The Age of Amy: Mad Dogs and Makeovers

by BRUCE EDWARDS

  I watched Ravi standing behind me in the mirror, as he snipped the tips of my hair. “How is it that you’re still in business?” I asked. “This whole block looks like a bombing range, and yet, here you are, a little single-chair shop.”

  “It’s actually a dual-chair shop,” he said. “I have a private parlor in back. Some of my customers are funny about being seen having their gray colored.”

  “You mean, like celebrities? That man I saw leaving here. Is he famous?”

  “Not really. He just collects expensive cars.”

  “Any of your clients drive those huge trucks? You know, those big, black pickups that can crash through a brick wall and come out the other side without a scratch?”

  I watched his reaction closely. “Not that I’ve seen,” he replied.

  He didn’t so much as flinch at my description of Harley Fink’s truck. Bringing those details into our conversation was probably not a smart move. If Ravi suspected that something fishy was going on, our little chat would be over before my split ends hit the floor.

  “If you don’t mind me asking,” said Ravi, “what brings you to my shop, of all places?”

  I was afraid of that. With my nosiness, I had carelessly given myself away. Now I was the one under suspicion.

  I showed Ravi my barbershop business card. “I found this laying on the ground, and thought, let’s give him a try.”

  Ravi’s eyes widened as he examined the card. “W-where did you find this?”

  Ah-ha! There was a definite quiver in his voice. No doubt about it. Seeing that scorched calling card had him worried.

  I was finally making some headway, when—

  Jingle-ding-ding!

  Through the front door walked a nice-looking young man. He was the athletic type, muscular, like he had just come from a workout. The display case blocked my full view of him, but from the waist up, he was a definite candidate for the firefighters calendar.

  Without saying a word, he reached for a broom and began sweeping. His biceps bulged under the sleeves of his khaki t-shirt.

  “Mornin’, Alec,” Ravi said to the man.

  “Mornin’, Dad,” he muttered back, his eyes facing the floor.

  “Has the daylight blinded you, son,” said Ravi, “or have you forgotten how to act in the presence of a young lady?”

  Alec’s gaze remained on his feet, as he continued sweeping in silence. His broom bristles reached past the display case. Stepping beyond the barrier, I saw that he was wearing shorts. Then I gasped. His strong build was supported by only one leg! The other had been fitted with a prosthetic limb.

  “This is Amy,” Ravi said. “Say hello.”

  Alec tapped his broom on the floor to shake off the dust. Looking down, he said meekly, “Hello.”

  Then he lifted his head up to me. It was a quick glance, lasting no more than a second. His eyes were cold and lifeless. Suddenly, in that blink-of-an-eye moment, the young man’s face filled with life. The faintest smile crossed his lips—a mere lift at the corners of his mouth.

  Realizing that he had become the center of attention, Alec’s eyes returned to the floor. “Ah . . .” he stammered. “I think I’ll go out and sweep the sidewalk.”

  The little bell over the door nearly rattled off its hinge, as Alec dashed out the door with his broom.

  Ravi’s scissors had stopped snipping. His stunned expression reflected large in the mirror.

  “Did you see that?” he said.

  “See what?” I said, puzzled by his astonishment.

  Ravi’s lip quivered. “He smiled! Alec hasn’t done that since coming home from the war.”

  Ravi’s response needed no explanation. We’ve all seen the distressing images of traumatized war veterans—the retreat from society, the broken spirit, the amputated limbs. Like many small towns, Shankstonville had sent its boldest and bravest to face the brutality of modern warfare. Now, I was seeing its aftermath firsthand.

  Ravi composed himself and went back to cutting my hair. “Sorry you didn’t get a proper introduction,” he said. “My son’s having problems readjusting.”

  “His leg?”

  “If only that was all. Do you know what PTSD is?”

  “Sort of. I know it’s a mental disorder. It causes soldiers to relive their wartime experiences in nightmares.”

  “That’s not the half of it. A loud noise or a disturbing sight can bring on excruciating flashbacks. They abuse drugs. They drink themselves unconscious. Sometimes the emotional scars are so deep they become suicidal. Many vets never get over it.” He wiped his teary eyes. “Alec has it. A terrible thing at only 26 years old.”

  The agony Ravi was suffering was hard to watch. My own tears fell imagining the horror Alec must be enduring. But I had tears enough for Ravi, too. Who is to say that a father’s grief is any less painful?

  “How’s his mother taking it?” I said.

  “She died before he was a year old. She’d be awfully proud of him, though. He’s earned tons of medals for heroism.”

  Ravi calmly walked me over to the rinse basin for a shampoo, offering nothing more about his personal tragedy. A blow-dry and a few touch ups, and I stepped down off the old barber chair.

  “What do I owe you?” I asked.

  “Two bits,” he said. “New customers get a special discount.”

  I handed him a quarter. “You’re gonna go broke that way.”

  “Not at all. In fact, business is so brisk that I’m considering bringing on extra help. How would you like a job?”

  “A job? Doing what?”

  “Receptionist. It’s easy. Take calls, make coffee, work the cash register. Consider it a summer position. What do you say?”

  I had come to the 2-Bit Solution barbershop to find answers. So far, I had next to none. If Ravi couldn’t help me, I thought, maybe Alec could. For whatever reason, he seemed to like me, but involving him in my adventure might be crossing the line. PTSD isn’t an illness to be taken lightly. The suicide statistics resulting from it are staggering.

  As for Ravi, it wasn’t hard to see through his smoke screen. He needed a receptionist like he needed a fleet of ships. Alec’s attraction toward me was apparently a breakthrough, and Ravi figured having me close by might help his recovery.

  I was fine with that. But, I couldn’t get too close to Alec. He was a good-looking guy, and all that, but he was ten years older than me, and getting involved with an older man wasn’t on my to-do list.

  Still, working for Ravi offered me a chance to unravel the mystery behind Harley Fink.

  I turned to Ravi and reached out my hand to him.

  “How does the day after tomorrow sound?”

  Chapter 5

  War Wounds

  Hubert and I trusted each other implicitly. If he told me that sheep could fly, I believed him. If I said that a man vanished while driving his car over a cliff, he didn’t question it. Hubert especially liked those kinds of fantastic stories. He was a natural born problem-solver, and loved exploring how the impossible might actually be probable.

  He had his own method for developing theories. First, he used the intellectual approach. What physical evidence was there? What rational conclusions can be drawn? If there were no hard facts, he turned to his imagination. That was easy for Hubert. If his nose wasn’t buried in a science textbook, it was deep in a comic book. He may have been a student of logic, but he was headmaster at the University of Comic-con.

  After bringing Hubert up to speed on my search for Harley Fink, these were the theories he came up with:

  On How He Evaded the Police

  “This is a classic example of shape-shifting. Medieval folklore is full of tales where humans transform into animals—ravens, toads, rats. The police couldn’t find Harley Fink because he changed physically. He turned himself into a toad and hopped out the car window.”

  On Disappearing

  “Like Miss Jeffries says, things don’t simply disappear, but they can change to another state. Le
ave an ice cube out on the counter and it melts. The solid object appears to have vanished, but it has merely assumed the form of water. Harley Fink didn’t disappear, he melted! At this very moment, he may be a puddle, or hiding out in someone’s backyard swimming pool.”

  On Ravi’s Involvement

  “Your barber is actually a wizard. He provided the catalyst that gave Harley Fink his magical powers. Harley might have drunk a magic potion. Ravi could have cast a spell on a piece of fruit. That’s it! He provided the apple, and Harley bit into it.”

  On Alec

  “No comment!”

  Alec’s attraction to me didn’t sit well with Hubert. Ever since I rejected his offer to take me out, Hubert clams up at the thought of me with another boy.

  “I knew this would happen,” I said. “There’s nothing going on between me and Alec.”

  “So you say. Then why did you take the barbershop job?”

  “I told you. To get information.”

  “And what else?”

  Hubert insisted he was only trying to save me some heartache, but I knew better. He was showing the jealous side of his personality. Of course, I knew exactly how he felt. I experienced that same emotion when he agreed to date Lydia, only I kept my feelings to myself. Hubert’s protest was actually kind of flattering. It gave me a little buzz, even though you shouldn’t gain pleasure from someone else’s grief.

  Hubert calmed down after I told him about Alec’s battle with PTSD. He was familiar with the disorder, and the difficulties in overcoming it. He suggested that If I truly wanted to help Alec, that I learn more about his affliction—and Hubert knew just where to go for advice.

  Leisure Dale Manor was a retiree’s dream—big, airy, modern, with lots of activities for seniors. It was the perfect place to live out your golden years. The smell of fresh-cut flowers was everywhere. Its residents were well cared for and thoroughly content. The only bad apple of the bunch was Hubert’s grandfather, Lester.

  Hubert and I often stopped by the retirement home to lunch with him. Grandpa Lester was a strange old coot with a peculiar sense of humor, but you never heard anyone say a harsh word against him.

  Our visit was more of a fact-finding mission than a get-together. Lester had been a Medical Corps officer in Vietnam, and had experience attending to soldiers with PTSD.

  “Hello, again,” said the young woman at the reception desk.

  “How’s my grandpa doing today?” asked Hubert.

  “In rare form. So far this morning he pinched two nurses, and came to breakfast with a bed pan on his head.” She picked up the house phone. “I’ll let him know you’re on your way up.”

  Lester’s 2nd-floor apartment was modest in size, yet very comfortable. A large picture window overlooked a lush courtyard garden. It was warm and cozy, and except for smelling like sweaty socks, very homey.

  Lester was pretty sharp for an old guy. He was well read, and did crossword puzzles like a fanatic. He could name old song titles, quote speeches from classic movies, and knew every line of every episode of The Honeymooners. Remembering names, however, was not one of his strong suits.

  “Grandpa!” said Hubert.

  “Humphrey!” said Lester.

  His mobility wasn’t so good either, which meant spending most of his day in a wheelchair. He struggled to stand up to greet us.

  I rushed over to him. “Easy, Les,” I said. “We’re heading down to lunch in a minute.”

  Lester gazed up at me through thick prescription glasses, studying me like a rare painting. “Who’s this pretty young thing?” he asked Hubert. “Your new girlfriend?”

  I settled Lester back into his chair. “We’ve met before,” I said. “I’m Amy. You haven’t forgotten me already, have you?”

  “Balderdash!” he exclaimed. “I never forget a face, especially one as radiant as yours.”

  It was a kind remark, and I would have blushed from his compliment, but Hubert’s grandpa was having fun with me, and we all knew it.

  We wheeled Lester down the wide hallways, past delicate women in walkers, and frail men with oxygen hoses in their nostrils. In the elevator two elderly ladies, wearing purple outfits with matching red sun hats, rode with us to the ground floor.

  “Hi, Gladys. Hello, Gertrude,” Lester said. “You both know my grandson, Harold.”

  “Yes,” said one of the ladies, “And who is he with today?”

  “This is Amy, his mistress.”

  The old gals giggled at his sauciness. One leaned over to me and whispered, “He’s in rare form.”

  We entered the brightly-colored dining room to an old showtune playing over the sound system.

  “‘Mad Dogs and Englishmen,’” said Hubert’s grandpa, “Noel Coward, 1931.”

  Old friends offered their hellos to Lester as we crossed the dining room. Settling ourselves around his table, I scooted Lester in. “That far enough?” I asked.

  “Yes, thank you,” he said. “How would you like to be my permanent caregiver?”

  “You don’t want Amy,” Hubert interjected. “She can’t afford the time. She’s too busy making trouble for the rest of us.”

  Lester pinched my cheek. “What? This delicate flower?”

  Our server breezed passed our table. “Lunch will be out in a minute.”

  I unfolded Lester’s linen napkin into his lap. “Mind if I pick your brain while we wait?”

  “Not much to pick,” he said, “but you can try if you want to.”

  “What can you tell me about PTSD?”

  “Shell Shock. That’s what they called it in the first world war. Then it was changed to Battle Fatigue. Now, it’s Post Traumatic Stress Disorder. A so much more pleasant name, don’t you think? But no matter how you spell it, it’s a horrible, debilitating illness.”

  “Is there a cure?”

  Lester glared at me as if I had said something to offend him. “No cure!” he yelled. The heads of the other luncheon guests turned toward us.

  “Grandpa!” said Hubert.

  “Sorry. It’s one of those things you can’t help but get pissed off about.”

  “I’ve read that PTSD is treatable,” I said.

  “Somewhat, with therapy and medication. Sadly, not everyone responds well to it. Some learn to live with the disorder, and go on to live fairly normal lives. Others aren’t so lucky. Then there are the ones who can’t live with it at all.”

  “Suicide?”

  Lester bowed his head, his mind traveling to some distant land. “I saw it in Nam. It happened to a buddy I served with. He survived that horror in the jungle, only to take his own life when he got home.”

  I gently placed my hand over his. “I’m sorry for asking these questions, but I need your help. I know someone with PTSD. What can I do to help him?”

  Lester raised his eyes up to meet mine. “More than you think, Amy. There’s a far better treatment than anything the VA can offer. Love and understanding are incredible healers. Your friend feels alone and detached. Reconnect him with the living. His heart has darkened. You can brighten it. Create happy memories to replace those he carried with him out of battle.”

  Lester rolled his steak knife over with the cutting edge facing up. “PTSD is like this knife. Your friend balances precariously on its razor-sharp edge. On one side is the light of fulfillment. On the other, a lifetime of torment. His aching feet are cut and bleeding. He desperately wants off of it. Eventually, he will fall. Guide him toward that light. Let him fall into your life-renewing arms.”

  I was moved by Lester’s hopefulness, and fearful of it at the same time. What he was asking me to do sounded too much like a commitment. I only wanted to help Alec, not take on his burden. Success would be fantastic, but failure could be deadly. I didn’t want that responsibility, but I couldn’t just turn away from it, either.

  “How do I begin?”

  “That’s easy . . . listen! The time will come when he’s ready to talk about his experience. When he speaks, hear him, and wat
ch a miracle unfold.”

  “Lunch is served!” announced our perky server. Hot plates were set before each of us, consisting of a hot turkey sandwich with gravy and all the fixings.

  “Again?” complained Lester. “It’s Thanksgiving every day around here.” He was back to his old, ornery self.

  Hubert, who had kept silent throughout this whole discussion, said, “There’s one other way to deal with this PTSD thing: prevention. End the wars. Do that and you eliminate the problem.”

  “Harry’s right!” insisted Lester. The level of his voice started to rise again. He slammed the palm of his hand on the table. “No more wars, goddamn it!”

  “Calm down, Grandpa. I was just making an observation.”

  The fire had returned to Lester’s eyes. “Don’t you see? It’s the perfect remedy. I can’t end war, but you can! Your generation can. These pricks in Washington ain’t gonna do shit about it. Get your people off their lazy asses and get busy. Get elected to something: congressman, senator, president!”

  He pushed up on his wheelchair arm rests and wobbled to his feat.

  Hubert steadied him. “Grandpa! Get a grip!”

  Lester picked up a fork and banged it loudly on his water glass. “Ladies and gentlemen!” he yelled, over the murmuring guests. “Your attention, please! I have an important announcement to make. The wars are over!” He slapped Hubert’s shoulder. “Allow me to present the future President of the United States of America: my grandson, Hector!”

  Under the circumstances, you wouldn’t expect a roomful of elderly adults, who could barely walk without assistance, to respond with much enthusiasm. But thunderous applause immediately followed Lester’s remarks. Everyone who was able to, stood up. Cheers echoed down the hallways of the Geriatric Wing.

  “Speech!” demanded the crowd.

  Lester leaned in to Hubert’s flushed face. “Your country awaits your instructions, Mr. President. Give’em hell!”