by Vincent Lam
Sri stood, his hand at the doorknob. “Please don’t hesitate to ask any further questions—about the medical issues.” Relatives asked things he had no idea about—whether the car would be towed, or which hairdresser had given the last trim. Why did they care, now that these things were in the past? As soon as Sri felt the distance of closing the door behind him, he felt badly for thinking that. After all, the trivia was their property to care about, to console themselves with.
The nurse wrote down the address of the hair salon to help Mrs. Wilhelm and Tomas find the car. Tomas crumpled it into his pocket; 487 Fenning Avenue. As they drove from the hospital, neither Mrs. Wilhelm nor Tomas commented that this was not the address of the usual barber. It was early evening, and the winter sky had been dark since late in the afternoon. The gusts of falling snow were lit by streetlight. The snow comforted Tomas, filling the harsh air with softness. The early black evening made it feel like it was time to be at home, to sleep and be ignorant. Perhaps to watch television, and to allow the seduction of flickering cone-light from thirty-nine cable stations.
“I’ll take you home, Mother?”
“I don’t want to be alone.”
“We’ll call Aunt Sophie and she’ll come over. And Nana needs to know.”
“How will you get his car?”
“I’ll find it.”
“You can’t drive two cars.”
“True.”
Four-eighty-seven Fenning. Tomas pulled over, found a map and looked it up. It was a street in the area that real estate agents called the Upper Beaches, an attempt to convince house buyers that it was a part of the neighbourhood near the water. No one ever referred to the Lower Beaches but simply the Beaches, unless it was the Upper Beaches. When they found Fenning, it was an awkward street containing both houses and small, brick industrial buildings. An auto body shop, a reupholsterer, a hair salon. Tomas wished that he had insisted on taking his mother home, that he had come here by taxi or by streetcar. He could have walked to find the car, and he felt like walking, like having the repetitive motion of walking quickly in the snow, of seeing his tracks behind himself. He slowed down the car. The window of the hair salon at 487 Fenning was still bright through the slats of venetian blinds. The car was not on the street, though there seemed to be plenty of parking.
“Let’s drive up and down,” said Tomas.
“Pull over.”
“The car’s not here.”
“I need to get out.”
Slowly, thinking of not stopping, Tomas eased the car alongside the curb. His mother stepped out of the car, and pulled her green coat closed in front. She slammed the door quickly, and Tomas sat in the car with the engine running. The radio was off. Tomas watched his mother walk toward the hair salon, and thought about following her. He wondered how much gas was in his father’s car, a hatchback. His father often let the gas run low, then filled it up a quarter-tank at a time and said that he was going to wait and see if gas was cheaper tomorrow. His mother had not asked him to come with her, and Tomas saw her go into the hair salon, the blinds on the glass door shivering behind her. There won’t be gas in the car, decided Tomas. And his father wouldn’t have fixed the muffler yet. This would be left to him. He was angry at his father for leaving these messes, and for dying on a street in the Upper Beaches not known to them. Tomas watched the snow. He let it accumulate, and then flicked the wiper switch on for a moment to clear the windshield. He admired the patterns of the flakes on the glass. At first the snowflakes melted upon contact with the windshield, and then when they stuck they clumped so it was difficult to see the hexagonal patterns of the crystals. Maybe I should go inside? he thought. He looked toward the hair salon and saw a man emerge. Tomas turned on the windshield wiper, swept the glass canvas clean, and watched again. He turned off the car and put on his gloves. He had always doubted the uniqueness of each snowflake.
Five minutes, and he thought that two flakes were close, but had to admit there was a minor difference.
Ten minutes, and he flicked the windshield wiper to clear the glass in front of him. It remained grey and misty even with the snow wiped off, because the car was cold and the windows were fogged.
Cold air gusted into the car when the passenger door opened and his mother got in, holding his father’s old crushed fedora.
“He forgot his hat,” said Mrs. Wilhelm.
Tomas turned the key and the engine started, coughed. He put the car in gear and pulled into the quiet street.
“Do they know where his car is?”
“I didn’t ask.”
“This is his new hairstylist? Was, I mean,” said Tomas.
“There were men waiting to have their hair cut,” said his mother blankly. “Your father’s hat was there. A girl came out. I think she saw him earlier. I took the hat.”
The car slid softly around the white corner of the street. Tomas liked this kind of driving, in the winter snow when all movements were approximate.
“So there is a back room in this barber,” said Tomas. As if this explained things.
“There is a back room. For ten years your father hasn’t touched me. Said it was his diabetes, that he couldn’t do it.”
They drove around the block. Then in a wider circle around the next streets. To the east, the streets contained residential houses with miniature bright windows. To the west, it was more small brick factories. Some had been converted to lofts, their faux-industrial stainless steel appliances glinting in bare kitchen windows. Tomas drove in larger circles, slowly down the hushed white streets. Four blocks out, Tomas wondered if he had missed a street, or if the car had already been towed. On the fifth block to the east, there was the hatchback. It had been parked before the snow had begun; the smooth inch of white on it like a shroud. There was a ticket. Twenty dollars. ONE HOUR EXCEPT BY PERMIT, read the sign. Tomas swept off the car and wondered what suit to wear to the funeral. He wondered what the car was worth, whether he could sell it without a muffler, and wished it had been towed. In this car, you had to hold the starter key for about five seconds before the engine coughed and then roared. His mother drove the sedan. Tomas followed. She pulled over, and Tomas put on his emergency flashers. He was about to step out of the hatchback, but then he saw his mother come out of the sedan. She walked briskly to a mailbox, stuffed the fedora into its slot. She got back in the car and drove away too quickly. Tomas drove behind her, saw the rear end of the sedan fishtail briefly as she went around a corner without braking, but it was only a moment before the car straightened out and she continued to drive.
Cynthia heard a woman’s voice in the front of the salon. She told the man she was with that she needed to go out front. To hear women in the salon made her nervous. Women didn’t generally come here, and when they did they were out of place, their motives less clear than the men’s. The women were sometimes Jehovah’s Witnesses who would exhort Cynthia to repent, or they would be teenage girls—strung out and looking for work. Cynthia was suspicious of anyone wanting to work here.
A few months ago, there had been a female bylaw inspector and a police officer. The bylaw inspector began, unannounced, to check the rooms to see if they conformed to the municipal code for massage rooms. The inspector quickly and quietly opened her door. Cynthia did not hear her approach because of the penis in her mouth, which, along with the moaning she used to speed things up, had the effect of compromising her hearing. The police arrested her and John, although she later learned that his name was Philip. The officer testified in court that, no, he didn’t have a search warrant, that he had simply been accompanying the female bylaw inspector for her safety when he had, quite coincidentally, witnessed the offence in question. The bylaw inspector seemed to enjoy her testimony, describing what she had seen with a triumphant disgust. Cynthia herself answered the questions simply, plainly, as the legal aid lawyer had instructed her. What she wanted was to address the court and say what was clear to her: Sure I was blowing him. That’s what he wanted, to get off, just li
ke you’re getting off on me now. Cynthia told herself that she was immune to sentiment for the penises that presented themselves, like tubular pimples that needed to be burst. In any case, the penises were a clear arrangement: cash in advance. Her money box, a disguised cosmetics case, was next to the lube. The prosecution lawyer made her angry, the way he enjoyed administering humiliation without paying for it. After that, Cynthia raised her price for oral, and become more nervous about women’s voices in the shop.
Massage itself, meaning with the hands only for therapeutic purposes, was licensed. Clean towels were required, for instance. Inspectors could always drop in.
When she heard a woman in the front, Cynthia put a towel over the man, who lay naked on his back with his erectness close to bursting. She went outside and found a woman, snow damp on her pea-green coat shoulders, holding a fedora.
“This is my husband’s hat,” she said, and looked at Cynthia as if it were stolen goods in a pawn shop.
“Take it then,” said Cynthia. “Go ahead.”
“Did you see my husband?” asked the woman. “Did any of you see my husband?” she asked the three men who sat with their backs to the venetian-blinded windows. One of them smiled and shrugged, while the other two looked deep into the spines of their magazines.
“Lots of people come here,” said Cynthia. “For haircuts. Take the hat if it’s your husband’s.”
“Where do you cut hair?”
“Here,” said Cynthia.
“Here? Where?”
“Right here. This is a hair salon.”
“Well, where’s the hair?”
“Excuse me?”
“The hair. There’s no hair on the floor. Where are the little cans of mousse, and gel, and spray?” There was one lonely barber’s chair in the corner of this front room, its vinyl dull with lack of use. There was a hair-washing sink, over which sat a mirrored shelf that Cynthia suddenly felt was conspicuously empty. The woman’s green coat was wet with the melted snow, and she pointed at one of the seated men. “In fact, this guy doesn’t even have hair!”
“We cut hair. In the back,” said Cynthia. She felt unprepared, not having a shaver or any scissors. Where’s Lorraine, thought Cynthia, she’s the manager. Back there somewhere, making cat noises.
“Take me in back,” said the woman. “My husband came for a haircut today.”
“Do you want a haircut?”
“No,” said the woman.
“Well, in that case, you can’t go back there. The back is only for haircuts,” said Cynthia in what she hoped was a decisive voice.
“Then I want a haircut.”
“You just said you didn’t.”
“Well, I guess I don’t,” said the woman, who suddenly looked lost.
“Then why do you want to go in back?”
“My husband’s dead,” said the woman. “I want to see where he died.”
One of the men put down his magazine, stood, and opened the door just enough to let in a thin knife of snow as he hurried out. The smiling one picked up the magazine.
Lorraine should explain this. That’s why she gets an extra cut for being manager.
There had been that big man, this afternoon. The big man who wouldn’t wake up after Cynthia finished with him. She had tried to shake him, then after a moment she’d slapped him hard across the face, swore at him, and called for Lorraine. He didn’t move. Cynthia called 911, and Lorraine cleaned up the semen, then used the same hand towel to rub Cynthia’s fingerprints off his body and face. Cynthia wanted to leave the salon, but Lorraine insisted that she help get the man dressed. “I’m the manager,” she said. They each pulled at one side to get the pants on, struggled to get the cuffs over the bend of his ankles before the ambulance arrived, tucked the limp penis between his legs and zipped up the fly. They gave their names to the ambulance crew, which were not their real names in any case, but were the ones they used in the salon.
“I just finished his haircut,” Cynthia told the big paramedic, who thumped on the man’s chest as they wheeled in the collapsible gurney. The blue-coated paramedic seemed to notice Cynthia’s nipples through the T-shirt she had quickly pulled on, which made the whole interaction seem more normal to her.
Maybe he’s not dead, she thought. It looks like he fainted. Sure, he doesn’t get enough, and it was too much for him. The paramedics talked on their radio, and shocked the man on the massage table. He didn’t wake, and they used what looked like a silver crowbar to put a plastic breathing tube down his throat. Cynthia wondered with some satisfaction if he felt it, if he could feel what it was like to have a long tube stuck in your throat and about to burst. Feeling guilty at this thought, Cynthia told herself again that he must have fainted.
“He probably passed out,” Cynthia said after they had wheeled him out and the sirens had faded down the road.
“He’ll be back next week,” Lorraine said. The big man was a regular. The name he gave was Ed.
So, he won’t be back. Where is Lorraine?
The woman in the green coat said to Cynthia, “You don’t cut hair, do you?”
“It was my manager who took care of your husband.”
“How exactly do you take care of people?” asked the woman, and then she grabbed the magazine from the bald, seated man. “How will this little girl take care of you?”
The man’s face flushed red, and colour swept over the top of his head. He said nothing.
“Do you want the money back?” asked Cynthia, with a desire to retreat as much as possible from the events of the afternoon. She should have left after the ambulance had gone.
“What?” said the woman.
“Do you want a refund? We don’t usually issue refunds, but I can ask my manager if—”
“You think I want the money back?”
“I was just wondering, because obviously you’re upset—”
The woman looked at her. I’m not stupid like you think I am, thought Cynthia with anger, I just know what things are worth. I don’t want the money, because it’s not worth it to me anymore.
“Give me the money back, then.”
“Then you’ll leave?”
“How much is it?” asked the woman.
Cynthia turned and went back into her room, closed the door behind her. The man lay quietly like a child who had been told to put his head on the table, and he was deflated under the towel. He looked scared, perhaps wondering what the fuss was about—and whether he was about to be arrested.
“I’ll be with you in a minute, John,” she said. She was annoyed that she would have to redo the pimple work. Through the thin wall, Lorraine made repetitive squealing sounds in the next room, which one would think were sexual except that Cynthia heard them all day long. They became like TV commercials in the background.
“What’s going on?” said the deflated man. “Hurry up.”
“You think you can handle me, sexy guy?” said Cynthia automatically, without looking at him.
The cash box had a combination, and Cynthia was careful to keep her back to the man. I’m not giving Lorraine the manager’s cut tonight, she thought. When she turned to go outside, with a hundred dollars in her hand, Cynthia saw that the woman had entered the room. She held the fedora in front of her, looked at Cynthia, looked at the man on the massage table.
“Is this two for one?” he asked, nervous.
The woman took the money from Cynthia. “Exactly where you’re lying,” she said to the deflated man, “my husband died this afternoon. Enjoy your haircut.”
The man sat up.
“So,” said the woman in green to Cynthia, “did he, you know, before he died, did he get what he was after?”
Cynthia saw that the woman had summoned a great deal of courage to ask this with bravado, and she felt badly for them both.
“I don’t know what you mean. You’ve got the money.” She tipped her head to the door and stared straight at the woman, who did not budge.
“Come on, woman to woman, did he
do it before he died?” In this instant, neither of the women realized that they each felt an almost identical mixture of hate and pity for the other. The woman in the green coat said, “Don’t play dumb. Did he come? Shoot off? Orgasm?”
“I don’t think so,” said Cynthia, quietly. “No, definitely not. No.”
“But he paid.”
“It’s cash in advance.”
“Right, cash up front.” The woman stuffed the money into the fedora, turned, and was gone.
“Give me my money too,” said the man to Cynthia. “This is bullshit.”
Lorraine grunted and swore in the next room, and Cynthia wanted to turn down the volume, or change the channel. She shut the cash box securely, took off her T-shirt, stood up straight and said to the man, “I’ll get you off, or you can get yourself out.”
He rested on an elbow for a moment, and then lay back on the table. Cynthia felt lighter, and better for having given back that money. That transaction was cancelled, and she turned to this man’s pimple.
Two weeks later, the ambulances were lined up outside the hospital entrance, and their stretchers filled the hallway. Nowhere to put them. Some of the paramedics had folding lawn chairs and novels, which they always kept in the ambulances for these situations. They sat next to their orange-wrapped patients and thumbed through the paperbacks. Some played cards, and intermittently they asked the nurse in charge whether any beds were going to free up soon.
One of the paramedics, Zoltan, saw a doctor that he recognized. One who was quiet, and therefore the right person to approach.
“Dr. Sri?”
“Yes.”
“I have a question. Let’s go over here,” said Zoltan, and motioned the physician away from the other paramedics. “I’m having a problem.”
“What kind of problem?”
“Personal,” said Zoltan, lowering his voice.
“Personal. Like intimate, sexual,” said Dr. Sri immediately in an unchanged tone of voice, and it surprised Zoltan that the doctor was so unsurprised at the meaning of personal.