My Hands Say
by Stephen Haines
My hands say, We’ll have Carpal Tunnel at 40. My hands say, Bartenders don’t retire, they die.
The crescent-shaped tissue, cloudy-pink on the tip of my left index finger, from where I sliced it on a fruit peeler on a busy night behind a bar. Blood spewed from the wound, clouded a martini, dripped into the ice. Thirteen stitches made it right, but the outline remains like the border of an unwanted country. Then there are the jagged pockmarks, the ghostly gashes on my palms, each one an island in a working-class archipelago. My hands say, Scars are like maps: They tell you where you come from. My hands say, Scars are like memories: They tell you where you’ve been.
Most bartenders I know contracted bar rot, a fungal infection of the cuticles that develops from always transitioning from hot to cold, wet to dry. Once you have it, it doesn’t go away, unless a bartender can suddenly keep their hands dry. One coworker bought expensive antifungal cream and wore a plastic glove every night for a month. It didn’t work. Customers called him Michael Jackson. He said, I am the one.
My hands say, It’s time to wave to your audience. Bartending is performance art, and behind the rail is a stage. As you enter, you greet the audience. You stretch, make sure all of your props are in order. From this moment on, you are both cook and clown, artisan and actor. You are moving sculpture, each pose on display. Bartenders visit other bartenders after work and compare poses, notes, and choreography. Bartenders visit other bartenders to share scars and measure countries.
Some have more than others do—Murray Stenson is the Michael Jackson of bartending scars. In Seattle he’s the only truly famous mixologist. He’s had articles written about him since his days at Zig Zag, the original Seattle cocktail bar. People spot him across town, whisper about it later. They say, I saw Murray working at Canon tonight. They say, He was drunk in some shitty dive. They lean in. He looks tired. Like he did a world tour without sleeping. He’ll have a GoFundMe for open heart surgery by the next year. His hands say, Bartenders don’t insure, they indebt. My hands remind me, Bartenders don’t retire, they die.
Stephen Haines is an MFA graduate of Western Washington University and the former managing editor of Bellingham Review. His work has appeared or is forthcoming at Epoch Press, Rathalla Review, Sidereal, Olit, Thin Air, Adelaide, Creative Colloquy, and Bright Flash. His short story, “Empty Spaces,” earned an Honorable Mention in Hypertext Magazine’s 2021 Doro Böhme Memorial Short Story Contest.