“You can tell a lot from a handshake,” I told my son “A carpenter’s hands for instance, there’s callouses on the dominant hand and the hand has a bit lesser callouses and one or more of the fingernails either have a bump or are snarled, perhaps a repaired break. A plumber has more pronounced callouses on dominant hand and fewer on other hand, if there’s evidence of a repaired break it’ll be on the wrist or the back of the hand. “
He had that look of disdain and boredom every teenager has, it’s more pronounced when it’s your own kid.
“Some men without callouses you can tell things about how often they shake hands, how practiced. This is the perfect gentleman’s handshake”
I gripped his hand firmly, shook three times to what a metronome would have counted three beats exactly and I let go. I did it a second time, forcing his locked-thumb-buddy-grip into a professional grown man grip.
“Someone shakes your hand like that they shake hands for a living, politician, attorney, salesman. You can tell by how they dress. You tell by their voice. For that matter its how you tell a plumber from a carpenter from a cowboy from a gardener. They’ll all have a strong grip.”
He was looking towards the TV though it was off.
“Some people just don’t like being touched, or don’t like being touched by you. If it’s just you the grip can be overly strong, but it’ll be one pump. If it’s a phobia it’ll be like this.”
I took his hand lightly, barely touching, let my wrist limp.
“Aw Jesus,” he said, “Fag”
“Don’t say that.”
“Why? Because you say so? Because it’s a bad word?”
“No, because it’s 2013. Most people aren’t hiding or ashamed of their sexuality. It says more about you, it’s says your weakness. I’m telling you how to read someone. Whether you like it or not, whether you listen or not, you can be damn sure every other grown man already knows this stuff. At bare minimum calling a limp handshake a fag reveals your immaturity and phobias.”
He looked sheepish and, if possible, more disdainful.
“You’re going to State in three months. 45 thousand strangers, all new, all, ultimately competing for 20 thousand spots in the graduation line up. You need to know these things as much as you do Statistics, A proper Essay, Geology, Trig, social sciences. “ He was looking at the TV.
I pulled out the whisky, cheap shit I had bought just for this. I poured him a rock glass three fingers deep.
“Drink it.”
He looked surprised, cautious. He drank it all at once and made the face anyone makes when they drink something that burns and tastes like poison.
I poured him four fingers.
“Drink. You’re going to drink until you puke and then another. Most of your classmates are going to do this; you’re going to do this here. Or, you know, ignore your old man and be a punk ass.”
He looked at me as he threw back the second glass, did his damnedest not to wince, turned from me to make, I’m sure, the gagging almost barfing face.
“What next, gonna get me laid. I already done that.”
“With who?”
“I’m not telling, and why?”
“Because I bet she has some criticism, no matter how much she protested that it was good for her, you asked, right?”
“Shut up, can I go now?”
“I thought you already had.
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