Weathered Hands

        The mahogany always had to be polished. Didn’t matter how many patrons made their way to the stools for a drink, the mahogany always had to be polished. The glasses, some for beer, others for other drinks, but mostly just mugs for beer. Those needed cleaning too. And the floors turned grimey after looking away for the barest fraction of a second. All those people bringing in the mud and muck of the outside world. This hadn’t been his choice. A little farm out in the highlands would have been preferable. Even a little shack on the edge of a cliff would’ve sufficed. Yet here he was, tending to someone else’s dream.
        In the corner, men with long beards rolled back and forth in laughter in their open-bottomed clothing. Mostly locals and a few the man hadn’t seen before. But mostly locals. The man pulled back from the bar for a moment, into the pantry to gather up a few odds and ends for the midday meal. The framed visage of the bar’s founding proprietor lay above the piles of dried meats, staring down at the barkeep as he scrounged up ingredients. Older brothers have a way of staring silently, but with intent disapproval.
        Sausages in a stew, bread interwoven with herbs, and another beer to go along. Midday meal as produced by a man wishing he were a different man. The patrons came, a few at a time, to gather up their portion of the slop the barkeep dished out onto wood serving ware. Everyone knew a menu was a relic of the past in a place like this. Well, everyone except those two out-of-towners.

        They strolled in, wanting some gluten-vegan-lactose free bullshit. After a few stern words they settled with a few lentils from the pantry and ran back to their booth, tails between their legs. The barkeep sniffed, looked heavenward, and returned to polishing. It’d been 20 minutes since the mahogany’s top had seen a rag. Too long by his standards.
        The day continued, the hipster assholes pranced on to their next dandy adventure and the bar moved and flowed as it should. Old men with nothing to do but drink and laugh, young men done with an early day of hard labor, women cackling and joking too, just with wittier jokes than the men. Back to normal, as it should be.
        Evening meal came and went. Drinks were served, jokes were overheard. The men and women moved about each other with seasoned ease, each knowing the buttons of the next. Soon the patrons milled slowly out the doors, bantering and bickering. Still the man polished that mahogany. And finally, when night fell and the man tucked himself in bed he lay and readied himself for another day of cleaning that damned fucking mahogany.