The man sitting at the bar two stools down from me has thick hands. They're thick with muscle and tough skin. I wouldn't normally notice muscles in another man's hands but this guy has muscular hands, if you saw them you'd agree. You might even notice his hands too, like I did; they stand out somehow, against the glass he's holding. I think he's drinking whiskey. A whiskey glass is thick, but as you might imagine, his hands dwarf it. It's Tuesday afternoon around 2:00 when I see this guy and his hands, so I figure he's out of work. Not me. I have what you might call irregular working hours, as I am a janitorial custodian for the building this watering hole is located in. It's not a bad gig and Jerry, the bartender, he every once in a while gives me a drink for free, due to familiarity. I work with my hands doing my job but this guy with the muscular hands, I don't have hands like his. His hands have got me curious about what he is doing in this city - he doesn't have city hands.
After I've done my rounds, later that I night I get talking to Jerry.
"What about that guy at the bar this afternoon?" I ask him.
"What guy?"
"You know," I tell him, "the one who was sitting at the bar when I was in here. Jerry just gives me a blank stare so I say, "the one with the strong looking hands." Jerry gives me a kind of funny look but it turns out that after several whiskeys the thick-hands man had done a little talking. And Jerry relaxes a bit and tells me about it. So here, basically, is what Hands told him.
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