I"ll Have the Combo

Yesterday I shook several hands, mostly at church. I’m a handshake snob, so people who are protective of their delicate paws automatically start my antennae skyward. I understand some people have medical conditions that disallow a grinding hello or goodbye. I encountered that a couple of years ago in church, a different congregation. I think the condition announced by the victim of my bruising enthusiasm was fibromyalgia. I’m also a huge hugger, and in that particular instance I learned quickly to hug reticently. We might as well have exchanged cheek-cheeks or air kisses.

Although I don’t really like to, I cut females slack on handshakes. Guys I cannot offer this generosity. I was raised in Texas, which has a right to hang its hat, at least a little, on southern graces. All that’s changed though. Try identifying enough people with true southern roots to count on two hands in the course of a day’s business. Steel magnolias aren’t exactly in great supply. Someone I had regular business dealings with several years ago had a handshake that almost defies description. While he didn’t break his wrist exactly, his hand and fingers were positioned uniformly rigid, offered with no grip, no closure. I just stood there and pumped a little. It gave me the creeps, although this guy, a polished lawyer, was not noticeably creepy. There must have been something, though, not quite making its way to the surface.

Recently, at church where else, yet another church congregation, I met a couple of guys who may just take the prize for the weakest, saddest, adult male handshake to date—meaty paws offered without life. Each simply raises his forearm but keeps the elbow close to his side. The hand is limp, fingers held close to one another, no grip at all. Both of these guys are big boys, not morbidly obese, just big guys. Their handshakes speak volumes to me about self-perception, self-worth, although they can engage in conversation pretty much like you expect from an adult.

Perhaps one of the most joyful hand-shaking experiences I’ve ever had was with a seventh grade girl, who along with her classmates visited my department at work. These kids were mostly from lower socio-economic homes in an area of Houston that had long ago been claimed by ethnic families and businesses. The visit that day to our firm was part of a program to introduce kids to a business environment. We talked about technology, and they got to poke around on the computers in our training area for a few minutes. When they first arrived in our department, I stood outside my office saying hellos and welcome. Why I had a reason to shake the hands of a couple of these students, I don’t remember. As I recall, the guy had a nice handshake as well, but the girl had a grip that sent a smile spreading all over my face. I complimented her, and told her “a strong handshake says good things about a person. You’re going to be a success in life.” She smiled, not quite knowing what to do with my pronouncement.

Yesterday was a day of notable shakes—male and female—all strong, and if not heartfelt, at least full of vigor. My final shake of the day came at a shop on the Plaza, where I had just made a purchase. Having handed me my receipt, the sales person, a guy, accepted my hand, and we exchanged a firm, manly shake. For some reason, I gave him an extra grind. Well, after all, I had just bought an old turquoise ring that I didn’t need, but that’s another story. As I walked down the sidewalk away from the shop, I thought about the various times I’ve squeezed a little hard, some observed and commented on, others that went unspoken. There was a briskness to my step yesterday afternoon as I continued my journey. Only one thing was missing from the day. From someone, somewhere, I needed a good, old bear hug. Let me shake your hand. Oh hell, why not just let me hug you.

I’ll Have the Combo—Santa Fe, New Mexico (May 5, 2008)

R. Harold Hollis