I’ve always been fascinated by Dive bars. A type of bar that a typical socialite would never be caught dead in. These places have an odd grouping of people, especially in the Texas hill country. You can find hipsters, dog toters, lonely widowers, hippies and bikers. The section of the bar I tend to gravitate toward are the smokers, which also attracts the alcoholics. Misery loves company. These people are unapologetic, blunt and in general, fascinating. I’ve been going out to a bar called The Barber Shop, which was the first bar in Dripping Springs, TX since it became a wet county. The smoker group had become familiar with me, though most don’t remember each other’s names, most likely due to the geriatric state of their lives as well as the alcohol we co-consume.

One fellow I did remember, his name is Mike. He has one wild eye, but I cant tell which one it is because when he looks at you, it seems like both eyes are askew- so I just look at his nose when we talk. I like Mike because he always has a bottle of KD Whisky in his truck and since the Barber Shop serves only beer, he had become a good acquaintance of mine.

I see him most Thursdays when I make my way out and in his own odd ball eyed way, is always flattering, which of course I milk for the eventual whisky offer that awaits me. I quickly located my pal who was seated with about six thirty something year olds, smoking cigarettes and swapping stories. He offered me a shot and after we made the multi-shot trip to his green F150—we saddled back up to the smoker table. I noticed as he drank from his glass of beer that his fore-finger, next to his half missing finger, was green. I commented on it and immediately a man with gauged ears to my right requested the full story of the green finger.

With glee, he began the story and I paid full attention.

“I was out in Midland Texas and I decided to paint a room in my house green. I hired a friend of mine to do the job, he was an alcoholic, I knew that, but I figured he needed the money.”

Mark seemed sympathetic to those with alcohol abuse as he had just recently been hospitalized for three consecutive Atrial Fibrillations of his heart.

“Well of course, the guy never showed up so I bought some paint and a paint gun and started the project on my own. I had never done a paint job on my own before and this cheap paint sprayer had a leak. I got paint running down both arms, dripping off my elbows, all over the freakin’ place and I’m on two tiers of scaffolding with wheels on it. I reach over to grab a pipe to pull myself along a little bit, and start to tip over, ‘OH GOD’ I reach over to grab the hose that went over the end and the force of the paint in the gun sent it up flying. I reach up to grab it cause I think ‘ I can catch it!’ and PSSSSSSHHTTTTT it went in right there!”

Mike points to his finger that is green from tip to about mid knuckle.

“It went in right there- and it was a golf ball size lump right here!”

I hooped and hollered about this man getting injected with paint, and he told me, “Well it was a water based paint so I wasn’t too worried about it, but it was like a real, seriously large tattoo gun.”

I asked him “Was this before or after your recent hospitalization?”

He said, “Oh, no this was way before, this was in like, the mid eighties.”

I was completely blown away, “You mean you’ve had a green finger since the MID EIGHTIES?”

“Yah, but anyway. I thought oh man, I gotta finish this. So I finish painting the room and I get home I said well I’ll get a razor blade outta my truck and milk it out.”

He pointed to an old scar in the meat of his fingertip.

“Well, so I couldn’t find a razor in my truck, so I take me one of them Bic yellow and white throw away razors and boiled it in Alcohol. I handed it to my wife and told her to cut it. She made a half ass attempt, didn’t make a dent and it hurt like hell. So I told her to give it to me and I yanked that blade across there and POW! 12 foot 3 inches of green paint and blood sprayed across my kitchen floor.”

Well now I had to ask what happened to the finger next to the green finger, the one chopped half way off.

“Well that finger and the ring finger next to it, I cut off with a table saw. The ring finger they sewed back on, and it’s still a little white ’cause of the blood supply but they couldn’t get my middle finger sewed back on. So I told the doctor to give me that other finger- they gave it to me and I put it in a food jar full of Alcohol.”

A man two seats over chimed in “Also known as his urine!”

We all chucked and Mike continued.

“So I put that finger in a jar and took it to a buddy of mine whose a taxidermist—he made a key chain out of it.”

I yelled, “NO SHIT, you made a key chain outta your finger!!”

“Yah, I had a lot of fun with that, at first the taxidermist told me no, I cant do this its against the law! But I reminded him of some of the stuff he had in his freezer the law probably wouldn’t approve of… so he made me up a key chain.”

I didn’t get to see this key chain, but he ended the story with a powerful statement. That he had been through some shit. I empathized with him as the experience of his finger stories came to an end. We had a nice long pause, I think in memory of his lost members and with a look from one of his eyes, still not sure which one he uses to focus, and he said “Ya wanna’nother shot?”

“Yep”

“Lessgo”