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although it can only be truly appreciated by people who worked at that hole.

But with this part:

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I don’t think that you have captured the swishy gay quality (not that there’s anything WRONG with that) to his personality. You might add, “and a generous dash of Oscar Wilde” into the mix.

Now, I had completely forgotten that I had served up an “everything and the kitchen sink” drink for Keith, but that sounds entirely in my character. I do recall one favorite of Keith’s penance beverages, which was made from pouring off all of the drippings that had accumulated in a night’s worth of drink-making from the little rubber mat that collected spills.

What I remember about Keith and the ice pick (and you’ve taken some literary license in the retelling, since he didn’t really jam it through the palm of his hand, but rather through the webbing between his fingers) was the fact that he kept saying that he was “really going to do it,” and I kept saying that I didn’t think he would. (I DIDN’T think that he would–as we both know, Keith was a lot of talk.) And then, I was quite surprised when not only did he attempt it and fail, but he kept at it–repeatedly hammering his hand and the pick against the bar, until he finally pierced the “tent of flesh” as you accurately described.

Keith came into the bar the next day–hand bandaged–and for the first time I had ever seen it, he seemed to be hung over. He was thoroughly pissed off at me for “making him stick and ice pick” through his hand. I was amazed that he would remember the incident this way, and I insisted that I had kept repeating that I was sure that he WOULDN’T do any such thing, not that I was suggesting he SHOULD do it. I guess some people really don’t like to have their word doubted. In retrospect, I suppose that someone might view my comments as goading him on, heh…

Thanks for the memories. Last I heard–some time ago–Keith was still working as a bartender in some lesbian bar. It would be fun to track him down and ask him to recite the Bud label for old time’s sake.