| 1 2 |
"The Haircut" (the thirty-sixth ACWclub monthly writing contest) |
3 4 |
Assignment: Write a story or poem using the following title: "The Haircut" 2500 words or less. Deadline: Midnight (DST), August 15, 2004 All entries are the property of the authors and cannot be copied or reprinted without their consent. |
| The Haircut by Tom Campbell topcat@spiritone.com (Entry #4) |
| ~Winning Entry~ |
| It was a soft, sunny June morning as
an old white Chevy Impala crossed the bridge over the lazy, olive-hued Ohio
river. The backseat was packed with a suitcases, a box of records, and a well
used acoustic guitar, while in the front, sitting straight, was David Darwin,
the gleam of an unleashed puppy in his eyes. The final exams of his freshman
year were done with, the brow of Cincinnati's skyline in his rearview mirror,
and the radio playing, appropriately enough, the Beatles' "Magical Mystery
Tour." He was on his way to meet his buddies in New Orleans. Old Highway 57 was a good start to seeing a bit of America on this journey. The trees, crops, and wildflowers, busy with their photosynthesis thing, were doing just about what they should be doing. He couldn't resist leaning out the window and yelling moooo at the first clump of cows he saw. They didn't moo back. It was nice to be on the road amidst the rolling farmland and forests. His soul felt disconnected being stuck too long in a city. David figured he could make it to New Orleans in two days, maybe three if he stopped to see some sights. People were cool in "Nawlins", party animals. It would be fun. After about 300 miles the gas gauge was settling toward E, so he pulled into a dusty little station. A middle-aged man stuck his head out of the garage and then sauntered over, wiping his hands on his grimy overalls. "What yew want, boy?" "Fill 'er up, Sir, please." The man looked him over, gave a little cluck of derision, straightened the John Deere cap over his short graying hair, and ambled over to the pump to dispense the gas. David spotted one of those old Coke machines, the ones that opened from the top to several rows of little bottles and had that metal handle you had to push down. He put in a couple of dimes and bought two. After he paid for his gas he asked: "What about washing the windshield and checking the oil?" but he was speaking to a retreating back as the man flung a "Do it yerself" over his shoulder. David squeegeed his windows and set off back south down the road, determined to be unfazed by one sour apple. A couple of hours later in Tennessee, he turned off onto an old road, flanked by that ubiquitous red clay, and found a spot with a view. Ridge upon ridge of hills becoming purplish in the distance greeted him as he got out the couple of sandwiches he had made that morning, and sat down to enjoy the chirping of various birds and the gentle murmur of the wind. He felt at peace with the world, as one with nature, and after eating, settled back on the browning grass for a short dreamy nap. Forty minutes later, he was back on the road, winding around hills and through forests, singing along with the radio. Sunset approached, casting its orange-red glow, as David started looking for a place to spend the night. A set of old cabins nestled snugly in a clearing beside the road looked inviting so he pulled in and went to the office. A ding of the hand bell on the counter produced an old woman with a worn apron and smudged face who came shambling out of the back somewhere. "I'd like a room for the night, Ma'am." "We don't got none available." "But the sign says Vacancy." "I don't give two hoots what the sign sez. I ain't rentin' a room to your kind. Now git on down the road, sonny." 'My kind'? David wondered. College kids? Northeners? He climbed wearily back into his car. There was a large town about 40 miles ahead, he knew, that would surely have some big chain motel. With the window rolled down so the cool evening breeze would keep him awake, the whoosh of his car was the only undercurrent to the silence of the night. A gaudy blue and orange Howard Johnson's sign loomed at the edge of town. He gratefully pulled over and was politely checked in by the desk clerk, though the cost was nearly twice of what the cabin would have been. The night man pointedly mentioned that the pool was closed though it looked perfectly full of water when David had walked past it. No matter. He deposited his suitcase on the little stand, sluiced off the grit of the road with a hot shower, and collapsed gratefully into the big hard bed. The Ho-Jo's restaurant provided a standard breakfast with a few southern dishes. David tried some grits but had to quit after one bite, since to him it looked and tasted like sand mixed with library paste. He was off at a reasonable hour, enjoying the pleasant contours of Mississippi with its meandering creeks and Spanish moss. In the early afternoon, he spotted a quaint old diner, the kind that looked like a large trailer with striped aluminum siding. He drew stares from most everyone there as he slid into a booth and perused the grease-stained menu. A cheeseburger and fries figured to be safe enough. As he put his menu down, he was aware of some hostile grumblings. A pudgy waitress sashayed over with a pot of coffee, a platinum beehive hairdo, makeup that looked like it was applied with a trowel, and a nametag that proclaimed her to be Doralee. After taking his order, she leaned in towards him and said: "Honey, if I was you I'd get this here sandwich to go. Some of these ol' boys could get a mite rambunctious seeing you sittin' here." "But Miss, I haven't done anything. Why me? "It's that long hair, Sugar. You one of those hippies, ain't you?" So that was it. His haircut. No wonder everyone he'd met on this trip had been rude. It had never occurred to him that they might be wary of him just because of the way he looked. He took Doralee's advice and went up to the register to get his order. These rednecks looked like the type to have hunting dogs in the back of their pickups and a shotgun behind the seat. A couple of them moseyed over to him as he stood waiting. "What's yer name, boy?" "Er, David Darwin, sir." "How come you got hair like a girl?" "A lot of guys wear it like this where I come from." "Well, Mr. Darwin," the one of them said with an emphatic sneer on the Mr. "You better git on back to wherever that is and don't come in here no more." As he fled with his food he heard the other man chime in: "And we don't care fer your theories on evi-lution, neither." David was naive enough to believe that everyone was beautiful in his own way, as the song lyric went. There were foreign students at his university, black kids he had gone to school with who were nice. He visited his grandmother regularly at the nursing home where he was fascinated by stories of the old days and listened to their sound, if sometimes antiquated advice. Oh well. Things would be groovy in the city and he was less than two hundred miles away now. An hour later, his car started belching steam from under the hood. It seemed to be some kind of radiator problem. He let it cool off for ten minutes, poured in the last of his water, and limped the car toward the next farmhouse. On the porch of the weatherbeaten house sat a grizzled old man whittling away at something and a grey-haired woman in a faded print dress, fanning herself. They looked at him with slow curiousity as he walked up the path. "Excuse me, Sir, Ma'am. I seem to be having some car troubles. Is there a garage nearby where I could get it fixed?" " 'Bout twelve mile down the road," the old man said, "but I don't think Wayne or Roy is gonna help no long-haired hippie." "I understand, Sir. It's my radiator overheated. If I could have some water to fill it up with, I'd really appreciate it and be on my way." The man started to say something but the woman cut him off. "You go off to the right near the barn, Honeychile, and you'll see the well. Take what you need." "Thanks a whole lot, Ma'am," David replied, sincerely grateful. He filled up his radiator and his water bottle and took a few drinks of the cool fresh water. As he got in his car and pulled out, he could see the man still whittling, not even raising his head, but the kind old woman gave him a little wave. The twelve miles would be easy to make but then he would have to face the problem of getting service. An idea came to him. He fished a rubber band out of the glove box, tied his hair back, and stuffed it under his Cardinals baseball cap, thankful he wasn't a Reds or Yankees fan. The tie-dyed t-shirt was swapped for an old flannel shirt that he tucked into his jeans just before he coasted into the Neville Bros. garage. "Howdy, y'all. Looks like I got me a li'l trouble with my radiator." The y'all was his pathetic attempt to pass himself off as a southerner but it seemed to be working. Wayne, by the stitched oval name on his dirty blue shirt, lifted the hood for a look. "Yew got a clamp whats worked loose and the hose is about shot anyways. I'll fetch another one." And with that he went around the side of the clapboard building to rummage around the pile of crunched cars that had doubtlessly maimed their former masters. "Where yew headed to, son?" said Roy with a friendly grin. "New Orleans, to, uh, work for the summer. I just got through my first year in college, majoring in...agriculture," David lied. "Hell you don't need to study no ag-ree-culture, right Wayne?" as Wayne had found a hose and was busy with a screwdriver. "Yew either knows how to milk a cow and plow a field or yew don't." They both seemed to find that remark very funny and David obligingly joined in their laughter. "What's with that git-tar in the back? Yew don't play some of them folk songs and protest crap, do ya?" "Oh no, Sir. Jist Hank Williams, Johnny Cash, Buck Owens and the like." David had almost added Charlie Pride to the list but remembered in time that Charlie Pride was a black man. "That's good cuz we don't like that damn hippie music." "Remember the last hippie that came through here? We sent him running out of town like a scalded dawg with his tail 'tween his legs." This brought another round of uproarious laughter as David paid the man his five dollars. "That long-haired boy'll sure remember us." "Much obliged, gentlemen," David said as he climbed back in behind the wheel. "I hope ya'll will remember me too." With that, he tossed away his cap, pulled off the rubber band, shook out his long hair, gave them a friendly wave, and floored it, leaving two astonished men in his dusty wake. |
| The Haircut by lee10@host365.com (Entry #2) |
| ~Runner Up~ |
| The glass ball hung from the centre
of the ceiling; damaged and unmoving since the storm last November that had cut
the power. It had set those of a nervous disposition squealing. The men had,
for the most part, escorted the ladies back to their tables and helped them to
find their scattered belongings in the dark, using the small flickerings of
cigarette lighters but one or two men had taken advantage of the panic to grope
particularly pretty girls. One young man, Jason Malloy, had been caught
red-handed, fondling the blonde bombshell from Birstall, as a sudden flash of
lightening slashed through the ballroom's long windows and lit up the scene.
Chrissie had been amongst the hundred or so people present that evening. She
had seen her boyfriend touching up the blonde. Chrissie reacted violently.
Eventually, her two friends managed to pull the screaming virago away from the
badly mauled Jason and had dragged her, screeching, from the dance hall.
And now, six months later, remembering that night, Chrissie sat with her elbows on the table, her chin in her cupped hands, staring at the ball. Though it no longer revolved, its glass mosaic faces still reflected the manic, dancing, blue, red and green disco lights. Sally plonked herself down in the next chair, jogging the table and spilling the drinks. Jerked back to the present, Chrissie grumbled, "Clumsy oaf." She sighed dramatically, "We'll never make a lady out of you." "She's a sow's ear," laughed Jen, following Sally from the dance floor. "We'll never make her into a silk purse either. The basic material's too coarse." Ignoring the insults, Sally asked, "Guess who I saw at the bus stop tonight, then?" Chrissie mopped up the spilt drink with a paper tissue. "I couldn't possibly. Who?" "You know, that burke you were seeing." "Which particular burke would that be?" Jen asked. "Chrissie's managed to collect a few in her time." Chrissie punched Jen's arm. "Shut up. Can't you see Sally'll burst if you don't let her get a word in edgeways? Go on, Sal." "Your ex. Your what's his name? Jay? Gerald?" "Jason?" "That's the one!" "Why on earth should I be interested in what he's up to?" Chrissie sniffed. "Good riddance to bad rubbish, I say." "You don't want to know then, that he was with Janet Armstrong?" Chrissie and Jen shrieked in harmony. "Janet Armstrong?" "And, what's more," Sally smirked, "they were going ballroom dancing." "Ballroom dancing?" The pair echoed Sally again. "How do you know they were going ballroom dancing? Did you ask them?" "No, Chrissie. I did not ask them. I wouldn't speak to those nerds if you paid me. No. She was wearing one of those flounced out skirts with lots of petticoat thingies underneath and far too much makeup. And she had her hair tied back into such a tight bun, I swear she couldn't have closed her eyes if she'd have tried." "Always was a stupid cow," Jen remarked. "And," Sally said, "He was no better. His hair was slicked down on his head with a dead-straight parting, like Barbie's Ken. They looked a right pair, I'll tell you. Her in her high heels and him in his patent leather shoes." Chrissie remembered Jason's hair. It had been his best feature; a thick, blond mop that would curl enchantingly beneath her teasing fingers. Unlike most of the pseudo-cowboys at tonight's charity line dancing event, Jason had looked adorable wearing a Stetson, with just a few of those curls showing beneath the brim. "Dork!" Chrissie snorted. Jason's good looks hadn't prevented him being terminally stupid. Another Country & Western song was being played. "'Tush Push'!" Sally shouted and jumped to her feet. Chrissie snatched her glass from the dangerously rocking table. "Coming, Chris?" Jen asked. "No," Chrissie replied. "We've already done 'Tush Push' twice tonight. I couldn't face it a third time." "Please yourself." Jen followed Sally. Chrissie finished her wine and watched the dancers jostle for their favourite places on the dance floor. Most of the women wore tight, black jeans and black tops aglitter with diamantés. It's a shame, Chrissie thought, it's no longer in the fashion for women to wear hats. She sighed. She knew she'd looked good in hers with its tip-tilted brim. Most of the men still wore cowboy hats. Charlie's, she noted, was getting a bit floppy and the man with the Garth Brooks' shirt pulled taut across a round paunch would have done better to wear a smaller hat. His grey Stetson floated around the tops of his ears, turning direction long after he did. A big-busted woman, undulating towards the dance was stopped when someone blocked her path. Her breasts though kept on moving. Like a Mexican wave, Chrissie chuckled. She saw Serious Dave turn the wrong way, to be met by a line of smiling, white-haired grannies dancing towards him. The horrified look on his face was priceless. Jen and Sally were being shadowed by a couple of gawky, young cowboys. The four of them smiled and teased each other, oblivious to the other dancers. Chrissie sighed again. Looked like she'd be going home on her own. She needed another drink. It was Jen's round but Chrissie collected the empty glasses thinking, what the hell? The glasses chinked in her hand as Chrissie slid between two tables, heading towards the crowded bar but when the crush parted like the Red Sea, Chrissie stopped dead in her tracks. A stranger stood with his back to the bar, framed in the gap. The sound of music faded as Chrissie's whole attention focused down on the hunk. With her free hand she pushed a strand of auburn hair from her eyes, to get a better view. He was about 25, just above average height, slim but with well-toned muscles beneath a black, sleeveless T-shirt. His thick, dark hair had a matt sheen and tapered into the nape of his neck His sideboards were long, blue-black. Chrissie ached to climb up them with her fingers. His chin was shadowed like midnight emery board. She wondered how it would feel to rub her cheek against his; rough and rasping, like a lion's tongue, she fanaticised. He's beautiful, Chrissie thought. He was wearing blue jeans, tight blue jeans with deep turn-ups. "They don't leave much to the imagination, do they?" Jen came up behind Chrissie. Chrissie shook her head slowly. "Boy, oh boy, oh boy." Her eyes traced upwards, from the thick crepe soles of his beetle-crusher shoes, lingered on his heavy, silver belt buckle, to the black, leather jacket hooked nonchalantly over his shoulder, to the swarthy quiff that overshadowed his deep-pooled eyes. The stranger had a lean and hungry, rebel-without-a-cause attitude as he surveyed the mincing cowboys leaving the dance floor. By the derisive look on his face, it was obvious he found them wanting. The woman who was taking money at the door went across and spoke to him. He looked down on her and shook his head. His sudden smile made Chrissie's heart loop the loop. "Look at that smile," Chrissie oozed. "I'd follow a smile like that to the ends of the earth." Jen laughed. "Quick, Sally. Take those glasses off her before she drops them." The stranger turned from the bar and moved towards the door. His hips swayed provocatively. The light from the bar caught the back of his head. The dark waves of hair had been carefully combed into matt-black raven's wings. "Oh," Chrissie moaned. "That hairdo! Did you ever see anything as cute?" "Hey, girl. Snap out of it!" Jen touched Chrissie's shoulder. Chrissie ignored her friend; didn't even hear, as she was following the stranger with the 60's haircut out the door. "Where's she off to?" Sally asked, her hands full of empty glasses. "I think," answered Jen. "She's going to try the rock 'n' roll at the Palais down the road." "Why?" Sally was slow on the uptake. "I think," Jen told her. "Our Chrissie is in lust." Chrissie followed the stranger through the door and down the stairs; the top of his head, his thick, dark, nearly-black hair visible as he wound down the spiral staircase below her. The faint, tantalising smell of Brylcream drew her on. She followed him outside. As she pushed the heavy door open, she almost bumped into him. He was standing on the porch, lighting a cigarette. He gave her a quizzical look. Instead of apologising, Chrissie bent down. Her black jeans were well stacked over her boots and there was enough to turn up. She straightened and shook each leg to settle the fabric over her Cuban heels. She reached into her pocket, and pulled out a red scrunchy, which she twisted round her shoulder length hair, pulling it tight into a ponytail. The stranger watched without comment until she'd turned herself from a line dancer into a rock 'n' roller. Then his sculpted dark eyebrows, with something of the night about them, rose and fell. "Are you dancin'?" he asked. "Are you askin'?" Chrissie replied with a coy, sideways smile. He threw away his cigarette. It fizzled in a puddle in the gutter. "I'm askin'," he said. Chrissie held out her hand. "Then I'm dancin'," she affirmed. The dark stranger took her hand, tucked it into the crook of his arm and they walked down the road together and into the Palais de Danse, ready to rock. |
| The
WCA's The Writers' Choice Awards |
| Here's how the members of the
ACWclub voted for their favorite entries: First place: #4 Second place: Tie: #2 & #3 Others receiving votes: #1 |
Here are all the entries, posted in the order they were received.
| The Haircut My Nguyen idlemousse1885@yahoo.com |
#1 of 4 |
| 2494 words | |
| I sat there waiting for my turn at the chair. There
were three of them though only one was occupied and there was only one barber
apparently at work. That was the whole holdup. The heat outside was maddening.
It folded over itself until waves and waves of it washed over the streets,
blurring the distance into an oily, watery mirage. I held my ticket, number 63, between two fingers, my index and middle, flipping it over next to my fourth. The thin paper was already soft and damp from my moist hands handling it. I looked down at my ticket when they called a number, somehow dropped it, then searched for it on the dirty tile floor. It was nearly impossible. Little scraps of paper the size of the ticket were all over the floor, though none bore the 63. I finally found it, stuck onto the ground like a sticker. I picked it up, but the number called was not mine anyhow. I didn’t have to look to know, but it is always good to check. The number could change on paper and in the next second, you could be next. Well, you could keep hoping. I guess I was fated to spend my entire Saturday at the barbershop waiting. I leaned over, my head hovering over my knees, my long hair nearly covering my peripheral vision. Someone coughed and I looked over. The fans overhead swished the air by, but you would have to be very tall to feel anything. I looked at my watch. The hours were just flying by. I sat glumly, chewing at my cheek. I wouldn’t be here in the first place if my old trimming place hadn’t been on vacation and this fine establishment here hadn’t decided to give all males a discount this Saturday. Well, it was too late to reverse. So here I am. So here we all are. It was no fun sitting next to a guy with a B.O. problem. He was really sweating it out there. He was even dripping. Like, raindrops were falling from the eaves on the tips of his bangs and fell like teardrops down his cheek, not bothering to wipe them away. On the other side of me, two ancient grandfathers showing off pictures of their grandkids, and even their greats. They stall for more time, explaining each child’s characteristics, preference in food, traits, but rarely flaws. In their minds, the kids have none. A TV hummed in the background, neither distracting nor attracting anyone. It just was there, collecting straying glances now and then from the barber. Clip-clip, in between outrageous behavior and betrayals that nowadays is not longer shocking. Now the grandfathers are arguing which of their descendants were smarter, cuter, or has more potential in the long run. They had stopped talking. The grandfathers sat looking in the other direction away from their companion. All of a sudden it was really quiet minus the chatting, except for the swishing of the fan overhead, the smack of scissors opening and shutting, and the ongoing dialogue on the TV. I watched on the edge of my vision, the man in dark clothing. I had the creepy feeling that he was watching me. I turned to look, but each time I did he was staring straight ahead, still in the exact same position as before. Next to him, a girl with fair skin and freckles scattered all over her nose sat shifting through the magazines from the stand next to her. She did not seem to mind the guy sitting next to her. In fact, she appeared to be ignoring everyone, chewing and popping her gum every five seconds. I groaned as the barber took his time clipping some guy’s hair, glancing at the TV, and taking one snip of the scissors, a single strand of hair floated down onto the hairy floor. A tall boy came out with a broom and dustpan. You couldn’t really call him a boy. The whiskers evidently prove him above adolescents, but just barely. I got up to get some water from the cooler. The barber called the kid over, "Hey, Mike. You mind putting the broom down? I need some help. Come over here and get on a smock. It’s time you put what you learned to use." The boy stood there in shock. I don’t think he was ready to even cut grass. His mouth opened and closed with no sound, his hands trembling as he put on the blue smock. He called my number. Terrific. I sat down on the flimsy chair, trying to get comfortable as comfortable gets. I squirmed a little as he lifted the tarp around me and secured it at my neck. He stood there for a while examining my head. It was no use. I sighed. He looked sharply at my reflection and I tried to smile confidently. It didn’t work. With the tip of his two fingers, he lifted clumps of my hair and with the scissors, managed to cut what stood in its way. Not too short, I told him. A few centimeters. He nodded. He was taking his time, like cutting each thread of hair one by one. I managed not to groan again, but just sat still in the ascending chair. It was actually much cooler here, the wind whisking through the open doorway to my side. He moved my head this way and that. His clammy hands clumped under my chin and top of my head, firmly trying to get the right angles. And we simultaneously sighed. It was a frightening ordeal for the both of us, but at least I was the one sitting down. I just don’t know where all a sudden that sympathy came from. Maybe it’s the heat, I thought. I should just be feeling sorry for myself. The other barber finished with his customer and called for the next. The girl with her gum, minus the magazine got up and cut down at one of the wobbly chairs. "What would you like?" asked the barber. "I’d like it to be really short, like a boy cut," she said. He frowned, looking down at her flowing, long hair. We all looked, and at once became nervous. "But you have such pretty hair. Why do you want to cut all of it?" "Just do it okay?" she gave him a testy look. "I’m going to pay you." The old barber opened him south to protest, but he stopped in mid-sentence, realizing no words will move her and it would mean losing a customer. He wisely shut his mouth and looked up at the heavens to pardon what he was going to do against his will, starting to cut in a straight line, her pretty auburn hair falling in thick clumps. Another girl came in, holding onto who I presume was her younger brother. He carried a toy fire-truck with one hand, making zooming and siren noises over the air as if the vehicle had a flying engine. She looked at the people waiting in lined chairs and came over to the guy cutting my hair and started gushing all over him. She starts flirting and touching his arm here and there, and when referring to herself moved her hand to her shoulder in emphasis to herself, as if she needed to show who she was talking to or about. The boy was just taking all of this in. He was too dense to realize what she was doing, paying no attention to my head of hair. I almost got up to protest, but, hey, all guys need their day. She starts sticking her chest into my face and I’m getting nervous. Crap, I’m feeling a headache coming on. All of a sudden there was a clutter of noise and I heard the little boy crying. "What the…" said the barber. "Andy!" screamed his sister, as the kid continued bawling. Blood and the razor were scattered on the floor. A red droplet appeared on the boy’s forefinger from the wound. He held his injured hand out like a sacrificial offering. The sister ran over, forgetting to seduce the barber guy. He looked a little disappointed, but his five minutes in the spotlight were up. The other barber bandaged the little boy’s finger and gave him a lollypop, which seemed to settle things. The girl went to the chairs, having been embarrassed enough by the outcry and bustle, sat docilely down at the chair the girl with the long hair had moments ago left, looking through the magazines, her brother quiet and satisfied at her feet. He played a while sucking his candy on the grimy floor running his toy truck around the clumps of hair that the wind had swept over, gross obstacles that he avoided. I closed my eyes to everything. It was getting too much for me. I felt like my head was going to explode into a million pieces of confetti and scatter red paper all over the wind swept floor. I gathered in my breath to soothe my fried nerves. I just couldn’t wait to get out of here and relax somewhere quiet. I forgot everything as my mind slipped from the present moment. My breathing became regular, my hands still gripping the hand rests, and my head cowered over my chest. I don’t know how I fell asleep. I just did. The guy barber left me alone. He no longer moved my head from side to side. He just kept cutting away, eager to finish and get away. I remember listening to the momentary snips of his scissors, which seemed to dull my senses into the numb recesses of sleep. Then there wasn’t movement for a while, and I guess that as what woke me up. I sat up, dazed. There was a silence as he inspected me, and said, "Well, that’s it, I guess." I looked at my reflection, and it certainly was a sight to see. My large ears, which I grew my hair out to hide, stuck out like bicycle handlebars, and it didn’t help any that one side was shorter than the other. My bangs, small ‘til the edges of my hairline, was cut in a straight line across my forehead. I thought I would look better bald. I got up and tore the tarp off me. "What the hell did you do to my hair?" I asked. I slide my hand over my head. My once beautiful, beautiful hair. He looked apologetic, but then he shrugged, and that really pissed me off. "I’m not going to pay for this, you asshole," I screamed, pointing my finger at his chest. I knew I was starting to lose it but I couldn’t stop myself. The other barber came over, overhearing our conversation. "Well, you better. You came here for a haircut and you got one, so don’t come into my shop and complain. You got what you asked for." "What?!" I cried. "What the…this is what I get from you, you piece of shit!" and automatically I lunged at the barber, the younger one blocked me as I tried to get to him. We were hugging each other this way until the older barber stopped, freezing, as I tried to grab his head of waxed-on hair. "Okay, okay. It’s cool. Put the gun down please." The man in black stood over him, his gun pointed at the barber. His hand shook and sweat poured down, raining a river on us. We slowly backed away, leaving the senior barber standing with a gun to his head. The barber was petrified, and I got a certain satisfaction over this, but things were getting way out of hand. "Get up now," said the man in black hovering once again in the edge of my vision, in a cold voice through his clenched teeth. "Do…do you want the money. I’ve got money…please take everything you want. Just don’t shoot okay?" The room was a silent tomb. The sister and her kid brother was sniffling quietly in the corner, the sister clutching to her brother. The grandfathers were silent too; the words that a moment spewed freely from their old lips were now caked with saliva like dried mud to their tongues. The girl who wanted to chop off all her long hair was long gone, having smartly sneaked out of the shop when she saw the gun. "I said be quiet!" screamed the man with the gun, though nobody had really said anything. His head tilted a little to the side as if listening to something. "Get the money," he said to the barber, quietly, and then, "Now!" The senior barber scrambled to the cashier, stuffing everything into a plastic bag. I could hear everyone breathing. It was that quiet and frightening. And then, the man holding us up started talking to himself. "Shut-up. I don’t want to hear anymore. Shut-up!" he said, swinging his arms, occasionally slapping himself. The room suddenly became very suffocating, the air thinning, and the heat squeezing our breathes out. It was as silent as a church on a weekday, but everyone was praying as if they were in a holy building anyways. "I’m counting to three and you better go away. One…" "Sir, do you want us to leave?" The man turned toward the girl by the magazines, and shouted, "Shut-up!" Using this distraction, the barber reached for the phone. The man heard the click as he dialed and veered dangerously on one leg towards him, "What the fuck are you doing? Tell me right now what you are doing!" "Ummm--, I was just…" the barber said clumsily and then fumbled the phone. It fell in a maddening crash that echoed all across the room. The man did not let him finish. In a flash, his arm straight out, trembling just a little, shot two bullets into the barber’s head. The impact drove him back and he fell, crumpled against the counter, his brain and guts a mess on the floor. The sister took her hands off her little brother’s ears and covered them over his face, noisily weeping all the while. We watched as the barber’s body folded over itself and sat there dejected in the puddle of his own blood. And then there was screaming that never ended. Because of the shock nobody moved or ran out. The man with the gun was hunched over now and sobbing. "You fucking idiot," he said, crying to the gun. That was the way the police found him, the gun like a phone to his ear as he talked to his invisible companion. And they took him away, the blood and guts still all over his dark clothes. I sat there on the floor as everyone left, wondering how a normal day like this one, could go so wrong when all I had wanted was a haircut. |
|
| The Haircut lee10@host365.com |
#2 of 4 Runner-up |
| 1576 words | |
| The glass ball hung from the centre of the ceiling;
damaged and unmoving since the storm last November that had cut the power. It
had set those of a nervous disposition squealing. The men had, for the most
part, escorted the ladies back to their tables and helped them to find their
scattered belongings in the dark, using the small flickerings of cigarette
lighters but one or two men had taken advantage of the panic to grope
particularly pretty girls. One young man, Jason Malloy, had been caught
red-handed, fondling the blonde bombshell from Birstall, as a sudden flash of
lightening slashed through the ballroom's long windows and lit up the scene.
Chrissie had been amongst the hundred or so people present that evening. She
had seen her boyfriend touching up the blonde. Chrissie reacted violently.
Eventually, her two friends managed to pull the screaming virago away from the
badly mauled Jason and had dragged her, screeching, from the dance hall.
And now, six months later, remembering that night, Chrissie sat with her elbows on the table, her chin in her cupped hands, staring at the ball. Though it no longer revolved, its glass mosaic faces still reflected the manic, dancing, blue, red and green disco lights. Sally plonked herself down in the next chair, jogging the table and spilling the drinks. Jerked back to the present, Chrissie grumbled, "Clumsy oaf." She sighed dramatically, "We'll never make a lady out of you." "She's a sow's ear," laughed Jen, following Sally from the dance floor. "We'll never make her into a silk purse either. The basic material's too coarse." Ignoring the insults, Sally asked, "Guess who I saw at the bus stop tonight, then?" Chrissie mopped up the spilt drink with a paper tissue. "I couldn't possibly. Who?" "You know, that burke you were seeing." "Which particular burke would that be?" Jen asked. "Chrissie's managed to collect a few in her time." Chrissie punched Jen's arm. "Shut up. Can't you see Sally'll burst if you don't let her get a word in edgeways? Go on, Sal." "Your ex. Your what's his name? Jay? Gerald?" "Jason?" "That's the one!" "Why on earth should I be interested in what he's up to?" Chrissie sniffed. "Good riddance to bad rubbish, I say." "You don't want to know then, that he was with Janet Armstrong?" Chrissie and Jen shrieked in harmony. "Janet Armstrong?" "And, what's more," Sally smirked, "they were going ballroom dancing." "Ballroom dancing?" The pair echoed Sally again. "How do you know they were going ballroom dancing? Did you ask them?" "No, Chrissie. I did not ask them. I wouldn't speak to those nerds if you paid me. No. She was wearing one of those flounced out skirts with lots of petticoat thingies underneath and far too much makeup. And she had her hair tied back into such a tight bun, I swear she couldn't have closed her eyes if she'd have tried." "Always was a stupid cow," Jen remarked. "And," Sally said, "He was no better. His hair was slicked down on his head with a dead-straight parting, like Barbie's Ken. They looked a right pair, I'll tell you. Her in her high heels and him in his patent leather shoes." Chrissie remembered Jason's hair. It had been his best feature; a thick, blond mop that would curl enchantingly beneath her teasing fingers. Unlike most of the pseudo-cowboys at tonight's charity line dancing event, Jason had looked adorable wearing a Stetson, with just a few of those curls showing beneath the brim. "Dork!" Chrissie snorted. Jason's good looks hadn't prevented him being terminally stupid. Another Country & Western song was being played. "'Tush Push'!" Sally shouted and jumped to her feet. Chrissie snatched her glass from the dangerously rocking table. "Coming, Chris?" Jen asked. "No," Chrissie replied. "We've already done 'Tush Push' twice tonight. I couldn't face it a third time." "Please yourself." Jen followed Sally. Chrissie finished her wine and watched the dancers jostle for their favourite places on the dance floor. Most of the women wore tight, black jeans and black tops aglitter with diamantés. It's a shame, Chrissie thought, it's no longer in the fashion for women to wear hats. She sighed. She knew she'd looked good in hers with its tip-tilted brim. Most of the men still wore cowboy hats. Charlie's, she noted, was getting a bit floppy and the man with the Garth Brooks' shirt pulled taut across a round paunch would have done better to wear a smaller hat. His grey Stetson floated around the tops of his ears, turning direction long after he did. A big-busted woman, undulating towards the dance was stopped when someone blocked her path. Her breasts though kept on moving. Like a Mexican wave, Chrissie chuckled. She saw Serious Dave turn the wrong way, to be met by a line of smiling, white-haired grannies dancing towards him. The horrified look on his face was priceless. Jen and Sally were being shadowed by a couple of gawky, young cowboys. The four of them smiled and teased each other, oblivious to the other dancers. Chrissie sighed again. Looked like she'd be going home on her own. She needed another drink. It was Jen's round but Chrissie collected the empty glasses thinking, what the hell? The glasses chinked in her hand as Chrissie slid between two tables, heading towards the crowded bar but when the crush parted like the Red Sea, Chrissie stopped dead in her tracks. A stranger stood with his back to the bar, framed in the gap. The sound of music faded as Chrissie's whole attention focused down on the hunk. With her free hand she pushed a strand of auburn hair from her eyes, to get a better view. He was about 25, just above average height, slim but with well-toned muscles beneath a black, sleeveless T-shirt. His thick, dark hair had a matt sheen and tapered into the nape of his neck His sideboards were long, blue-black. Chrissie ached to climb up them with her fingers. His chin was shadowed like midnight emery board. She wondered how it would feel to rub her cheek against his; rough and rasping, like a lion's tongue, she fanaticised. He's beautiful, Chrissie thought. He was wearing blue jeans, tight blue jeans with deep turn-ups. "They don't leave much to the imagination, do they?" Jen came up behind Chrissie. Chrissie shook her head slowly. "Boy, oh boy, oh boy." Her eyes traced upwards, from the thick crepe soles of his beetle-crusher shoes, lingered on his heavy, silver belt buckle, to the black, leather jacket hooked nonchalantly over his shoulder, to the swarthy quiff that overshadowed his deep-pooled eyes. The stranger had a lean and hungry, rebel-without-a-cause attitude as he surveyed the mincing cowboys leaving the dance floor. By the derisive look on his face, it was obvious he found them wanting. The woman who was taking money at the door went across and spoke to him. He looked down on her and shook his head. His sudden smile made Chrissie's heart loop the loop. "Look at that smile," Chrissie oozed. "I'd follow a smile like that to the ends of the earth." Jen laughed. "Quick, Sally. Take those glasses off her before she drops them." The stranger turned from the bar and moved towards the door. His hips swayed provocatively. The light from the bar caught the back of his head. The dark waves of hair had been carefully combed into matt-black raven's wings. "Oh," Chrissie moaned. "That hairdo! Did you ever see anything as cute?" "Hey, girl. Snap out of it!" Jen touched Chrissie's shoulder. Chrissie ignored her friend; didn't even hear, as she was following the stranger with the 60's haircut out the door. "Where's she off to?" Sally asked, her hands full of empty glasses. "I think," answered Jen. "She's going to try the rock 'n' roll at the Palais down the road." "Why?" Sally was slow on the uptake. "I think," Jen told her. "Our Chrissie is in lust." Chrissie followed the stranger through the door and down the stairs; the top of his head, his thick, dark, nearly-black hair visible as he wound down the spiral staircase below her. The faint, tantalising smell of Brylcream drew her on. She followed him outside. As she pushed the heavy door open, she almost bumped into him. He was standing on the porch, lighting a cigarette. He gave her a quizzical look. Instead of apologising, Chrissie bent down. Her black jeans were well stacked over her boots and there was enough to turn up. She straightened and shook each leg to settle the fabric over her Cuban heels. She reached into her pocket, and pulled out a red scrunchy, which she twisted round her shoulder length hair, pulling it tight into a ponytail. The stranger watched without comment until she'd turned herself from a line dancer into a rock 'n' roller. Then his sculpted dark eyebrows, with something of the night about them, rose and fell. "Are you dancin'?" he asked. "Are you askin'?" Chrissie replied with a coy, sideways smile. He threw away his cigarette. It fizzled in a puddle in the gutter. "I'm askin'," he said. Chrissie held out her hand. "Then I'm dancin'," she affirmed. The dark stranger took her hand, tucked it into the crook of his arm and they walked down the road together and into the Palais de Danse, ready to rock. |
|
| The Haircut beautbev@iinet.net.au |
#3 of 4 |
| 2474 words | |
| Today was her birthday and Beth couldn’t think of
a lovelier way of spending it but looking out over her garden. It was such a
peaceful place to sit and ponder. As she looked at her hands she saw that the
once soft skin had taken on an older sheen. That was better than saying the
wrinkles had set in. Unfortunately, time stood still for no-one. Beth wondered
if she would have done anything differently; or if the path she had chosen was
the right one. Most people have at least one defining moment in their lives and
she was no different. Had she taken a different road, life may have turned out quite differently. Beth could have let the grief in her heart turn to bitterness but since she disliked being negative, her thoughts hardly ever swayed to bitter feelings. In fact, that’s what attracted Tom to her in the first place; well, at least that’s what had he told her. It had been many years since she’d thought of Tom. Beth’s mind went back to the beginning of that fork in the road. It had been on her birthday all those years ago, that her destiny had been shaped. She could remember that day as if it were yesterday. The day had started off like any other, except of course, that it was her birthday. For the first time in years she had no-one to spend it with. The self-imposed exile she had placed herself in was her own doing. For months Beth had stayed in her safe haven, surrounded by memories of Tom; but little by little she’d grown tired of her own company. Many soul searching nights had been spent wondering about her future. It wasn’t as if she hadn’t thought of it before, but when the restlessness came, Beth knew it was time to face up to reality. The porch swing seat had passed the test of time. In fact she had been sitting on it the very day that fate stepped in. On that particular morning Beth had taken a break from the ironing she’d taken in. Only the wealthy could afford an ironing lady, but Beth hadn’t been too proud to admit she needed help. Doctor’s bills had mounted up since the hospital stay and money didn’t stretch, even for necessities. Perhaps if she sat there long enough she might find an answer to her problem. At least for now, she could sit for a while and let God take control; but handing the reins over to Him had never been easy for her. She had always liked being in control. It was such a quiet time of day. The men, who were either too old to go to war, or too important, had already left for work; and the women were most probably walking their children to school. The normally bustling street was almost deserted and it was exactly how she liked it. In the distance she could hear a shrill whistle which could only be Mr. Fuller delivering the mail; and that was the reason she was sitting on the porch in the first place. Every day she sat waiting, hoping for news. It had been months since she’d received a letter. "Mornin’ Mrs. Reeves. Nice day ain’t it?" Beth looked up to see one of the Jenkins boys standing in full uniform. She resisted the urge to correct his English. At first Beth thought it was one of the older boys, but on second glance saw that it was her neighbour’s younger son. She realised that he wasn’t as young as she thought; not if the uniform he now wore was actually his. "It certainly is Steve. I’m surprised to see you in uniform. When did this happen?" "I signed up last week. I’m heading home now," he answered with a proud look. Beth could imagine how sad his mother would be. Having all three sons enlist would break any woman’s heart. "Well, you stay safe. Make sure you say hello to your mother." "I will. I’d better be going." He said, tipping his cap. "Oh, here’s Mr. Fuller. Perhaps he’s got a letter from Mr. Reeves." Jack Fuller had slowed down, and as he neared the house, he reached into his satchel. The smile on his face said it all. It could only mean one thing. It was a letter from her beloved Tom. "I told you Tom would write." The older man smiled as he handed her the envelope and reached into his pocket for something else. "And this is from Rose. She said you’d be in the mood for a cuppa," he spoke shyly, handing her a small packet. She smiled, knowing what its contents would be. For a country in the grip of war, this small packet was more precious than money. Rationing had become severe. There were the black marketeers, but even if she wanted to, money was too scarce to pay the exorbitant prices they asked. As Beth lifted the flap of paper that secured the packet she smelt the wonderful aroma of tea leaves. "Please thank Rose for me Jack. Are you sure she can spare it?" "Oh, she’s always got something tucked away. No use arguing with her. I’m real happy for you Beth. Well, I’ll be on my rounds," He said as he wheeled his bicycle to the gate. "By the way, keep a look out for that Eyetie. He’s been pestering the women folk for work. Bloody Italians! Why can’t they stay in their own country?" Jack shook his head as he headed off. Beth stayed silent during his tirade. As pleasant as Jack Fuller was, it was best not to offend the man. He had strong ideas about many things, foreigners being one of them. If he knew she had German ancestry, his opinion may be swayed; and the fact that he had known her since a child would not have mattered one bit. She waved him off and waited until he was out of sight before she opened the letter. Looking at the postmark, her hopes were instantly dashed. She realised it was written a month before Tom had gone missing, and in fact, it was not good news at all; the letter had simply taken longer to get to her than normal. The censors had erased most of her husband’s writing and the only comfort she could glean seemed lost in senseless waste of it all. He talked of the heat and mosquitos so she could only guess he’d been fighting the Japanese in some distant jungle. Tom wrote of the impending arrival of the baby, and as she looked down at her flat belly, the grief hit her once more. How could she tell him that the baby they’d waited so long for had died even before he could take his first breath? The tears had long gone but the numbness was still there. It had been a harrowing time for her not having Tom there beside her. "Ello Mrs. Reeves!" A thickly accented voice broke into her thoughts. "It is very nice to see you." "Mr. Romero! Your English is improving." "My name is Giovanni. Mr. Romero is my father," He told her with a twinkle in his eye. "Maria and I speak only English now," he told her with pride in his voice. "Good for you Giovanni. I heard you were looking for work. Have you found any yet?" "A leetle bit," he answered, eagerly looking at the garden which was quite overgrown. "I could help with garden eh? The grass are long." "Is long," She corrected automatically. "Is long. It needs, how you say… the hair cut." Beth couldn’t help but chuckle. It did indeed need a hair cut. Giovanni’s eyes narrowed and Beth realised he hadn’t understood her laughter. She guessed that people had been less than happy to give him any work. There was so much to do with the men off fighting but people had long memories. The fact that we were at war with Italy did not bear well for the young man. It made no difference that he came to live here long before the war began. "I didn’t mean to laugh at you Giovanni. I’m Sorry. You made a small mistake with your English. Your hair gets a haircut and you mow the grass. Do you understand now?" "I mow the grass. I cut the hair. I understand," he spoke slowly, beaming from ear to ear. "Now I mow the grass?" "Giovanni I have no money to pay you." "I do for free. Maybe when Mr. Reeves come he give me job? Si?" "I couldn’t let you do that Giovanni," she told him, and as she spoke, Beth felt a quiet stirring. His words had sparked something in her. It was then that an idea began to crystalise. For weeks she’d asked the same question over and over again. What if Tom didn’t come back? What would she do? It wasn’t as if she hadn’t thought about it. In fact, Beth had months to ponder on that. The hope had faded that Tom was still alive. He would have found a way to get word to her. She knew he would. It was about time for her to think about the future. She could teach of course, but most of the positions were already taken. When she and Tom had married Beth had no choice but to resign her teaching position. No married teachers were allowed. Perhaps Giovanni had an idea after all. "Mrs. Reeves. You look funny. No sick?" Giovanni asked. "I’m fine. I do have a question for you. Giovanni, how many people from your homeland live close by?" "Very many people," he answered warily. "We good people. We no fight." "I believe you Giovanni. You are good people…. you and Maria." "Why you ask question? Only polizia ask these questions." "Mr. Reeves isn’t coming back. I got a telegram," she told him and when he pointed to her letter with a puzzled look, she continued. "This was posted before he went missing." His face softened as she spoke. "I so sorry. So many good people die. It should not be." "No, it shouldn’t, but it has happened, and it’s time to face up to it," she told him as she got up from her seat. "If Tom isn’t coming back it’s up to me to take over." "You no worry Mrs. Reeves. I will mow grass. I take weeds. Please let me help… Like I help my seester. Si? "I have an idea Giovanni. I want to teach again. Do you think any of your family or friends would want to learn English?" "Si! Many want to learn. Is good idea. You teach me? Si? I cut grass for you." "That’s exactly what I mean. So many people have no money but they know how to work. Mr. George down the road is a cobbler. He fixed my boots for some eggs from my chickens. Do you understand what I’m trying to say?" The words tumbled out as the thoughts and ideas came to her. "Si. I understand. Is good idea. I tell many people Mrs. Reeves. What else I do?" He asked her eagerly "Well, if we’re going to work together, you can start by calling me Beth. Mrs. Reeves is my mother-in-law," she answered him cheekily, causing a throaty laugh to come from Giovanni. That was how it began. Sooner than she thought, her simple idea grew into reality. A handful of people came to her house the very next week for their first lesson and as the year progressed the numbers grew. Her wages for that week were two chickens, freshly made spaghetti and one pound of butter. Later on, when money started trickling in, Beth found life a little easier. They even had to employ another teacher. In only one year there was really no need for her to work at all but Beth enjoyed it so much that she kept on teaching. Giovanni and Maria were her partners and they worked side by side. Eventually they were able to buy a building in the city. After the war there were many displaced people coming into the country, and sooner or later most of them found their way to the school. There were a few dissenters and Jack Fuller was one of them. He was convinced she’d done the wrong thing. He even offered her a job at the Post Office if she gave up her class but Beth could not be persuaded. Sadly, he and Rose stopped talking to her as did many others. Many years later when a Japanese family came to her, asking for English lessons, Beth felt a surge of emotion that took her by surprise but she rose above it. It was one verse from the Bible, memorised from Sunday school, which got her through. "Perfect love casts out all fear." It wasn’t an easy thing to do and Beth discovered a strength she never knew she had when she personally welcomed them to the school; and with that came an understanding of how hard it had been for Jack Fuller and his friends to forgive and forget. Another telegram arrived a year after Beth’s first class. It was official. Tom would never return home. She thought she had grieved for her husband but when the news arrived it hit her in a new wave, but at least this time she knew for sure what had happened to her husband. After many tears had been shed she was finally able to move on. It felt strange that one simple conversation had changed her entire destiny. Giovanni had to take some of that credit. If it wasn’t him asking if he could give her grass "a haircut" life could have been so different; and without he and Maria she would never have met her darling Roberto. He had been her knight in shining armour, as corny as that sounded, and even better, they were still devoted to each other. She heard the front door open. It jolted Beth out of her daydreams. She turned to watch her granddaughter walking towards her. "Come on Grandma," she spoke excitedly. "Grandpa says to come in and open your presents." "Ok sweetie. Let’s go." Looking at her granddaughter Beth realised that had she chosen a different path Carla may not be in her life. Yes, things could have turned out so much differently, and no, she would not have changed one single thing. "Thank you Lord. I have much to be thankful for," Beth spoke quietly. She stood to follow as the young girl skipped back into the house. It was time to leave the past where it belonged and look to the future. |
|
| The Haircut Tom Campbell topcat@spiritone.com |
#4 of 4 Winner |
| 1897 words | |
| It was a soft, sunny June morning as an old white Chevy
Impala crossed the bridge over the lazy, olive-hued Ohio river. The backseat
was packed with a suitcases, a box of records, and a well used acoustic guitar,
while in the front, sitting straight, was David Darwin, the gleam of an
unleashed puppy in his eyes. The final exams of his freshman year were done
with, the brow of Cincinnati's skyline in his rearview mirror, and the radio
playing, appropriately enough, the Beatles' "Magical Mystery Tour." He was on
his way to meet his buddies in New Orleans. Old Highway 57 was a good start to seeing a bit of America on this journey. The trees, crops, and wildflowers, busy with their photosynthesis thing, were doing just about what they should be doing. He couldn't resist leaning out the window and yelling moooo at the first clump of cows he saw. They didn't moo back. It was nice to be on the road amidst the rolling farmland and forests. His soul felt disconnected being stuck too long in a city. David figured he could make it to New Orleans in two days, maybe three if he stopped to see some sights. People were cool in "Nawlins", party animals. It would be fun. After about 300 miles the gas gauge was settling toward E, so he pulled into a dusty little station. A middle-aged man stuck his head out of the garage and then sauntered over, wiping his hands on his grimy overalls. "What yew want, boy?" "Fill 'er up, Sir, please." The man looked him over, gave a little cluck of derision, straightened the John Deere cap over his short graying hair, and ambled over to the pump to dispense the gas. David spotted one of those old Coke machines, the ones that opened from the top to several rows of little bottles and had that metal handle you had to push down. He put in a couple of dimes and bought two. After he paid for his gas he asked: "What about washing the windshield and checking the oil?" but he was speaking to a retreating back as the man flung a "Do it yerself" over his shoulder. David squeegeed his windows and set off back south down the road, determined to be unfazed by one sour apple. A couple of hours later in Tennessee, he turned off onto an old road, flanked by that ubiquitous red clay, and found a spot with a view. Ridge upon ridge of hills becoming purplish in the distance greeted him as he got out the couple of sandwiches he had made that morning, and sat down to enjoy the chirping of various birds and the gentle murmur of the wind. He felt at peace with the world, as one with nature, and after eating, settled back on the browning grass for a short dreamy nap. Forty minutes later, he was back on the road, winding around hills and through forests, singing along with the radio. Sunset approached, casting its orange-red glow, as David started looking for a place to spend the night. A set of old cabins nestled snugly in a clearing beside the road looked inviting so he pulled in and went to the office. A ding of the hand bell on the counter produced an old woman with a worn apron and smudged face who came shambling out of the back somewhere. "I'd like a room for the night, Ma'am." "We don't got none available." "But the sign says Vacancy." "I don't give two hoots what the sign sez. I ain't rentin' a room to your kind. Now git on down the road, sonny." 'My kind'? David wondered. College kids? Northeners? He climbed wearily back into his car. There was a large town about 40 miles ahead, he knew, that would surely have some big chain motel. With the window rolled down so the cool evening breeze would keep him awake, the whoosh of his car was the only undercurrent to the silence of the night. A gaudy blue and orange Howard Johnson's sign loomed at the edge of town. He gratefully pulled over and was politely checked in by the desk clerk, though the cost was nearly twice of what the cabin would have been. The night man pointedly mentioned that the pool was closed though it looked perfectly full of water when David had walked past it. No matter. He deposited his suitcase on the little stand, sluiced off the grit of the road with a hot shower, and collapsed gratefully into the big hard bed. The Ho-Jo's restaurant provided a standard breakfast with a few southern dishes. David tried some grits but had to quit after one bite, since to him it looked and tasted like sand mixed with library paste. He was off at a reasonable hour, enjoying the pleasant contours of Mississippi with its meandering creeks and Spanish moss. In the early afternoon, he spotted a quaint old diner, the kind that looked like a large trailer with striped aluminum siding. He drew stares from most everyone there as he slid into a booth and perused the grease-stained menu. A cheeseburger and fries figured to be safe enough. As he put his menu down, he was aware of some hostile grumblings. A pudgy waitress sashayed over with a pot of coffee, a platinum beehive hairdo, makeup that looked like it was applied with a trowel, and a nametag that proclaimed her to be Doralee. After taking his order, she leaned in towards him and said: "Honey, if I was you I'd get this here sandwich to go. Some of these ol' boys could get a mite rambunctious seeing you sittin' here." "But Miss, I haven't done anything. Why me? "It's that long hair, Sugar. You one of those hippies, ain't you?" So that was it. His haircut. No wonder everyone he'd met on this trip had been rude. It had never occurred to him that they might be wary of him just because of the way he looked. He took Doralee's advice and went up to the register to get his order. These rednecks looked like the type to have hunting dogs in the back of their pickups and a shotgun behind the seat. A couple of them moseyed over to him as he stood waiting. "What's yer name, boy?" "Er, David Darwin, sir." "How come you got hair like a girl?" "A lot of guys wear it like this where I come from." "Well, Mr. Darwin," the one of them said with an emphatic sneer on the Mr. "You better git on back to wherever that is and don't come in here no more." As he fled with his food he heard the other man chime in: "And we don't care fer your theories on evi-lution, neither." David was naive enough to believe that everyone was beautiful in his own way, as the song lyric went. There were foreign students at his university, black kids he had gone to school with who were nice. He visited his grandmother regularly at the nursing home where he was fascinated by stories of the old days and listened to their sound, if sometimes antiquated advice. Oh well. Things would be groovy in the city and he was less than two hundred miles away now. An hour later, his car started belching steam from under the hood. It seemed to be some kind of radiator problem. He let it cool off for ten minutes, poured in the last of his water, and limped the car toward the next farmhouse. On the porch of the weatherbeaten house sat a grizzled old man whittling away at something and a grey-haired woman in a faded print dress, fanning herself. They looked at him with slow curiousity as he walked up the path. "Excuse me, Sir, Ma'am. I seem to be having some car troubles. Is there a garage nearby where I could get it fixed?" " 'Bout twelve mile down the road," the old man said, "but I don't think Wayne or Roy is gonna help no long-haired hippie." "I understand, Sir. It's my radiator overheated. If I could have some water to fill it up with, I'd really appreciate it and be on my way." The man started to say something but the woman cut him off. "You go off to the right near the barn, Honeychile, and you'll see the well. Take what you need." "Thanks a whole lot, Ma'am," David replied, sincerely grateful. He filled up his radiator and his water bottle and took a few drinks of the cool fresh water. As he got in his car and pulled out, he could see the man still whittling, not even raising his head, but the kind old woman gave him a little wave. The twelve miles would be easy to make but then he would have to face the problem of getting service. An idea came to him. He fished a rubber band out of the glove box, tied his hair back, and stuffed it under his Cardinals baseball cap, thankful he wasn't a Reds or Yankees fan. The tie-dyed t-shirt was swapped for an old flannel shirt that he tucked into his jeans just before he coasted into the Neville Bros. garage. "Howdy, y'all. Looks like I got me a li'l trouble with my radiator." The y'all was his pathetic attempt to pass himself off as a southerner but it seemed to be working. Wayne, by the stitched oval name on his dirty blue shirt, lifted the hood for a look. "Yew got a clamp whats worked loose and the hose is about shot anyways. I'll fetch another one." And with that he went around the side of the clapboard building to rummage around the pile of crunched cars that had doubtlessly maimed their former masters. "Where yew headed to, son?" said Roy with a friendly grin. "New Orleans, to, uh, work for the summer. I just got through my first year in college, majoring in...agriculture," David lied. "Hell you don't need to study no ag-ree-culture, right Wayne?" as Wayne had found a hose and was busy with a screwdriver. "Yew either knows how to milk a cow and plow a field or yew don't." They both seemed to find that remark very funny and David obligingly joined in their laughter. "What's with that git-tar in the back? Yew don't play some of them folk songs and protest crap, do ya?" "Oh no, Sir. Jist Hank Williams, Johnny Cash, Buck Owens and the like." David had almost added Charlie Pride to the list but remembered in time that Charlie Pride was a black man. "That's good cuz we don't like that damn hippie music." "Remember the last hippie that came through here? We sent him running out of town like a scalded dawg with his tail 'tween his legs." This brought another round of uproarious laughter as David paid the man his five dollars. "That long-haired boy'll sure remember us." "Much obliged, gentlemen," David said as he climbed back in behind the wheel. "I hope ya'll will remember me too." With that, he tossed away his cap, pulled off the rubber band, shook out his long hair, gave them a friendly wave, and floored it, leaving two astonished men in his dusty wake. |
|
"You're Too Loose"
The Aspiring Editors Club