away hours into a script. And no one will want to buy it. And then a minute video of your toes playing in a bubble bath gets you a quick $50. I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again, I do not belong in this world. I don’t understand it, and apparently it doesn’t understand me. I’m an alien here, apparently, with very nice feet.

At a stand-up gig, towards the end of my set, I plug a sticker I sell that says, “live well, laugh often, fuck off.” I say, “all the money goes towards women who are hungry in New York, and by that I mean Lori Palminteri. I need a sandwich. Look at me.” This gets a laugh. “It’s by donation, so whatever you want to pay, $1, $10, $20 and for $50, I’ll send you a video of my feet.” This gets a huge laugh. If only they knew it was only half a joke.

“Right now my future as footress is looking better than my future as a writer and comedian,” I lament to my friends, who, genuinely think it’s great if I can sell pictures of my feet. “Footress” by the way, is a word I’ve made up. A play on mistress and foot. Genius, I know. “Maybe this will be my big break. Tarantino is a known foot guy, maybe he’ll cast me in his next revenge flick and I can kill people with my toes. And then go on to hosting a late night show, only instead of me interviewing guests, it will be a foot, with an animated mouth on my big toe.”

The writing on the wall was like a toe print in the sand along the shore. As the prophecy foretold. Footold, perhaps. Again and again. Monkey Toe finds gold under her feet. A clam hidden in the sand.