I met a really strange guy today. I was sitting at Pete's Inn, when this fellow walked in. He was in a hurry. He went over to Tom at the bar, and said, "Give me a large of something hard”.
"Now Jim," Tom said, in his most serious tone, "I don't want any trouble down here, and I certainly don't want Della to come in here at midnight, and scream the roof down and my customers out. You take it easy, old chap." With that, he turned around and from some grimy brown bottle poured the man, Jim, a large measure of some thick dark alcohol that barely splashed around in the glass.
"Here you go," he said and put the glass in front of Jim. He turned around to find a coaster and a napkin, and Jim reached for the glass, picked it up, knocked his head back, poured the drink down his throat with a large gulp, and when Tom turned around with the coaster, he put the empty glass on it, took the napkin out of Tom's hand, and wiped his lips.
He looked at Tom with a cheeky, boyish grin, and a look of mock innocence that would have melted even the sternest matron. Tom, for his part had his hands on his waist, and an expression I've only seen my mother use when I did something she explicitly forbade. I almost expected him to wag his finger in Jim's face and say, "Now what did I just tell you? Off to your room with you, you incorrigible child!” Instead, his expression changed to the quiet resignation of every professional faced with work. “Eh, what the hell?"
"Hey, pour me another," Jim said, slapping his arm.
Tom picked up the glass and put it in the sink, and picked out another larger glass from the rack. He reached for the same grimy bottle and poured another double measure out. But then he reached under the bar and topped the glass up with something frothy. He put this new drink, hissing furiously, in front of Jim.
Jim looked up confused. "Well, I told you to take it slow, but you won't listen. Now I've fixed it so that you have to take it slow. And don't worry, as long as Della don't come in here, you only pay for the spirits." This cheered Jim up.
"You really want me around that much? You could just ask, I'd have stayed you know. You didn't have to go bribing me." Tom shrugged, didn’t say a word and turned to the sink.
Jim giggled at his joke and at Tom's retreat, then he started looking around the bar, perhaps searching for company. I smelt a story so I left my table. The only single guy with a table, by the way, and headed over to the bar. I put my drink down next to Jim and got onto the bar stool.
"Hi," I said.
"Hey," he replied.
"That's a pretty interesting drink, you got there," I said. He looked down at it, as though he was seeing it for the first time.
"Yeah," he said at length, "I wonder what he puts in it”.
"You mean, you don't know?"
"Nah, I trust old Tom to give me what I need. The day I truly need it, he'll give me poison, and you know what? I’ll drink it too”. He was grinning again, with the sort of happiness normal people don’t get to feel.
"Well, let’s hope it never comes to that," I said, a little taken aback, few people are so open about how willing they are to die.
"Oh no…if I start doing things that I shouldn't be doing, well, it’s nice to know old Tom will put a stop to that".
"Really?" I said, incredulous, "You'd actually trust a man to be judge over life and death for you?"
"Hey ol’ Tom don't know nothing, he ain’t a judge," he said, and looked at his glass. Licking his lips, he said, "But he's a damn good bartender.” He looked at his glass, then added as an afterthought, "Also, we trust people with the power of life over death all the time. Like when I take the subway to work, I trust the driver with my life."
"Oh but that is different," I said, "He's in there with you - it’s his life on the line too."
"Weeell, yeah," he drawled out, "but he doesn't have to be, does he? The trains can damn near run themselves, you set timers on all the levers, and you now make it so that it would slow the train down right at the next station, and then start off again, on its own, after the stop was over. Trains would always be on time that way. But the driver opts to go along, put his life at risk just the same as us passengers. Not because he needs to be there, but as a guarantee that he'd do a good job. He'd be the man on the scene, he'd handle things. The way I see it, he's pretty much taking over the power of life and watchacallit, ya know?" He took a last rather large gulp of his drink. He put the tumbler down on the counter, looked around and sent a meaningful look towards Tom and waited. When nothing happened, he turned back to me.
"Ya know pal," he said, “You've been fun talking to, so I'm going to tell you an interesting story, and it’s a true one too. But the best part is, it’s about me. Me and my watch. See, I have this watch, or well, had this watch I should say. It was my daddy's, and his daddy's before him, and he got it from my great grand-daddy. That's four generations down to me. And it was a work of art, honestly. It just was a pleasure to look at, and to hold. Oh! That watch fit in my palm like it had been made to measure. I could hold it open and stare at the seconds hand for minutes together. I would get excited every time I caught the minutes hand moving. I can still remember the first time my daddy let me hold it..." He lifted his right hand above the counter, with his fingers bent as though holding a watch slightly too large for it. "My hand was trembling. The metal was so cool, and the glass so clear."
"Some watch," I said, "I'd love to see it".
"Well, you'll have to go to the pawn shop on Fifth Street,” he replied, "I sold it, you see. It’s like this, I wanted to do something special for my lady, it being Christmas and all, and so I actually sold my great grand-daddy’s watch, is why it’s in the pawnshop on Fifth Street. I got her this real high-class set of combs, made from unbreakable ceramic, and what not, and painted really pretty too, with tiny flowers. And well, when I get home, what does she tell me? She cut her hair! She didn't ask me, she didn't say a word, just went and cut her hair! And bought me a chain for my watch. What does a watch like that need a chain for? Specially given I don't even have a waistcoat!"
"Well, it was her hair, you know... and you sold that watch without telling her...” I said, trying to be reasonable.
"It might have been growing from her head, but it wasn't just her hair. It was mine too. I sat up whole nights stroking her hair. So often, when I was troubled for some reason I just buried my head in her hair. It was like silk, and smooth ebony. Aah! I can't describe it, really. And she took that away, just like that!" He snapped his fingers. "See, I don't care about the extra money. If we need the money, I can always work extra shifts, but there is no way for me to get that hair. We value what we don't have, right? Well, no men have pretty hair. We might have watches, or chains for them, or no chains for them, or whatever, but we can't have hair that beautiful."
"Well, you sold the watch, you didn't ask her?" I said.
"She didn't care about the watch, she didn't get it at all. It was just an old watch, like any other. She once suggested I trade it for an even older watch, since its oldness is what made it special. So I thought of all the things I had in the world, that was the one she wouldn't miss at all. I know my son, if I had one, would miss it, perhaps."
"But I don't know... is a moment of happiness now, better than one in the future? I figure if you can have a great moment, you might as well have it right away, then you have more of life to treasure it through, rather than keep waiting for the great moments, and if by accident they don't happen, then what? Wait for 30 years to give my son a watch, that he may not understand at all, or give my beloved wife something to raise her spirits for the rest of our lives, not to mention look mighty fine the rest of our lives?"
"When I sold that watch I thought my great grand-daddy would turn in his grave. Right now, he's probably rolling around in his grave, laughing his buttocks off". He cracked himself up.
"No, but what gets me," he continued, after a pause, "Is that hair grows back, right? It grows back, right... if she had just well told me about it, well, we would have had a little more money for the races, huh?" He slapped the table playfully, and spun on his stool and off towards the back of the bar.
Though he seemed slightly insensitive about it right now, this Christmas was definitely one of those moments he would remember, it was for me too. I have never really had much of a story to tell, as you know, just the stories other people tell me. I've kept my head down, done the smart thing, and worked hard. I'm a millionaire, have a lovely happy home, and the kind of money Jim the old boy could only dream of.
Jim's watch is on my study table in a brown box. I bought it from the pawn shop on my way home. It didn't cost much, but it is beautiful. I don't know if I'll ever love it enough to watch the hands move, but I'm glad the story and the watch will remain together. I would have hated it, if one more story was lost. Jim was right. We do value what we don't, or can't have, the most. I treasure stories.
But I wonder, if what old Tom told me as I was leaving, is true though. He came up to me to tell me what my tab was, then said, "Don't mind Jim, he's a good lad, right to the core. He's just got a slippery hand at the races, is why he had no money for Christmas. Came in last week and howled the bar down telling everyone about how he lost everything on some filly, bah, He's probably in debt too, the way he gambles".
It might have been true... it makes a pretty good story either way.
"Now Jim," Tom said, in his most serious tone, "I don't want any trouble down here, and I certainly don't want Della to come in here at midnight, and scream the roof down and my customers out. You take it easy, old chap." With that, he turned around and from some grimy brown bottle poured the man, Jim, a large measure of some thick dark alcohol that barely splashed around in the glass.
"Here you go," he said and put the glass in front of Jim. He turned around to find a coaster and a napkin, and Jim reached for the glass, picked it up, knocked his head back, poured the drink down his throat with a large gulp, and when Tom turned around with the coaster, he put the empty glass on it, took the napkin out of Tom's hand, and wiped his lips.
He looked at Tom with a cheeky, boyish grin, and a look of mock innocence that would have melted even the sternest matron. Tom, for his part had his hands on his waist, and an expression I've only seen my mother use when I did something she explicitly forbade. I almost expected him to wag his finger in Jim's face and say, "Now what did I just tell you? Off to your room with you, you incorrigible child!” Instead, his expression changed to the quiet resignation of every professional faced with work. “Eh, what the hell?"
"Hey, pour me another," Jim said, slapping his arm.
Tom picked up the glass and put it in the sink, and picked out another larger glass from the rack. He reached for the same grimy bottle and poured another double measure out. But then he reached under the bar and topped the glass up with something frothy. He put this new drink, hissing furiously, in front of Jim.
Jim looked up confused. "Well, I told you to take it slow, but you won't listen. Now I've fixed it so that you have to take it slow. And don't worry, as long as Della don't come in here, you only pay for the spirits." This cheered Jim up.
"You really want me around that much? You could just ask, I'd have stayed you know. You didn't have to go bribing me." Tom shrugged, didn’t say a word and turned to the sink.
Jim giggled at his joke and at Tom's retreat, then he started looking around the bar, perhaps searching for company. I smelt a story so I left my table. The only single guy with a table, by the way, and headed over to the bar. I put my drink down next to Jim and got onto the bar stool.
"Hi," I said.
"Hey," he replied.
"That's a pretty interesting drink, you got there," I said. He looked down at it, as though he was seeing it for the first time.
"Yeah," he said at length, "I wonder what he puts in it”.
"You mean, you don't know?"
"Nah, I trust old Tom to give me what I need. The day I truly need it, he'll give me poison, and you know what? I’ll drink it too”. He was grinning again, with the sort of happiness normal people don’t get to feel.
"Well, let’s hope it never comes to that," I said, a little taken aback, few people are so open about how willing they are to die.
"Oh no…if I start doing things that I shouldn't be doing, well, it’s nice to know old Tom will put a stop to that".
"Really?" I said, incredulous, "You'd actually trust a man to be judge over life and death for you?"
"Hey ol’ Tom don't know nothing, he ain’t a judge," he said, and looked at his glass. Licking his lips, he said, "But he's a damn good bartender.” He looked at his glass, then added as an afterthought, "Also, we trust people with the power of life over death all the time. Like when I take the subway to work, I trust the driver with my life."
"Oh but that is different," I said, "He's in there with you - it’s his life on the line too."
"Weeell, yeah," he drawled out, "but he doesn't have to be, does he? The trains can damn near run themselves, you set timers on all the levers, and you now make it so that it would slow the train down right at the next station, and then start off again, on its own, after the stop was over. Trains would always be on time that way. But the driver opts to go along, put his life at risk just the same as us passengers. Not because he needs to be there, but as a guarantee that he'd do a good job. He'd be the man on the scene, he'd handle things. The way I see it, he's pretty much taking over the power of life and watchacallit, ya know?" He took a last rather large gulp of his drink. He put the tumbler down on the counter, looked around and sent a meaningful look towards Tom and waited. When nothing happened, he turned back to me.
"Ya know pal," he said, “You've been fun talking to, so I'm going to tell you an interesting story, and it’s a true one too. But the best part is, it’s about me. Me and my watch. See, I have this watch, or well, had this watch I should say. It was my daddy's, and his daddy's before him, and he got it from my great grand-daddy. That's four generations down to me. And it was a work of art, honestly. It just was a pleasure to look at, and to hold. Oh! That watch fit in my palm like it had been made to measure. I could hold it open and stare at the seconds hand for minutes together. I would get excited every time I caught the minutes hand moving. I can still remember the first time my daddy let me hold it..." He lifted his right hand above the counter, with his fingers bent as though holding a watch slightly too large for it. "My hand was trembling. The metal was so cool, and the glass so clear."
"Some watch," I said, "I'd love to see it".
"Well, you'll have to go to the pawn shop on Fifth Street,” he replied, "I sold it, you see. It’s like this, I wanted to do something special for my lady, it being Christmas and all, and so I actually sold my great grand-daddy’s watch, is why it’s in the pawnshop on Fifth Street. I got her this real high-class set of combs, made from unbreakable ceramic, and what not, and painted really pretty too, with tiny flowers. And well, when I get home, what does she tell me? She cut her hair! She didn't ask me, she didn't say a word, just went and cut her hair! And bought me a chain for my watch. What does a watch like that need a chain for? Specially given I don't even have a waistcoat!"
"Well, it was her hair, you know... and you sold that watch without telling her...” I said, trying to be reasonable.
"It might have been growing from her head, but it wasn't just her hair. It was mine too. I sat up whole nights stroking her hair. So often, when I was troubled for some reason I just buried my head in her hair. It was like silk, and smooth ebony. Aah! I can't describe it, really. And she took that away, just like that!" He snapped his fingers. "See, I don't care about the extra money. If we need the money, I can always work extra shifts, but there is no way for me to get that hair. We value what we don't have, right? Well, no men have pretty hair. We might have watches, or chains for them, or no chains for them, or whatever, but we can't have hair that beautiful."
"Well, you sold the watch, you didn't ask her?" I said.
"She didn't care about the watch, she didn't get it at all. It was just an old watch, like any other. She once suggested I trade it for an even older watch, since its oldness is what made it special. So I thought of all the things I had in the world, that was the one she wouldn't miss at all. I know my son, if I had one, would miss it, perhaps."
"But I don't know... is a moment of happiness now, better than one in the future? I figure if you can have a great moment, you might as well have it right away, then you have more of life to treasure it through, rather than keep waiting for the great moments, and if by accident they don't happen, then what? Wait for 30 years to give my son a watch, that he may not understand at all, or give my beloved wife something to raise her spirits for the rest of our lives, not to mention look mighty fine the rest of our lives?"
"When I sold that watch I thought my great grand-daddy would turn in his grave. Right now, he's probably rolling around in his grave, laughing his buttocks off". He cracked himself up.
"No, but what gets me," he continued, after a pause, "Is that hair grows back, right? It grows back, right... if she had just well told me about it, well, we would have had a little more money for the races, huh?" He slapped the table playfully, and spun on his stool and off towards the back of the bar.
Though he seemed slightly insensitive about it right now, this Christmas was definitely one of those moments he would remember, it was for me too. I have never really had much of a story to tell, as you know, just the stories other people tell me. I've kept my head down, done the smart thing, and worked hard. I'm a millionaire, have a lovely happy home, and the kind of money Jim the old boy could only dream of.
Jim's watch is on my study table in a brown box. I bought it from the pawn shop on my way home. It didn't cost much, but it is beautiful. I don't know if I'll ever love it enough to watch the hands move, but I'm glad the story and the watch will remain together. I would have hated it, if one more story was lost. Jim was right. We do value what we don't, or can't have, the most. I treasure stories.
But I wonder, if what old Tom told me as I was leaving, is true though. He came up to me to tell me what my tab was, then said, "Don't mind Jim, he's a good lad, right to the core. He's just got a slippery hand at the races, is why he had no money for Christmas. Came in last week and howled the bar down telling everyone about how he lost everything on some filly, bah, He's probably in debt too, the way he gambles".
It might have been true... it makes a pretty good story either way.
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