by Carl Tait
Dalton’s final customer of the night was staring fixedly into his lowball glass, impervious to hints that he should leave the bar.
The straggler looked up with a toothy grin. “Just one more, please?”
“We’re getting ready to close.”
“By ‘we,’ you mean yourself, right? Are we being royal today?”
Dalton sighed. “Look, buddy, I just want to go home.”
“And I just want one more drink. I promise it will be the last one, and my generous tip will help lessen the anguish of your fatigue.”
“It’s not anguish, and I’ll take that tip. Another bourbon?”
“Yes, please.”
The man slid his glass across the sticky wooden surface of the bar. He watched as the bartender poured his refill with practiced rapidity.
“Thank you, sir.” The man picked up the replenished glass with his left hand while approximating a salute with the other. Dalton noticed the saluting hand was wrapped in a thick bandage.
“It’s none of my business, but what happened to your hand?”
The man sipped his bourbon and showed his teeth again.
“It’s a long story. I enjoy telling it, but it would delay my departure, and I don’t believe that would make you happy.”
“Is there a short version?”
The man made a dismissive gesture with his bandaged hand. The thumb and fingers were free, but the palm and back of the hand were bound in dense white cloth.
“It’s another case of wanting one more of something precious, like this fine bourbon you served me.”
Dalton snorted. The bourbon was a cheap mass-market brand.
The man chuckled. “All right, we both know this isn’t top-shelf liquor. But it’s exactly what I wanted and I couldn’t resist it. This bandage is the result of a similar affliction.” He picked up his glass with his left thumb and forefinger, fumbling slightly.
“Of course it’s my right hand that’s injured. I’m strongly right-handed and I’m clumsy with the left, especially after a drink or two.” He wiggled his right fingers while staring at the cloth that covered his palm.
“I always want another one,” he said. “I keep thinking I’ll be satisfied, but it never works out that way.”
“Listen, pal, this is really the last one. I gave it to you as a favor.”
“Oh, I understand. I was talking about the bandage. It’s due to my unfortunate addiction.”
I’m alone with a druggie, thought Dalton. He put his hand under the bar, feeling for the gun he kept as protection.
The man shook his head. “Oh, not the usual kind of addiction. Your money is safe. I’m just a boring old guy who can’t get enough of what he treasures most.”
Dalton was skilled at estimating people’s ages and couldn’t believe his customer was more than forty. If the guy wanted to think of himself as old, well, that was his problem.
The glass was still half full of bourbon. The bartender stared at it pointedly.
“Oh, yes, I must drink up. I understand.” The man lifted the glass again, balancing it against his bandage.
His fingers slipped. The glass tumbled sideways, spilling liquor across the cloth covering his palm.
The man shrieked.
“Get it off! I must get it off! Do you have a knife or scissors?”
Dalton nodded. He stepped to the register and pulled out the pair of scissors stored underneath.
The customer grabbed the scissors and forced them under the bandage. He screamed even more loudly.
“I can’t do this with my left hand! I’ll stab myself! Can you cut this off for me? I beg you.”
Dalton had no desire to cut into a bourbon-soaked bandage that probably covered a gruesome wound, but to his surprise, his compassion won out. He picked up the scissors and inserted them gently under the bandage, keeping the metal as far from the skin as possible.
The man stopped screaming as Dalton sliced through the cloth. When the scissors reached the far edge, the bandage fell away. The bartender had intended to avert his eyes from the uncovered wound, but found himself staring in fascination.
The bare palm was clean flesh, bearing no apparent injury.
“Surprised?” asked the man. He turned his hand over, laying it on the open bandage that had fallen to the counter. The back of his hand was also unmarked.
“I don’t understand,” said Dalton.
“You will,” answered the man. “The person who does the cutting always learns the truth.”
His fingers closed around the bandage as he turned his palm upwards. He made a tossing motion and the cloth flew from his fingers into the bartender’s face.
Dalton was repelled and angry. Why had this kook thrown the filthy bandage at him? He reached up to remove it from his face.
He couldn’t.
“Oh, it won’t come off,” said the man. “But don’t worry; it doesn’t take long.”
The bandage covered Dalton’s nose and mouth, and he discovered with horror that he couldn’t breathe. He pulled frantically at the cloth but it had fused into his skin. He felt a trickle of blood leaking from his nose into the fabric.
“Good, you’re already bleeding,” the customer noted. “It’s going quickly. I am terribly sorry about this, but as I said, I keep wanting one more. One lifetime is simply not enough, and neither are ten. Or twenty; I’ve forgotten how many I’ve had. No matter. The bandage takes from you and gives to me.”
Dalton fell to his knees, still clawing weakly at his face. The terror in his eyes faded as he slumped lifeless to the floor.
The man walked behind the bar and gently removed the bandage from his victim’s face. He sighed as he rewrapped it around his hand, feeling it sink into his flesh.
“This will surely be the last one,” he said. “I think I’ve finally had enough.”
He burst into laughter. “Who am I kidding?”
Carl Tait is a software engineer, classical pianist, and writer. His work has appeared in After Dinner Conversation (Pushcart Prize nominee), Mystery Magazine (cover story), the Eunoia Review, the Literary Hatchet, the Saturday Evening Post, and others. He also has a story in Close to Midnight, a horror anthology from Flame Tree Press. Carl grew up in Atlanta and currently lives in New York City with his wife and twin daughters. For more information, visit carltait.com.
