Born Weird

by Andrew Kaufman

  “Don’t worry about that. I won’t.”

  “I’m not worried about you,” she said. “I’m worried that I’ll start worrying that you’ll start worrying.”

  Paul worked through her syntax. Then he nodded. This made her love him just a little bit more. She did not say this to him.

  “But soon, you know,” Paul said. “She’ll have to meet the baby.”

  “I promise,” Angie said. She held her stomach and ran across the parking lot. They’d waited for her just inside the front door. Lucy led them past the grandfather clock and down the yellow hallway. They stood very close together in the elevator. Then the doors opened, revealing the handmade cardboard sign.

  “Holy fuck.”

  “I’d go in but I’ve just had mine done,” Angie said.

  “Everybody goes in,” Lucy said.

  “I’m not going.”

  “Everybody goes in.”

  “You can’t make us.”

  “She fucking doesn’t even know who we are!”

  “She’s right,” Richard said, “we’re all going in.” He stepped to the door of the janitor’s closet and paused only briefly before he went inside.

  “Do you have an appointment?” Richard heard his mother ask. His eyes were still adjusting to the dark.

  “Can you fit me in?” he asked.

  “Sure. It’s Monday. It’s slow,” she said. It was Wednesday but Richard didn’t correct her. As his pupils grew bigger the image of his mother developed in front of him, like a print. She had aged better than he had. She moved a chair in front of the sink and Richard sat down in it. The water was warm and she washed his hair.

  “A couple of grey hairs in here,” she said.

  “At least.”

  “Are you a family man?”

  “Why do you ask?”

  “You seem like a family man. But there’s no ring.”

  “I’m recently divorced,” Richard said. His ring was in the front pocket of his pants. He rubbed his thumb against his finger in the space where it used to be.

  “That’s too bad.”

  “It’s for the best.”

  “That’s what your generation says. Maybe it’s true. Maybe it is for the best. Or maybe you didn’t love her enough,” Nicola said. She shut off the taps. She stood him up and moved the chair in front of the mirror. The peach beach towel was tied around his neck. She picked up her scissors and began cutting his hair.

  “You’re not going to ask me how I want it cut?”

  “Are you sad?” Nicola asked. Richard turned in the chair. The scissors became motionless.

  “Yes. I am sad. I’m sad most of the time.”

  “Does it bother you?”

  “It never used to. But now it does. Very much.”

  “It’s because the world disappoints you,” Nicola said. She set down her scissors. She took a pair of electric clippers off the shelf. “It continually fails to surprise you. It fails to be as wonderful as you long for it to be. This is where your sadness comes from.”

  Nicola increased the setting on the shaver and turned it on. The electric hum was loud in the small room. She ran it over every inch of Richard’s head. Then she turned it off. The beach towel was removed. Pieces of his hair drifted in the air around his head.

  “Go ahead, look!” Nicola said.

  Richard looked at his reflection. He didn’t look like himself. He laughed. The skin around his eyes wrinkled into lines. These lines were deep and he had not seen them in quite some time.

  “I thought you’d be open to a change,” Nicola said.

  “You were right,” Richard said. He ran his hand over his shiny bald skull. He stood up. Clumps of hair fell from his clothes. “What do I owe you?” he asked.

  “Oh, I do this for love.”

  “Can I hug you?”

  “I don’t see why not,” Nicola said. She opened her arms and Richard held her tightly.

  “Do you have an appointment?” Nicola asked Lucy.

  “Yes. It’s for now.”

  Nicola nodded. Lucy sat herself in the chair in front of the sink. Her mother washed her hair.

  “Do you know the gentleman who was here before you?”

  “Yes, I do. Quite well, in fact.”

  “There are many of these men in your life?”

  “Oh no, it’s not like that. He’s my brother.”

  “I see,” Nicola said. She rinsed out the shampoo. Lucy stood. Nicola moved the chair and tied the beach towel around her neck. She picked up her scissors but she did not begin to cut. “But there are others, no? Men, not your brothers?”

  “Yes. There are.”

  “That you love?”

  “No. Not like that. Not like you and Dad.”

  “Have you ever asked yourself what you’re trying to give them?”

  “I’ve never even thought about it like that.”

  “Because if you’re trying to lose yourself, something I can’t help but recommend, there are much better ways.”

  “But few as pleasurable.”

  “Well, that’s true,” Nicola said. They both smiled. Neither noticed that they did this in exactly the same way. “Are these affairs an attempt to figure out who you are?”

  “Maybe …”

  “And you think that everyone else already knows this? That they know who they are?”

  “I do.”

  “You see, there, that’s your mistake,” Nicola said. She cut away Lucy’s bangs. She cut several long lengths from the back. “As far as I can tell, you remain a mystery to yourself until the day you die.”

  Lucy bit her bottom lip. Nicola lifted her scissors. She set them back down. She picked up the clippers and then she turned them on.

  It is perhaps unfair to attribute Abba’s anger solely to a fear of losing her long red hair. She stormed into the janitor’s closet with her hands in fists. “Enough, Mother,” Abba said. “Enough!”

  “It’s been a busy morning. But I’m sure I can fit you in.”

  “Stop it! Mother?”

  “You have gorgeous hair.”

  “Just come back to us.”

  “It’s so long.”

  “This could be the last chance.”

  “It’s most unusual. This length. Don’t you think?”

  “I need you. We all do.”

  “Maybe it’s just for beauty,” Nicola said. She reached out her hand and ran it through Abba’s hair. “But maybe not? Let’s just give it a wash?”

  Abba’s fingers uncurled. She sat down in the chair in front of the sink. The smell of the goat’s milk shampoo and the warmth of the water made her feel safe. This feeling remained as she sat in front of the mirror. Nicola tied the towel around her neck. Then she handed her the scissors.

  “Maybe you want to make the first cut?” Nicola asked.

  Abba looked at the scissors. She looked at them for quite some time. Then she pulled out a length of her hair, put the scissors quite close to her scalp and she cut. Abba kept this lock of hair in her hand as she passed the scissors back to her mother. She was still holding it when Nicola turned off the clippers.

  Angie, her hair wet, sat in front of the mirror. The beach towel was already tied around her neck. Nicola put her hands on her daughter’s shoulders. She pressed down, hard. Through the mirror Nicola looked into Angie’s eyes. “You know, you’re very strong,” Nicola said.

  “Thank you.”

  “That’s no compliment. It’s your weakness. If you weren’t so strong you wouldn’t have to take it and so you wouldn’t,” she said. Then she lifted her hands and took up her scissors and she began to cut. Angie looked down. She thought about what her mother had just said. She was still preoccupied with these thoughts when she realized that the annoying buzz was the sound of an electric shaver.

  “No! Wait!” she called. But Nicola had already started, so Angie just let her finish.

  Kent entered the room quickly, shut the door with force and stepped towards his mother.

&nbs
p; “Where are they?”

  “Where are what?”

  “The clippers. Where the fuck are the clippers?”

  Nicola extended her index finger. She pointed to the shelf. She kept the rest of her body perfectly still. Kent crossed the room, picked up the clippers and turned them to the highest setting. With great speed and little delicacy he shaved his head. Hair fell in clumps. He turned the electric shaver off and put it back where he found it. He ran his hand over his head. It felt smooth and clean. Then it felt wet and sticky. Kent looked in the mirror and saw tiny trickles of blood flowing from several cuts over both sides of his scalp.

  “Sit down,” Kent heard his mother say.

  Kent shook his head no.

  “Let yourself be helped!” Nicola said, loudly. She pointed to the chair and Kent sat down in it. He gasped and squirmed as his mother applied alcohol and bandages to his head. But he did not verbally protest and he did not try to get out of the chair.

  No one spoke as they gathered in the elevator. They rode up to the main floor. They walked through the gloomy halls. None of them returned the stares of the residents. They didn’t even look at each other as they climbed back into the van.

  Without anyone actually saying anything, Paul was volunteered to drive. Angie sat in the passenger seat. She let an hour’s worth of prairie flatness go by before she angled the rear-view mirror. She looked at them. They all stared at the floor, occasionally running their hands over their heads. Without hair their physical similarities were frighteningly obvious; the broad noses, the high foreheads, the wrinkles at the corners of their eyes. They were, undeniably, her family and they were all together and for the first time since Grandmother Weird had written a phone number on her forearm, she felt that things were going to be okay.

  THE NEXT TIME ANGIE woke up, the dashboard clock said 8:20. Her heart fell a little bit when she saw the tiny p.m. She looked at Paul, who reached over, lowered her visor and tapped the mirror. In it she saw her brothers in the middle row. They sat as far apart as the bench permitted. Richard started to say something. His body language indicated it was of vital importance. Then he stopped himself from saying it. And then Kent did exactly the same thing. In the two minutes Angie watched, they repeated this cycle six times.

  “How long have they been doing that?” Angie whispered.

  “About twenty minutes? Maybe thirty,” Paul said. “Is it bad? It seems bad.”

  “It could blow up or over. You just never know.”

  The van continued forwards. The prairie continued to be flat. And then Richard picked up his camera and aimed it at Kent.

  “If you take a picture of me I’ll fucking break that thing.”

  “Come on.”

  “I’ll break you,” Kent said. Slowly he turned his head and stared at his brother. Richard lowered it to his lap. His finger remained on the shutter release button.

  “You got a problem with photography?” Richard asked.

  “I have several.”

  “Please, give us your wisdom.”

  “Fuck you.”

  “No. I’ll be serious. Tell me. We have time to kill.”

  “Put it down.”

  “Put what down?”

  “Put it on the floor,” Kent said. The van travelled several kilometres. Then Richard took the strap from around his neck and set the camera between his feet.

  “I do not like the fact that it takes the place of personal memory,” Kent said. He touched his beard as if making sure it was still there. “I do not like the fact that it’s become the ubiquitous documenting tool of personal history. That all other methods, specifically diaries and journals, or letter writing, or even portrait painting, are no longer deemed worthy. That now the use of photography has become so ubiquitous …”

  “You like that word …”

  “… so ubiquitous that now the only accepted evidence that an event took place, that something happened, is if there are pictures of it. And, not only that, but your perception of the event is forever cemented, curated, by what the camera documents. If there are no pictures it did not happen. And if you are not in the pictures, you were not there.”

  “Bullshit. You can’t …”

  “May I finish?”

  “Please.”

  “This documentia is now so overgrown that it no longer documents reality but creates it. Since all of our memories are now stored in these external pictures, creating a false perception that the events happened specifically as the photographs describe, we are now a nation, a species, of observers. Doomed to be spectators at the most important events of our lives. That this perspective is now so highly esteemed and unquestioned in its authority has created a means of social control more powerful than serfdom or even the Catholic Church.”

  “You’re bringing Catholicism into this?”

  “Not done.”

  “Sorry.”

  “Throughout the course of human civilization memory has been transient, plastic. The girl who broke your heart can, in time, become simply the girl you lived with ten years ago. Given more time she becomes either the one who got away or the one you can’t believe you almost married. But now, in the reign of the photographic image, the past is no longer malleable. It can no longer shift meaning in order to facilitate the narrative of your present circumstances.

  “We are now, all of us, cinematographers for the movie of our own lives. Not the star. Not the director. Not even the writer!”

  “Well, those are very interesting—”

  “But none of these reasons properly articulates why I hate not only your photographs but your use of photography in general.”

  “Really,” Richard said. The whole car was pink and orange from a sunset that had just broken through the clouds. Angie began to worry. Her worry escalated when she noticed that Richard had started picking up the camera with his feet.

  “The reason I don’t like your photographs is because you use photography as a shield,” Kent continued, “just like you’re doing right now, Richard, and if you fucking reach for it, so fucking help me God, I’ll grab Paul and force him to drive this van right into the ditch!”

  “What?” asked Paul.

  “It’s okay,” Angie said, although she wasn’t sure it was. Richard froze. It remained unclear whether he was going to go for his camera or not. Then he stopped moving his feet and leaned back.

  “Thank you,” Kent said. “Your camera is a bubble, a semipermeable membrane that lets in light and colour but keeps out all feeling. Every time you’re in the middle of a sincere emotional moment you reach for your fucking camera. It’s a portable cocoon. I suspect that you, dear brother, have not experienced a true emotional, honest, heartfelt moment since the day of our father’s funeral.”

  “I think he’s right,” Abba said. Richard looked over his shoulder. He realized that Abba and Lucy were listening intently.

  “You do do that,” Lucy said.

  “Agreed,” Abba said.

  “How long has it been since you travelled without a camera?” Angie asked from the passenger seat.

  “Stop the car!” Richard screamed.

  “Don’t get defensive. We’re trying to help.”

  “Maybe you should just listen?”

  “Stop the van! Seriously. Pull over. Right now. Paul—pull over!”

  “Just go with it, Dick. Don’t be afraid.”

  “Truth isn’t fair.”

  “The right front tire is about to blow!” Richard yelled, and just as he finished saying these words, it did.

  Paul struggled to keep the van under control. It veered into the right lane and only the absence of traffic prevented a collision. But Paul did not oversteer. He did not put his foot on the brake. He let the van decelerate and then he coasted onto the shoulder. They stopped, and for several seconds no one moved and then they all got out at once. Angie was the last to reach the right front tire. Lucy was kneeling down, looking at it closely, although she didn’t touch it.

  “It’s j
ust spooky when you do that shit, Richard,” Lucy said.

  “Very.”

  “Totally creeps me out.”

  “Remember that time when you predicted that Kent would break his leg if he went to hockey practice?”

  “And then I went and I broke my leg!”

  “You should have listened to me.”

  “Or maybe I broke it because you psyched me out. Maybe it never would have happened if you’d just kept your mouth shut.”

  “I’m hungry.”

  “I am too.”

  “Do you think that place is open?”

  “It’s a truck stop. Of course it is.”

  “We need a break.”

  “Totally.”

  “Let’s go, let’s go.”

  “Who’s going to change the tire?” Richard asked.

  They all stepped off the pavement. They began walking through a small field of weeds, which separated the highway from the truck stop. Not one of them looked back.

  “Come on!” Richard called. He knew that in their minds predicting the blowout had made it his responsibility. And as he opened the rear doors and found the jack, part of him did not disagree. He knelt down beside the blown tire. He tried to figure out how to work the jack. He looked back at them. What he saw was perfect. In single file they walked through scrub and litter. The truck stop was their obvious destination. Two parked eighteen-wheelers defined the edges of the frame and the whole thing was lit in purple and orange.

  Richard rushed back inside the van and got his camera. He found focus. He walked three steps to his right, crouched down, and focused again. His finger hovered over the shutter release.

  Richard lowered his camera. He watched them walk across the field. When they were inside the truck stop he took the strap from around his neck. He set his camera on the ground. It stayed there while he changed the tire. It was still there when everyone carried food back into the van and Abba drove it away.

  “JESUS CHRIST THERE it is again,” Kent said.

  Leaning forwards in his seat Kent watched as the Maserati passed them. Soon it was two lengths ahead of them. Its single tail light glowed in the dark. It got farther away and Kent stared at his brother.