"Done," Mr. Bimbaum said, as he floated the towel away from my body with a single rapid motion. I stepped out of the chair and eyed myself in the mirror. I looked, I thought, quite well.
"Thank you," I said. "You give a nice haircut."
"Nice!" and he snorted, picking up an old copy of Liberty, sitting down in the second chair. I waited. My father came in.
"He gives a nice haircut," I said.
My father walked around me, inspecting. "A trifle close, maybe," he began.
Again the snort from behind the magazine.
"A trifle close," my father repeated. "But otherwise acceptable. Bimbaum," and the magazine lowered, "you got a job."
"Can I go now?" I asked. "I've got to get back to Porky McKee."
"Go," my father said.
I went. I ran out the door and down the middle of the street, across the railroad track, then up the hill to school. The marble crowd had dwindled but Porky was still there. He was playing Big Pot now, kneeling on the hard ground, concentrating on the half-dozen marbles left inside the chalked circle.
"Hurry up," I said. "Finish it off."
He did not answer.
"Come on, Porky. Hurry. Let's go."
He stared straight at the marbles, and I knew then he was mad. "Don't tell me hurry," he mumbled. "I'm taking my time."
"What's the matter with you?" I said. "I just got a haircut was all."
"Yeah?" he said. "Well, you been gone almost two hours." I looked up at the school clock over the main door. He was right. It had taken two hours.
"I'm sorry, Porky," I said. "I don't know what happened."
He glanced at me and was about to say something, but instead he stopped and stared. "Willy," he said finally, "that's a beautiful haircut. A really beautiful haircut."
"New barber," I answered. "Named Bimbaum."
We both started to laugh....
The lure of Little Pot kept us more than occupied throughout the remainder of the darkening afternoon. But finally, when the cold dusk winds began and we could no longer see the circle from the lagging line, Porky and I called it quits and wandered home. I waved good-by to him at his front door and ran past the intervening trio of houses to mine. Walking inside, I shouted greetings to one and all. My mother answered, as always, from the kitchen.
Even today, years after her thoughtless and more than abrupt departure, I still think of my mother as waiting for me in the kitchen. She inhabited it completely, leaving it only for such mandatory tasks as shopping or sleeping or playing casino on alternate Thursdays with the Weinsteins, who lived down the block. She was forever cooking, baking, tidying up, so that the room always glistened, no matter how high the stack of pots and pans piled one atop the other in the sink. My mother believed in the curative power of food. Catch a cold? Have some chicken broth. Break your leg? Have a dumpling. And so it went. She was a good woman, kind and less obtuse than most of us, and I know that if they had ever given a Nobel Prize for kreplach, my mother would have won it every year.
"How's the new one?" she said to me, her eyes marking the progress of the rich brown stew bubbling on the stove.
"Look," I said and I walked forward, intercepting her gaze.
"Willy," she said. "My God, you're beautiful."
"His name's Bimbaum," I told her.
My mother nodded. "Nice name." She paused, staring at me. "Turn around slow."
I did. "Father's already hired him. I was there."
"Of course," she replied. "The man is obviously a craftsman."
"You want to know what he said about Father? He said Father was a butcher."
My mother shrugged. "That's strong language. Your father ain't exactly a butcher. But he ain't exactly a craftsman either. Why did he say such a thing?"
I was about to explain when the back door opened and my father appeared, accompanied by Mr. Bimbaum. "Ho, ho, ho," my father said, embracing my mother. "Have I got a surprise. Bimbaum here is renting the spare room. For a small fee. Meals extra. Bimbaum, this is my wife, Emma. Emma, say hello."
"Hello," my mother said.
Mr. Bimbaum nodded.
"You gave my son Willy here a fine cut," she went on.
"Of course," he answered. And then, "Where's my room?"
"Up the back stairs," my mother said. "Where's your luggage?"
"Luggage is here," and he held up a small, battered brown suitcase.
"That's all you got?"
"What am I?" he snorted. "A princess in a fairy book? No, I ain't no princess. I'm a barber. A barber needs scissors. Inside here I got scissors. What more luggage?"
"Up the back stairs," my mother repeated, louder this time. "My son Willy here will show you."
"I'm so blind I can't find it?" Mr. Bimbaum said, stopping me. He walked to the stairs. "If I shouldn't be able to locate it for myself, I'll yell for help." He went on muttering to himself a moment more, laughing and shrugging his shoulders. Then he stopped. "Food is when?"
"Food is when I say so," my mother answered.
"Equitable." Bimbaum nodded. "Very equitable." He disappeared up the back stairs. We waited in the kitchen, listening as the door to the spare room opened and closed sharply. With that, my mother turned and faced my father.
"Ho, ho, ho," she said. "Some surprise."
"Don't you like him?" my father asked, smiling very hard. "I thought sure you would like him. I said to myself, Emma is sure to like Mr...."
"Since when do we run a boarding house?" my mother interrupted.
"Since when do you object to making a little money? Business ain't so good."
"Business is the same as always. And that man got the manners of a pig."
"Well," my father shrugged. "Maybe he ain't sociable. And maybe he ain't refined. But Emma," and he came closer to her, taking her hands, "Emma, you should see him cut hair. This afternoon. I watched. This afternoon he did Mr. Dietrich, the postman, the one with a head that looks like a nose. In ninety minutes, Mr. Dietrich was beautiful. The man's an artist, Emma. A real artist, don't you see? Where else should he live?"
"I don't know," my mother said. "But he's here now."
"Then you don't mind?"
In answer, she walked quickly to the foot of the stairs and cupped her hands around her mouth. "Hey, you!" she hollered at the top of her voice. "Hey, Bimbaum! Food!"
And so Mr. Bimbaum came to live with us.
Until his arrival, ours had always been a happy home. Nothing idyllic; just happy. We all got along well, kept our squabbling to a minimum, and managed to laugh a good deal. But right from the start, the addition of Mr. Bimbaum changed everything.
For the better. He and my father would leave together for the shop in the morning, each carrying a brown paper bag which held two thick meat sandwiches, a sprig of parsley (my mother was always a great believer in parsley), and some kind of fruit. Each night they returned and we had supper together, and then they would retire to the living room to talk about cutting hair. Sometimes my mother and I would join them, but more often we chose to remain in the kitchen, playing casino, but with the doors wide open so that the rhythms of Mr. Bimbaum's scissors could come through. What they did in the living room seemed to me to be nothing but an endless discussion of head shapes, scalp diseases, and scissors technique; but to my father, there was never enough of it. For always it was Bimbaum who terminated their talk, hurrying through the kitchen, nodding to us, then up the back stairs to bed. My father would join us soon after, singing some Polish folk song or other, his face contorted with rich emotion, always accompanying himself on an imaginary mandolin. Whenever my father sang, it was a good thing, showing inner contentment. But unfortunately he was tone deaf and the sounds, sincere as they were, were not particularly pleasant. "Better he should be a little sadder," my mother took to muttering. "If he sings those high notes again my ears will pop." But he sang the high notes, bravely, not flinching, his face a picture of passion or longing or joy. It was irresistible. We found ourselves laughing louder
, longer, and life was nothing but peaches and heavy cream.
For two weeks.
It was evening. Roast and dumplings simmering on the stove, my mother and I watching. Mr. Bimbaum appeared, nodded, and hurried up the stairs. A pause. One minute. Five minutes. Ten. My father walked in. No sound. No singing. Walking past us without a word, he went to the living room. We could hear the sounds of the evening paper.
"No songs?" my mother called.
No answer.
"What is it?" I asked.
"Bad," my mother answered. "Something bad." She hurried out of the kitchen and I heard whispering, then silence, then more whispering. Then my mother was back.
"That Porky McKee," she sighed. "And I thought he was supposed to be your friend."
In a minute I was out of the house running. When I got to Porky's, I rang the bell. The door opened.
"I knew it would be you," Porky said. "I just knew it."
"Porky," I said, "what happened? My father won't talk. My mother won't tell me. What did you do?"
"It was your fault, Willy. Some of it was."
"What did you do, Porky?"
He paused, his voice getting softer. "I had Mr. Bimbaum give me a haircut."
"What's so bad about that?"
"You don't understand, Willy. Your father. His chair was empty. Bimbaum's was busy."
"No," I said. "You didn't do it."
He nodded, whispering now. "I did. I did. I waited for Bimbaum."
"How could you do such a thing, Porky? Don't you know my father got feelings?"
"I had to, Willy. I just had to. You been talking so much about that Bimbaum. I had to find out for myself. And you know what? You were right. Look," and he turned around. "Some haircut, huh?"
I nodded. "You never looked better. What kind of head shape you got?"
"Semi-triangular."
I nodded again. "You're right," I said. "It was my fault. I got a big mouth."
"I'm sorry, Willy. You know I didn't mean anything. It's just that I had to do it. You explain that to your father, will you?"
"Sure," I muttered. "Sure." We waved good-by. I walked home.
I did not sleep well that night, my eyes would not close. I stormed and tossed and stared out the window. I turned on the bed light and read half of a Hardy Boys book. I turned on the overhead light and played Big Pot by myself on the rug. I had wild thoughts. My stomach ached. Twice I raided the icebox, stuffing myself. It was a bad evening.
But the ones that followed were no better. I slept little. In school I misspelled "Illinois," and Porky kept clobbering me in Little Pot. Each day I grew more and more nervous. I confided in no one, not even Porky, which was silly; he would have understood.
Because haircut time was coming around again and I wanted Mr. Bimbaum to do it.
By the end of the fourth week, I was shaggy; the tops of my ears were disappearing behind the underbrush. I knew that I had to do something. I suggested to my mother that she and my father take a trip some place, any place, for a day's vacation. She laughed at me. I watched my father closely, hoping he would catch a cold; he was as healthy as a cow.
Finally, in desperation, on a Saturday afternoon, I spoke to my mother about it.
She handed me a cake of soap. "Go wash your mouth," she said.
"But you don't understand," I began. "You..."
"Stab your father in the back," she interrupted. "My own little Judas."
"OK," I said. "OK."
"Go take a haircut," she commanded. "This minute. No haircut, no food. Now go."
It was a long walk downtown. I carried on a semiaudible conversation with myself most of the way. "Don't you see, Father... Of course I see, son... Then you don't mind, Father... Of course not, son, you just go right ahead..." It was after two when I turned left down Main Street, creeping on tiptoe. Then I was there. I peeked through the glass window.
Disaster. Both chairs were empty. I waited. Five minutes. A man walked into the shop. I peered again. Double disaster. Bimbaum was cutting the man's hair. I waited. Three o'clock. Ten after three. Bimbaum still snipped. Final disaster. It started to rain. That was too much. I stood there in the rain, hoping for something, some miracle, any miracle.
No miracle. The rain increased. I was soaked. I stuck my hands in my pockets and shivered. I sneezed. Again. A third time.
Then I walked inside.
I took off my jacket and hung it over a hook. Bimbaum was finishing.
"Hop up," my father said.
I did not move.
"Hop up," he repeated, slapping the back of the black leather chair. I stared at the floor.
"I think I'll wait for Mr. Bimbaum," I said finally.
Chaos...
I was the first one home. I walked into the kitchen and stood, turning around slowly while my mother inspected. "Very nice," she nodded. "Your father is definitely improving."
"Oh, yes," I said.
"Go change into something dry," she said. I did. Then I came back to the kitchen. Bimbaum appeared, gave his customary nod, and disappeared.
"Where's your father, Willy?" my mother asked.
"I don't know," I said. It was the truth. I didn't know. He had stormed out of the shop as soon as I sat down in Bimbaum's chair.
"Must be busy at the shop," she went on.
"Must be."
We waited. She idly turned the chops over in the frying pan and lowered the flame. Then we heard footsteps out in back. Accompanied by loud mutterings. Then my father was standing in the kitchen, pointing a finger at me.
"Stabbed in the back!" he roared. "By my own son, stabbed in the back!" With that he vanished into the living room.
My mother turned to me, pale. "Tell me you didn't," she pleaded.
There was nothing I could say.
Abruptly, she left the room and hurried out to my father. I took off my shoes and crept to the hallway, pressed against the wall, watching and listening.
"He's only a boy, Morris," my mother was saying. "Remember he's only..."
"Boy, schmoy," my father cut in. "The little pecker knifed me in the back. Here. Feel. Put your hand on. The blood is still dripping."
"Morris," my mother soothed. "Morris."
"That goddam Bimbaum anyway," my father ranted on. "Him and his goddam head shapes. Who the hell does he think he is, Leonardo da Vinci? What right does he got living in my house, eating my food, slopping up my gravy?"
"Does your head ache?" my mother asked. "Are you hungry? Can I get you a little something to nosh on?"
"I don't want food," my father shouted. "I want revenge!"
"Morris, don't lose control."
"Bimbaum." he went on, shaking his fist. "I tell you this. You are one washed-up barber. In this town you're dead."
"You can't go firing him for no reason," my mother said. "You want to look like a fool to your son?"
That stopped him. "You're right," he admitted, after a pause, his voice softer now. "I can't fire him without no cause." He smacked his forehead. "Cause, cause, who got a cause?"
"You don't want Willy thinking bad things about you, Morris. Bad things like maybe you was a small man, or worse, that you was jealous. You wouldn't..."
"You got any chicken broth?" my father asked. "I could use a cup chicken broth to clear the head."
"In the box. It heats up in a second." She stood. I ducked out of sight. I heard her crossing to the kitchen. Then my father's voice, shaking with emotion.
"Bimbaum," he was saying. "Bimbaum old pal. Your days are numbered!"
And they were. From then on, it was only a question of time.
But it did not happen right away. The days passed, days full of quiet bickering and quiet meals and tension, always tension, mounting steadily. It was three weeks later before the end began.
We were finishing dinner, the four of us, racing to see who would be the first one done and excused. My father cleared his throat and glanced quickly at my mother.
"Business is terrible," he ann
ounced.
No one said anything.
"Yes," he went on. "Business is terrible. But not in the way you might think."
"What do you mean by that, Morris?" my mother asked, I imagine on cue.
"Well," he expanded, "it ain't so much that the shop lacks customers so much as it is that the customers ain't getting service."
"What do you mean by that, Morris?" my mother repeated, a trifle mechanically.
"I mean that Mr. Bimbaum takes too goddam long cutting hair, that's what I mean."
"Oh, surely that is not so," my mother said.
"Oh, but it is so," my father replied. "Just today he took a hundred and three minutes to cut the hair of old Mr. Hathaway, who is practically bald to begin with."
"Well, well," my mother said. "Just imagine that."
"A hundred and three minutes!" my father exploded, talking directly to Mr. Bimbaum now. "I timed it myself. Who can make money in a hundred and three minutes, I ask? Answer: not me. I can cut three heads in that time. Maybe four."
"That's because you're a butcher," Mr. Bimbaum said. "What does a butcher need with time?"
"This particular butcher," my father answered, tapping his thumb to his chest, "this particular butcher happens to own the particular shop in which you are employed. Or should I say were employed."
"Meaning?" Bimbaum asked.
"Meaning that unless you get a little speedier, you get out and I find somebody who ain't such a slowpoke."
"Butcher," Mr. Bimbaum said again. "Money-grubbing butcher."
"Perhaps so," my father said. "Perhaps not. But at least I am fair. Tomorrow we time you. If you can cut a head in, shall we say, forty-five minutes, you stay. If not, out. Vanished. Gone."
"What head?" Mr. Bimbaum asked. "You going to pick Mr. Dietrich? He got a head like a nose."
"I said I was fair. You need a guinea pig. I got a guinea pig. I happen to be its father."
"Me?" I said.
"You," he said.
With that the discussion ended.
So bright and early the next morning we trooped downtown, my father, Mr. Bimbaum and I. My father carried a big, round alarm clock. Mr. Bimbaum carried his silver scissors. No one spoke. We entered the shop and I jumped into the second chair. My father set the alarm clock. He and Bimbaum looked at each other.
Adventures in the Screen Trade Page 31