by J. J. Murray
Naomi beams. "That is so nice of you two. Y'all payin' him hourly, right?"
I turn to Diana. "Yeah, what is the minimum wage these days, Diana?" I only get paid a percentage of each cut, perm, or manicure. I been paid under the table from the get-go.
Diana throws up her hands. "Y'all are tryin' to get me in trouble with the IRS. I ain't gonna be fillin' out forms for the government. I'll just pay him like I do Ruth." She grabs her coat. "I'm goin' to Dude's. Y'all want something?"
"A fish sandwich," Naomi says, "and a bag of fries."
"I didn't know you ate that shit," I say.
"It's for you," she says. "My treat" The girl is still trying to apologize. It would be better if she apologized with a salad.
"Diana, make sure that my fish is fried in oil from this decade"
"I'll try"
As soon as Diana leaves, I get to work, but there ain't nothing to be done. There never is. I know Naomi trims the back of her own head at least once a week, so mostly I trim a hair here and there and maybe comb it out. Today I find a gray hair and snip it away without telling her. No sense in depressing her.
"Did Dewey call?" Naomi asks.
Now I'm depressed. "No. Maybe tonight."
She doesn't say anything, which is good, but I know she's thinking "I told you so." I play with a tiny hair till it stands up, then snip it. "All done" Fastest cut in history.
Naomi feels the back of her neck. "Just right." I whisk her off, and she stands. "Want to play cards with me and Tonya tonight?"
"No thanks" I want to wait by the phone all night watching it not ring.
"You sure?"
"Yeah."
She hands me a twenty. I tried to give her the change the
first time she came in with only a chipped nail, but she wouldn't take it. Must be nice to be single and paid. "What are you doing tomorrow night?"
"Haven't decided. I'll call you"
"Okay."
And with that, she's gone, and it happens the same way every week. She drops in during her lunch hour, gets four or five hairs snipped or rearranged, invites me to do something, pays way too much for no work, then leaves if Diana isn't around to sling some gossip because I'm just no good at gossiping.
And after Naomi, no one else comes in. Diana and I eat our sandwiches, then stare out the window. A pregnant girl walks by. "There go Teresa," Diana says.
"Teresa Smalls?" The little girl who put her finger in the barrel of her daddy's shotgun is all grown up?
"Uh-huh. She a whole lot more eye than meets the ear now, huh?"
"What a shame. Who's the daddy?"
"Who knows? She already got one child and another bun in the oven"
"She can't be more than, what, fifteen, sixteen?"
"She's seventeen"
All that happened ten years ago? Where the hell have I been, Lord?
Diana tenses. "Oh shit. Here come Mrs. Goody MooShoe Gai Pain in the neck herself."
I see Mrs. Wilomena Monroe, a member of Antioch, waddling in our direction. No matter how you cut her hair, it's wrong. She brings us pictures of women from Essence, and we do our best to recreate the styles; but some styles just do not look right on Willie's round, fat head. Diana says that we should staple the pictures to her nose. "Her hair looks okay to me"
Diana dashes to the front door, locks it, flips the openclosed sign, turns out the lights, and runs to the back. "Come on, Ruth!"
"I bet she don't stop this time."
Diana groans, but she still won't come to the front. "She will, Ruth. You know she will. She is just one big of mound of flesh out to take some of mine."
"Wind ain't messing it up at all," I say as Willie waddles closer. "Looks like this one worked. You should be proud" Willie stops in front of the window, waves at me, then waddles on. "She gone, Diana."
"Really?" She sneaks up behind my chair. "She didn't stop?"
"Only to wave" I check the clock. "Nothin' happenin' today. Mind if I leave early?"
Diana tiptoes to the door and looks out. "She really didn't stop. It's a miracle." She turns to me. "Sure. You can go. I'll hang out for any strays"
While I walk home, I think about all the "strays" on Vine Street. If I could somehow collect them all and put them to use ... Nah, I'm just an organ player. I ain't no Pied Piper. Besides, it ain't like an organ is portable. Folks got to come to the church to hear me play.
I stop at the corner and listen to Soapbox Sam for a bit. If Jonas had this man's thunderous voice, Vine Street couldn't contain Antioch Church. It would grow out to the suburbs for sure.
"Y'all upty-ups!" he shouts. "You doctors of dull! Y'all who scritch and scratch in your newspapers, who snitch and snatch on the TV!" He looks down from his milk crate at me and tips his nonexistent hat. "Good day, Miss Ruth"
"Good day, Sam."
"Listen here, you hypo-critic, demo-critic, hippie-critic, arrog-ANT arroGENTS!" He turns to me again. "Am I comin' on a little too strong here?"
"No, Sam. You're sayin' it right."
He winks. "Y'all best unprint the printed, unsay the said, unwrite the wrong, and write the right!" He smiles. This man should be a preacher with that smile. He'll have all the biddies gettin' moist in the front row. He's giving me chill bumps right now. "There's just too much lead and not enough eraser, too much ink and not enough White-out, just too many words darkening the truth!"
"Amen, Brother Sam," I say, and I continue home. I'm almost there when I see Jar-Man sitting in the yard next to my apartment house, that Mason jar stuck up to his ear. "What's the good word, Jar-Man?"
He doesn't look up and says, "Condoms need born-on dating in big bold numbers"
I laugh. "You got that right." Someone ought to write down the shit he says and send it to Reader's Digest. "You warm enough?" He's only wearing a thin windbreaker. "I got a heavier coat you could use inside."
He shakes his head. "Nah. I'm just waitin' on the police."
I move closer. "What for?"
He looks behind him. "Ain't I trespassin'?"
I shrug. "Folks who live there are already trespassin'. Think they all got evicted."
"Damn" He stands, but the jar never leaves his ear. I've always wanted to know why he uses the jar, but I can't bring myself to ask. "Where you live?" I point at the apartment house. He stands and walks over to my yard. "Now am I trespassin'?"
"You actually want the po-lice to pick you up?"
"Damn straight. It's Salisbury steak night, and if you hadn't noticed, it's cold as shit out today."
I can't fault his logic. "I could cook you up something."
"You got any Salisbury steak?"
"No, but I could get some"
He shakes his head. "It won't be the same. They got some good gravy down there at the jail." He pauses and "listens" to the jar.
"You want me to call you in for trespassin'?"
He smiles. "If you would be so kind."
"Are you sure?"
He frowns. "You don't call me in, I start doin' a little Josephine Baker number out here, and I ain't wearin' no underwear."
Gulp. "I'll call it in."
When I get inside, I dial 911. After identifying myself and giving my address, I say, "There's a strange man tres- passin' in the yard wearin' only a windbreaker." No response. "I invited him in to get warm, but he didn't wanna come." Still no response. "I mean, it's cold outside. Can't you send someone to pick him up?"
"He can go to a shelter, ma'am."
"Look, he's old. It ain't like he's gonna be walkin' anywhere tonight, and I don't want him dying in my front yard."
"What is the man's name?"
"I don't know. Folks around here just call him Jar-Man."
"Jar-Man?"
"He puts a jar to his ear, you see, and-" I am getting nowhere. "Uh-oh, he's takin' off his clothes." He isn't, but a little lie might get Jar-Man a warm bed to sleep in tonight.
"He's doing what?"
"He doin' a striptease! With children out there
playing! They shouldn't be seeing something like that! And he ain't weari n' any underwear! You gonna do something?"
"We'll send someone right over."
I hang up and open the window. "Jar-Man?"
He turns to me mumbling something about "this 'hood ain't placed on hold; it's placed on mold." He smiles. "Yes?"
"They on the way. You might wanna do that Josephine Baker number now."
"Are you serious? As cold as it is?"
I lean on the sill. "Look, you don't strip, you don't get no Salisbury steak"
He takes the jar off his ear and sets it on the ground, unzips his jacket, and unbuttons his shirt. "Shit, woman, didn't you tell them I was trespassin'?"
"Yeah. But they weren't gonna come till I told them you were gettin' naked"
He shakes his head. "It's gettin' to be that trespassin' ain't enough to get you arrested on Vine Street" He kicks off his shoes. "What this world comin' to?"
He piles his clothes on the ground and snaps that jar to his ear. A minute later, a police car shows up, and instead of Jar-Man waiting for them to come to him, he picks up his clothes and runs to them. A black officer, one of the few I've ever seen in Calhoun, wraps a thick blanket around him and helps him into the car. Jar-Man turns to me and smiles as the car speeds away.
"That man is crazy like a fox," I say as I shut the window and try not to look at the phone. Grandma always said that a watched pot never boils. So, I spend the evening not watching the phone and cleaning up instead. I sweep and mop the kitchen and bathroom floors, wipe down all the baseboards, scour the bathtub with Dutch Cleanser, and shine my toilet till it blinds my eyes.
When I'm done, it's only seven. The phone hasn't rung, and I have nothing left to clean except my clothes. I look at the pile on the floor of my closet and decide to leave it for another day ... of waiting for the phone to ring. I could call Junie to tell her that I'm going to play at her wedding, but I don't want to tie up the line. Surprised she hasn't called already.
I have nothing to read, don't own a TV anymore, and only have a little radio (that works when you smack it on something) to entertain me. So after a quick trip to Hood's, I sit on the couch and snuggle up with a friend-a half gallon of rocky road ice cream.
Even if it is a "Silent Night," it's so good to spend time with an old friend, don't you think?
`thirteen
In the morning, I feel guilty for eating the entire half gallon of rocky road. The chocolate, nuts, and the marshmallows kept me up most of the night, and when I did sleep, I dreamed of Josephine Baker doing a striptease at the corner of Vine and Eleventh. Don't ask. I feel too bloated to eat my bagel and decide to eat nothing all day as punishment. Yeah, I'm fasting ... and praying that my stomach calms down.
When I get to Diana's at quarter to eight, I see our Friday morning regulars milling around like the cattle they sometimes resemble, but I don't see Kevin. It's early, but I say a prayer for him anyway.
"How y'all doin'?" I say, and I take up my place near the door. The four ladies (Mrs. Johnson, Mrs. Coles, Mrs. Thompson, and Mrs. Phillips) grunt and nod, holding their places in line, hands in coat pockets, and don't make any eye contact. Maybe it's bad luck to look the stylist in the eye, I don't know. Either that or they're pissed because they have to wait. Shit, I have to wait, too. I've asked Diana to give me a key since she's always late, but she says she'd rather be the only one with a key. I don't think it's a matter of trust. Diana is just too cheap to have another key cut.
As the chilly wind burns my face and tightens my jaw, I remember another cold morning waiting in front of a glass door. Grandma had just died, and because I was only twenty, there were some problems with the transfer of Grandma's house to me. I got to the courthouse a little after seven A.M. and saw a bunch of white women behind the counter inside chomping on biscuits, sucking down coffee, laughing, and giggling. I tapped on the door and waved at the woman closest to me, but she pointed at her watch and mouthed "Seventhirty." So I waited, stamping my feet, blowing on my hands, turning away from the wind, hoping I wouldn't die of frostbite. At about quarter after, a white woman joined me at the door, and Miss Gotta Eat My Biscuit opened the door. Fifteen minutes I waited, and she opens it the second a white woman showed up. "Who's first?" she asked. "Who you see?" I wanted to ask, but all I could do was gasp and stop moving. When I did, Miss Biscuit waited on the other lady first. Two women with white daddies, but only one of us got decent treatment. Twenty years ago it happened, and I can still remember. Cold, windy days like this always bring back the day I lost my grandma's house at the courthouse.
At five till eight, Kevin straggles around the corner and freezes when he sees us. Bet he never had a crowd like this over on Fifteenth. I smile at him, but he doesn't smile back. Stage fright. Bet his hands are gettin' sweaty. I feel my own, and they're a bit moist, too. Guess I'm nervous for him. He eventually slips through the crowd and joins me.
"Mornin', Mr. Myers" I tug on the bill of his New York Yankees cap. It hides the scars on his head but not on his face. The ladies don't seem to notice yet.
"Mornin', Mrs. Borum ."
"You ready?"
"Hope so "" He blows in his free hand. "Pretty cold today."
I put my arm around his shoulders. "And it's your job to warm us all up" I turn to the ladies. "Y'all know Kevin Myers, right?" More grunts and nods, but at least they didn't turn away or grimace. "Kevin's gonna take y'all's requests, play some music while you're gettin' your hair done, so y'all be thinking up songs for him to play."
"Will it cost extra?" Mrs. Thompson asks. Bitch never tips and holds on to her money that extra second so you have to tug it away from her.
"No, Mrs. Thompson," I say. "It's all part of the service. You have a request?"
"I do," Mrs. Coles says. "I'd like to request that the damn door open at eight like it says so on the door." Grunts and nods.
I turn to Kevin and whisper, "You know that song?"
"Which song?"
"The one called `The Damn Door Should Open At Eight'?"
He finally smiles. "No"
I lean in closer. "Better play some James Brown, then. You know `Hot Pants'?"
"Yeah. All four parts"
"Good" I got to dance me off some ice cream, and when you play any James Brown song, you get a workout. He ought to come out with a videotape called "The Godfather of Soul Workout" Dag, some of his songs are thirteen minutes long.
Diana shows up at five after, and the stampede begins, Mrs. Johnson in the lead. I put out an extra folding chair for Kevin since the waiting room (all two chairs' worth) is full. Kevin opens his case, looks at the chair ... and sits on the floor between my chair and Diana's.
"You could sit in the chair," I say to him.
"I'm all right," he says, beginning to tune his guitar.
"You're liable to get right hairy," Diana says, throwing a gown on Mrs. Johnson while I do the same for Mrs. Coles.
"Already am," Kevin says, and Mrs. Johnson smiles. I have never seen Mrs. Johnson smile before. She's a lemoncolored lady who looks like she sucks on lemons twentyfour-seven, her lips all wrinkly and tight.
"You have a request for Kevin, Mrs. Johnson?" I ask.
"What about me?" Mrs. Coles whines.
"Mrs. Johnson was first in line."
"Ho always gotta be first," Mrs. Coles huffs.
Mrs. Johnson's lemon face returns. "I do have a request, but I doubt that he knows it," she says loudly. She thinks she has to be loud since she wears a hearing aid and can't hear herself speak.
"Try me," Kevin says.
" `Oh, Girl' by the Chi-Lites."
Kevin starts the intro ... and it sounds just like the ChiLites. Kevin hit them forty-fives hard last night. "I don't have to sing along with it, do I?"
Mrs. Johnson's head moves to the beat. "No, child. You just keep playin'." She turns to Diana. "You remember the Chi-Lites, right?"
"They was all Afros and moustaches," Diana says directly into Mrs. Johnson's b
etter, right ear.
"I remember how stylish they were with their wide-lapel shirts, fancy suits, and handkerchiefs," Mrs. Johnson says.
Mrs. Coles grunts. "They were wearing leisure suits, girl. Didn't your husband wear leisure suits up till the day he died?" She's always trying to start something, and I don't mean to be cruel, but a bulldog has a cuter face than Mrs. Coles. Better teeth and breath, too.
"They were stylish," Mrs. Johnson says with a nod. "And the Chi-Lites were clean-cut boys, always smiling. Not like these rappers today."
"Bet you liked the Dramatics, too," Mrs. Coles says with a sneer.
Mrs. Johnson smiles. "Yes, I did."
"You would," Mrs. Coles says. "They looked like rejects from a marching band"
"They did not!" Mrs. Coles snaps.
"Did, too. White buck shoes, vests, stripes down their pant legs. All they needed was the fuzzy hats and the batons"
"What's wrong with that?" Diana asks.
Mrs. Coles grimaces. "Nothin'. Just sayin' what I thought they looked like, damn. Don't mind me. I'm just entitled to my own damn opinions, that's all. Shit."
Kevin finishes the song and looks up at Mrs. Coles. "You got a request?"
Mrs. Coles smiles and looks at Mrs. Johnson. "Yeah. Play me some James Brown"
He looks at me and winks. " 'Hot Pants'?"
"Nah, boy. Play Mrs. Johnson's theme song" She sucks in a deep breath and yells, "It's called `Talking Out Loud And Saying Nothing'!"
"Oh, I just love that song," Mrs. Johnson says.
"Don't play that one, boy," Mrs. Thompson says from her chair in the waiting area. "Play 'I'll Be Around' by the Spinners."
The woman next to Mrs. Thompson, Mrs. Phillips, the quietest, most ancient woman around with a thick shock of white hair, starts cackling and tapping her skinny feet on the floor, her ankles no wider than my pinkie.
"What you laughin' at, Emma?" Mrs. Thompson asks.
" `I'll Be Around'? You already been around, Anita. Ain't no `I'll Be' to it. Ain't a man on Vine Street that don't know Anita Little Johnson"
Mrs. Thompson stands and puts out two bony fists in front of Mrs. Phillips. Oh shit, wrinkled ladies about to rumble. "I told you never to call me that!"