Murphy's Handshake

He tied his horse to the post and walked into the bar already drunk.  It was empty except for a few slouched regulars scattered about the room.  The bar tender wore a beard and a mouth full of rotten black teeth.  He offered a nod to the new customer and in the process, a long strand of crinkled beard hair fell into an empty glass.

“What can I get you for?”

The bartender reached his hand over the bar.  The new drunkard accepted the greeting with a fishy, limp-dicked handshake and climbed onto the stool.

“Names Murphy,” the bartender said with his eyes stuck on the new patron.

“Clinton.”

“It’s a pleasure Clint.  What brings you around these parts?”

“Need a drink.”

“Pick your poison.”

“Whiskey.  Double.”

Murphy turned around but kept his eye on Clinton in the reflection of a broken mirror.  He set a glass down in front of him and delivered two heavy pours.  Clinton didn’t waste any time.  He took a slug and hardly winced.

Murphy couldn’t tell whether Clinton was dog tired, drunk, or both.  The old bartender’s nose had been broken too many times to smell the scent of booze coming from Clinton’s clothes. 

Murphy went on about his business.  Drinking.  He guzzled down the last few sips out of his own glass and refilled it.

“Where you coming from Clinton, if you don’t mind me asking?”

“Headed home.  Missouri.”

Clinton pronounced Missouri, “Mizzura.”  He said it as if the word itself had a bad taste to it.

“Got some rough country ahead of you.”

“Sure do.”

Another man walked into the bar.  This man was wealthy, you could tell by the chain that hung under his suit jacket but over his broad tie.  Instead of taking a seat, he stood by the bar.  Murphy greeted him with a broad, blackened smile.

“What can I get you for, Sir?”

The wealthy man ordered quietly.  Murphy turned around and reached high up on the shelf to a bottle that generally goes unused.  He poured a splash into a glass.  It was gone almost as soon as it had been poured.  Then two more puddles splashed and disappeared from the man’s glass.

Murphy gave the wealthy man a wink and wondered back to his own drink.  After a minute of silence, the wealthy man slid enough money to cover what he’d order plus about ten more drinks onto the bar.  He nodded at Murphy, covered the money with a bar rag and made a discrete exit.

Before Murphy could pick up the money, Clinton ordered another round for himself.

“This one’s on the house, Buck.”

Clinton studied the side of Murphy’s face before reaching for the new drink.

“On the house?  What – you don’t think I can afford it?”

“That ain’t it at all, my friend.”

“I get it.  You see me, my clothes…” Clinton grabbed his worn lapels and shook them.  Dust wafted up toward the light. “you see this and you think, ‘this poor boy from Mizzura can’t afford a second round’.”

“That ain’t so.”

“It is so, and I seen it happen with my own two eyes.”

Clinton jerked his glass off the bar, downed it, and clunked it down.

“I’ll tell you what.  You can pay for it, if it makes you feel any better.”

Murphy put his hands on the counter and tilted his head at Clinton.  Clinton in his state of drunkenness and anger couldn’t get his eyes up high enough to meet the bartender’s stare.  Instead, he looked at Murphy’s hands.  The knuckles were swollen and every nail was chipped and dirty.

“I was only trying to make your night a little better.  I figured you got a long night of riding ahead of you.  But if you don’t want to accept my offer, I’d be a fool to sit here and argue.”

Clinton shoved his glass toward Murphy.  “Fill it up.”  He wiped his lips with his sleeve, “I don’t need your charity.”

Murphy snatched the glass away so hard that it slipped out and broke on the floor behind him.

“Goddamit.”

Murphy grabbed another glass and filled it half way with whiskey.  He walked over and set it in front of Clinton.

“Listen.  This is my bar and I treat you the same way I treat everyone else in here.  Now, I didn’t mean any disrespect by what I said, and I don’t want no more trouble out of you.”

“Like hell you do.  That man pranced in here with a tailored suit and you about fell over yourself.  I come in here and you look at me like I can’t afford a drink.”

“I don’t know what you had to drink before you got here, Buck, but it’s got your head screwed on wrong.  You come in here and pick your poison the same as any other man.”

Clinton took a drink and didn’t say anything.

Murphy continued, “The only difference was, I shook your hand and offered you a free drink.  You ain’t from ‘round here.  I shook your hand because I needed to be sure you wasn’t coming in here to stick me up.  That’s what handshakes is for, right?  Seeing what some fella’s holding.  As for the other gentleman, I was sure he wasn’t here for trouble.”

“Because he was in a suit?”

“It ain’t the suit.  That boy is the brother of the Mayor of this town.”  Murphy paused, “And I offered to pay for your second round because that man and his suit paid enough for the both of you.  So next time you decide to get uptight about the way I run my bar, I suggest you keep it to yourself.”

Clinton’s head turned away.  He grabbed his glass and took another swig.  Murphy turned and went back to his drink.  When he turned back, Clinton was pulling a long crinkled hair off the back of his tongue.

“Serves him right,” Murphy thought.