The Barber Shop

The Barber Shop

He scratched his head. He was always doing that. He had a memory, sort of shrouded in time that occasionally shrugged off its obscurity and tapped him unpleasantly on the shoulder. It was always his mother, gazing at him disapprovingly and slapping his hand away with her leathery arm. She always said the same thing each time, too. "You keep that up and you'll scratch your scalp clean off." You'd have thought it was the very word of God the way she tilted her chin up and trumpeted those words around. Well he grew up pretty quick (it was New York City in 1974, everyone he knew grew up pretty quick there) and learned it was quite a far stretch from the word of God, actually.

But none of that really mattered now, did it? He was an adult, well into his thirties and he had managed to run long and hard from his shriveled little roots. He could never quite get over the irony of the rest of the country's youth running to New York City to escape their pasts, while he was straggling along in the opposite direction, doing all he could to avoid being trampled.

"Peter."

Well it had to come sometime. He shoved the shiny magazine out of his lap and back onto the transparent table. Just before he began to walk to the barber's chair, he caught a startling glimpse of himself in the glass. He looked crookedly for that split second into his own eyes and then turned away quickly, as if he had been caught in some clandestine evil. Awkwardly, he lowered himself into the chair which was swollen with cushions. The barber muddled around with some unidentifiable substances on the granite tabletop. An old woman eyed him from the corner as she were observing an intriguing house fly.

"So how are we today, mister? Say, why the long face? Didn't anyone ever teach you how to smile?" The barber gently fingered a vintage looking silver comb as if it were injured. It reminded Peter of a scalpel, running strategically along his head, peeling away hair, flesh, and then the crackling bone...

"I'm fine, sir, thank you."

The barber snorted rather loudly, causing Peter to jump. "I ain't referred to as sir too often, fella. Just where are you from exactly?" He rubbed his large tawny hands on his apron. "I mean," he chuckled, "it clearly ain't this fine town." He winked and gestured toward the windows revealing the cracked asphalt that passed for the street, running like a ribbon between the wooden buildings huddled together with their empty wooden eyes staring in shock at the outside world.

Peter cleared his throat. "No, sir I come from New York City."

The barber slapped down the comb and scooped up an electric razor. "New York City? You don't say! I don't believe I ever have met a New Yorker before in all my days of living!" Peter noticed uncomfortably the way the hunched badger perked up, twisting his crow's feet painfully tight as his eyes widened. "See I've lived here my whole life, and I never seen no reason to leave neither. I like things simple, you understand? Anyhow, how'd you like the big city? And say, why'd you leave? Too much activity for ya?" He laughed a thick congested laugh, like there was sand roiling about in his lungs.

Peter felt tiny beads of sweat dotting his brow. "I, um, I just wanted something a little different is all." He stared at the linoleum floor, wounded by decades of hair and grime.

Now the laughter exploded and echoed so that more of the old ladies with great silver globes on their heads glanced up irritably. The barber wiped his eyes. "Hey, Claire, you hear what this fella said he's looking for? Something different!" Another wave of laughter. He patted Peter on the shoulder. "Well, I can guarantee you, you've got something different here, son!"

The old lady from the beginning of this adventure screwed her tiny mouth up and made a huffing sound. "Well, Horace, I never have seen a city slicker the likes of him try to make his way out in these parts, that's for sure and certain. Say, the Darlings are bringing their son in today, ain't they, Horace? You ought to stay and talk to that boy, mister, 'cause he's got his heart just set on them city lights." She shook her clanging head. "I keep telling him that it's foolishness, but he just won't listen."

The barber nodded eagerly. "That's right ma'am, he's due in here any minute, now. Why maybe you could talk some sense into him, mister." The barber leaned hotly close. "Just tell him why you left and all." Softly, confidentially.

There was at least another five minutes of carefully grazing the mosquito razor over Peter's scalp before the bell above the door signaled the prodigal son's entrance. The barber raised a meaty hand in greeting. "Joe Darling! Have we got someone for you to meet!"

The boy rounded the corner and Peter forced himself to make eye contact. Joe had striking green eyes and he stood out in a white polo shirt and very blue blue jeans. He nodded once at Peter then they both shot their eyes to the decaying floor. The barber cleared his throat and nudged Peter.

"Well, mister, I have just about finished up here." He whipped the apron off expertly and for one glorious moment Peter hoped foolishly that they had forgotten the conversation of moments before. Then he noticed old Claire's bony finger dancing like a branch in the breeze toward him. "Well, tell the boy about the big city!"

Peter shoved himself out of the monstrous chair and made his way to the boy who was glancing about as if on a battlefield. Peter gripped the boys arm tightly and stared desperately into his eyes. He leaned close so none of the blinking frogs could hear them. "Look, kid. I don't know any better than you, you understand, what you ought to do with your life. Don't just sit here and listen to these fools, but don't just listen to yourself, either. In fact," he was trembling, "maybe--maybe you just shouldn't listen at all. Yeah that's good. Just don't listen to anyone at all." He slid his sweaty hand off the boy's arm. He stared briefly into those frightening green eyes, which looked back as if beholding the very depths of the earth. They stood there like that, locked in each other's fiery pupils for a moment and then Peter turned and clanged out the door.

He shot out into the street and located his miniscule yellow car.  He hated yellow. He slid in and buckled his seatbelt, turning the key in the ignition. He roared unnecessarily fast onto the wrinkled street and zipped by all the gaping houses. Even after they were long behind him, he could feel them pointing their clapboard fingers and rasping taunts in his ears. He gripped the steering wheel. He should've gotten that boy's number. What was his name again? Darn it, why hadn't he asked for that boy's number?

He could hear his heart shouting in his ears, the same word over and over and over but what was it, why could he never quite get what it was and then there was a stop sign sliding closer and closer and he hated it like he had never hated anything before in his life. Behind that angry red demand there was nothing, just a great beckoning drop-off into who-knows-what and a thrill of excitement raced through Peter's veins. He could ignore that sign and go straight through it without a second thought. He could finally be what everyone wanted him to be, his mother, the barber, old Claire, and young broken Joe Darling. A chorus of cymbals crashed in Peter's chest as he laughed. "Joe Darling!" he screamed as he slammed his foot on the gas and zipped by the scarlet reprimand. There was a terrific ripping sound and some unpleasant jolting as he burst through the guardrail, but then he closed his eyes and floated effortlessly into the arms of the grey river below. There were a few grating moments of terror, of fighting for precious breath as the world shoved him from all sides.  But finally the water pressed a smooth finger to her lips and cradled Peter, smiling, into oblivion.