A Million Versions of Right

by Matthew Revert

I struggled for the right words. I was trying to knit them together into coherence. My false starts were beginning to annoy me. Eventually I had to admit I didn’t know.

  “Well that’s just great, Jack! You come on all hot n’ heavy and then go limp on me!”

  Billy looked genuinely hurt.

  “I’m sorry, I just don’t know. The right questions aren’t bubbling to the surface. All I know is that your comb jars are a part of this mess. It can’t be a coincidence.”

  “Ok then, some fruitcake has a hard on for my glassware. It wouldn’t be first time it’s happened. My guff has attracted some real pieces of work. This bald man’s in love with my work. He knows that I specialise in comb jars and figures he’ll go to the one place where my comb jars are everywhere. There ain’t no town with a Hair District like this one, Jack.”

  “If what you’re saying is right, and I will admit it’s a possibility, why doesn’t he just steal one? If it’s your work he’s after, why doesn’t he just slip one in his bag, take it home and idolise it in privacy?”

  “I won’t pretend I know how these whackos work. However, what better place to admire something you love than in the place it was made for? You could set one of my comb jars up on your mantle but it wasn’t made for some rickety mantle. It was made for the pristine environs of the barber’s shop. If you take it away from the barber’s shop, you essentially remove its soul.”

  I was stroking my chin hard. Billy’s words made sense, almost too much sense. The problem was they were still flailing about in the world of theory. I needed to catch the bald man in the act and I had no idea how to do it. I had to pin this bastard to the wall and force him to talk, maybe slap him about for good measure.

  If you mess with the District, you mess with my heart.

  The situation was rolling by my headspace like a low budget film noir. My introspective silence was filling Billy with discomfort. He was shifting about in his chair like a horny teen waiting for an opportunity to grope the class hussy.

  “Talk to me, Jack, what are you thinking?” He clearly couldn’t stand the silence.

  “I’m thinking that you may be right, Billy, but I need to know for sure. I need to catch him in the act. I need to talk to this guy.”

  “You do, huh? And how exactly are you going to do that?”

  “Therein lies the rub. There are hundreds of barbers in this district and I’d say all of them use your jars. I could just waltz from barber to barber and hope I get lucky but that ain’t a real plan. I need to think.”

  Billy nodded in agreement while he ordered his third Hairy Nonsense. I rummaged through the pocket on my apron until I found my card. I handed it over.

  “Look, Billy, it’s been a blast and you’ve been helpful. Thanks a bunch. I gotta go and wrap my head around this. If you think of anything, give me a call.”

  “You know it, Jack. Will I see you at the conference?”

  “We’ll see.”

  My slow, deliberate stride toward the exit morphed into a dash of desperation when I heard the shouting coming from outside. There goes another window.

  * * * * *

  A distressed babble of barbers were clustered outside the shattered storefront of Ricardo’s Fringe Akimbo. This brazen cad was targeting the deluxe establishments now. I shook Ricardo until he snapped out of his stupor. I needed to know which way the bald bastard had headed. He pointed toward the south end of the main strip and I started running, cursing the fullness of my uncooperative bladder.

  A smidge of luck finally fell my way when I noticed a trail of artistically shaped blood drops leading off into the distance. Ricardo’s window had given the bald man a nasty bite. The drops may well have spelled out the words, ‘follow me’. Such was the majesty of the discovery. I ran maniacally, keeping my eyes firmly planted on the ground-bound trail, which veered sharply up a side street. The lighting outside the main strip was poor and I had to strain to make out the dark blotches of blood.

  The Hair District was complicated; a lymphatic system, spidering out in every direction from the main strip. It’s not the sort of place that lends itself to the notion of ‘getting lucky’. If you’re following someone you had better damn well make sure you can see them otherwise they’ll shake you with ease. Each side street leads to other, smaller side streets, which in turn branch out to even more. If you’re not familiar with the area you’ll get lost in minutes. It takes several years to traverse this place with confidence. It takes several more to traverse this place with certainty.

  The trail of blood was becoming erratic. Rather than a steady, straight line, it was beginning to skew left and right. Occasionally it would form a mini ring of gory distress before emerging as a straight line once more. I was becoming disoriented as my bladder pushed hard against my internal workings. I was torn between losing the trail or losing my dignity. I decided on an awkward mixture of both. I was going to have to relieve myself right here in the side street. I’d keep my eye glued to the trail and hope no one saw me breaking a cardinal rule of the District. You don’t piss in the streets here. It shows disrespect.

  I barely unzipped myself in time. A hard, steady stream of liquid disrespect sprayed into the pristine wall outside Yancy’s Hairathon. I apologised profusely to no one, knowing deep down I was doing the right thing. This was for the greater good of the District. If I lost the trail the bald man wouldn’t be stopped. After what felt like an eternity, the flow ceased and I was able to zip myself back up unseen. I took a deep breath and started once more on the trail.

  The drops were becoming more clustered, as if the bald man had to keep stopping, possibly due to the injury, weariness or both. This was positive. The only thing I hate more than seeing someone hurt is seeing someone disrespect the Hair District. The blood had veered into a dead end alley. I had the bastard now. I entered with caution.

  The alley was impossibly dark and unforgiving. I stood still, willing my eyes to adjust to some level of visibility that never seemed to arrive. I was squinting; at least I think I was squinting. It was hard to tell. Tentatively, I edged forward. A glowing orange dot appeared, floating, alternating between calm serenity and erratic, yet controlled darting. The scent of tobacco crept invasively up my nose. It was him, the bald man, smoking in the distance. He couldn’t see me, I was sure of that but he could certainly hear me. Each step seemed to disturb something. I was conspicuous like a pencil in a pen factory.

  “Who’s that? Is that you, girl?”

  The voice cut through the darkness, all rough and intimidated.

  “It’s over, bald man,” I replied with forced conviction.

  “Whadaya mean its over? Who are you calling bald?”

  The voice sounded real familiar. My resolve began to fade. A flash of light broke the darkness. I had made a mistake. Standing with his face bathed in the cigarette lighter glow was Messy Phil, the district recluse. How could I mistake that voice for anyone else? My determination was messing with me, making me hear what I wanted to hear.

  “You gotta be kidding me!” I snapped.

  “Who is it? I can’t make out your face.” Messy Phil was swiping the air with his lighter, trying to disperse the light enough to see me.

  “Sorry, Phil, I made a mistake. It’s Jack Backtrack. I thought you were someone else.”

  “You frightened the cack outta me, Jack! What are you doing skulking around the alleys anyway?” He extinguished the lighter. We were once more in darkness.

  “Have you heard about the junk that’s been going on around here lately, Phil?”

  “You thought I was that fucking bald man didn’t you?”

  “I guess I did. I was a little overconfident I guess you could say. I was following a trail of blood that I thought was his. Are you hurt, Phil?”

  “Hurt!?” A wheezing, hacking laughter disrupted the conversational flow. “Did you take a close look at that blood, Jack?”

  “No, why do you ask?”

  “It’s jam! Just jam!”

 
; “Nobody has that much jam, Phil.”

  “You’re half right. The average person doesn’t have that much jam but if you’re trying to catch a wank fairy you make sure you have a good supply.”

  “Again with the wank fairies, Phil? You gotta be kiddin’ me. There aren’t any wank fairies in the District. There never have been. There never will be.”

  “You sound so damn sure of yourself, don’t ya? They’re here. They’re everywhere! You can hear ‘em at night crawling around your balls. They have to think you’re asleep, otherwise they won’t touch you. They’re crafty bastards too. They won’t come near your balls if they think you’ve tampered with ‘em in any way. I made an adhesive paste, hoping to trap one of ‘em like fly paper. I could feel the breeze of its wings flapping right near me but it could sense the paste. It took off faster than a shot. I decided to come here because if there’s one thing a wank fairy can’t resist its jam and the smell of balls. These back alley’s smell like balls all the way.”

  “Don’t speak ill of the District, Phil.”

  “What? You think balls smell bad? Balls smell pretty flippin’ special if you ask me!”

  “You’re a strange man, Phil.”

  “You just wait til I got myself one of them little wank fairies. You won’t be calling me strange then.”

  “You show me the fairy and I’ll reconsider. Right now though, I need to know about the bald man. Did you see him flee?”

  “I’d love to be able help you, Jack but strange ol’ Messy Phil ain’t seen a thing.”

  I sighed deeply while fumbling about my apron pocket for another card. I handed it to him. It took several attempts before his fingers were able to grip it.

  “If you see or hear anything, you let me know.”

  “Sure thing, boss.”

  I turned around and faced the oppressive darkness. I was going to have to find my way out of this warren.

  “Hey Jack, take this.”

  I turned around to find Phil shoving something small and hard into my hand.

  “I’ve got plenty. It’ll give you some light.”

  It was a cigarette lighter. I flicked it on and the alley around me became dimly illuminated.

  “Thanks Phil, I owe you one.”

  “Forget about it. People don’t owe me shit.”

  I turned around and slowly made my way back to the main strip. I needed some sleep. Things would look better in the morning.

  * * * * *

  It felt good to get my clothes off, like I could breathe again. I fell back onto my unmade bed, feeling the cool kiss of the sheets. My body swam in comfort and my mind floated aimlessly in fog. The open window spewed agitated breeze, which dried the sweat on my brow and crotch. I tucked my journal beneath the pillows, which propped them up unpleasantly. It didn’t bother me as I had grown very used to the feeling. My eyelids fell like a guillotine. Before long my sleep was deep and perfect.

  The perfect sleep was short lived. Dreams of a pernicious nature attacked me that night. The dreams were fluid and horrible. No narrative emerged from the stew of collaged imagery but the pervasive feeling was one of dread. Occasionally an image would rise only to be sucked back down into the dangerous mess. My heart beat sharp against my chest and the lamp in my head intensified its dirty light. I couldn’t relax while the District was in turmoil. The longer you live in the Hair District, the more it seeps into you. The District and I shared a deeply symbiotic relationship. When it was hurting, I was hurting. This place was like an iron lung. For my own survival, I needed it in perfect working order.

  The shrill resonance of the telephone plucked me out of my dream state. I took a few seconds to take stock of my surroundings: the same old apartment, the same old bed. Everything was weeping. I was sluiced in sweat. I held the phone to my ear. It was Billy.

  “Come and meet me at the bar. I have an idea.”

  “Let me take a shower and I’ll be right there.”

  We hung up simultaneously and I made a fast track to the bathroom.

  * * * * *

  Rather than feeling cleansed, the shower felt wrong, like I was trying to wash the sweat off with more sweat. The water oozed down my body in thick rivulets. I got out of there quick smart. I felt somewhat better when I had dried off but the stickiness remained to some degree. I changed my underwear but more or less wore what I’d had on yesterday. There was no time for wardrobe selections.

  * * * * *

  Ben’s Barbers Bar took on a different shape in the early morning light. You could actually make out faces, which was a pleasant change. These guys cooked a mean breakfast, and as such the place was densely populated. Billy was sitting at the bar, talking to Smith. I crept up beside him and gave him a poor shoulder massage as a way of greeting. Billy shrugged uncomfortably and brushed my hands away.

  “What the hell do you think you’re doing, you fruity bastard!?”

  He was right. It was a poorly devised greeting, a very unnatural thing for me to do.

  “Sorry, Billy. I slept pretty rough. I’m not thinking clearly.”

  “Clearly! Have you eaten yet?”

  I shook my head.

  “Well, I recommend you get some food into you before you start feeling up other paying customers.”

  Smith winked at me while pointing to his shoulders.

  “I’m ever so tense, Jack.”

  “Put a sock in it, Smith. Get me a dreadlock omelette.”

  “Why, someone’s feeling particularly hungry this morning aren’t they?” Smith continued to grin.

  “Just get it for me, will ya!?”

  “As you wish, sir.”

  Smith called my order into the kitchen, leaving Billy and I alone.

  “Ok Billy, what’s this idea of yours?”

  “You cut right to the chase don’t you?”

  “Let’s just say that my patience is running thinner than an anorexic’s wrist.”

  The dreadlock omelette was placed in front of me. I shovelled the woolly chunks into my mouth.

  “Ok, so I think we both agree that my jars are attracting the bald man somehow?”

  “It strikes me as logical. But that doesn’t matter if we don’t know which jar he’ll target next.”

  “True, true, true. But what if we can predict where he’ll strike next?”

  “I’d say you were a genius and give you a sloppy one on the cheek.”

  “Well you better get your lips ready.”

  “Why? What do you know?”

  Billy sipped dramatically at his Hairy Nonsense, keeping me in deliberate suspense.

  “Spit it out, Billy!” I yelled.

  “Ok, ok, don’t get your knickers in a knot. We have a barber’s conference coming up in a few days right?”

  “We do.” I was intrigued.

  “Now, what if I could promise you an attraction so damn irresistible that no self-respecting jar fiend would be able to stay away?”

  “I’d pucker up and plant another sloppy on you, Billy. What are you saying?”

  “I was going to save it as a surprise but for the good of the District, I’m willing to let the news slip early.”

  “What news?” I was as impatient as I was excited.

  “I’m going to be giving a world first preview of some brand spanking new, hot off the press, comb jars at the convention. It was going to be unveiled as the grand finale.”

  “Holy flippin’ hell! New jars?”

  Billy sat back with folded arms, looking pretty damn content with himself.

  “So, where’s my two sloppy ones?”

  I regained some form of composure and gripped Billy’s face firmly with either hand. I planted two dribbly, tongue lashing kisses on each cheek, which made Billy giggle.

  “Alright, alright, get off!”

  “So you’re willing to compromise the impact of the finale?”

  “For the good of the District, Jack. You’ll have your bald man. He won’t be able to resist.”

  “You’re a beau
tiful bastard, Billy! How are we going to get the word out?”

  “You leave that up to me. I have my ways.”

  “I don’t know how to thank you.” I was gushing.

  “Just get to the bottom of this. That’s all the thanks I need.”

  I wanted to hug the guy. I wanted to pluck him up in my arms and thank him on behalf of the District. Good ol’ Billy Backwash. Ambassador for barber’s culture everywhere. The world could certainly do with a few more like him. I glanced down at my dreadlock omelette, when I glanced back, Billy was gone. What a go-getter. Now the hard part began. The conference was still two days away. There was going to be some waiting involved.

  * * * * *

  I trawled glumly through the District. The place wasn’t the same. Walking up the main strip I counted eleven boarded up windows and many more depressed barbers. Way to suck the life outta this place, bald man, I thought as I kicked at stones and slumped against lamp posts. Many barbers had decided to close up shop until further notice, too afraid of being hit with a smashing. It was the clientele who suffered the most. The dependability of their barber was coming into question. No one should be forced to think such sickening thoughts. These forgotten souls were mourning the loss of their would-be haircuts. Some of these poor bastards had collapsed in the shut up doorways of their lifelong barber, running their panicked fingers through overgrown beards. This place was losing its verve and vigour. This wasn’t the way things were meant to play out. I’d been in the Hair District for over fifteen years and I’d personally never seen a darker day.

  The paparazzi were out in force too. News had filtered out through gopher tunnels of information. The trash peddlers who ran those vacuous gossip rags would pay a mint for a good photo of a dishevelled barber. Zoom in close. Make sure you capture their puffy, tear-stained cheeks in all of their pathetic glory, you fucking hogs! As I walked I sensed the macro lens of their filthy cameras, tracking my movements, begging me for a tasty photo op. I remained as banal in my actions as possible. I kept my arms firmly planted by my sides, my head slightly down and my face frozen in deliberate ambiguity. Those bastards weren’t going to use me to drag the District down any further. I had to get out of their misery addicted path before I did something I was going to regret.