A Million Versions of Right

by Matthew Revert

  “Morning, you!” he said with calm excitement.

  “If it ain’t the man of the moment,” I replied with false cool.

  “Sorry I can’t give you a peek at the jars, Jack. You know how it is – ethics and all that.”

  “Think nothing of it. If you tried to give me a peek, I’d give you a peek of the back of my hand.”

  “So noble aren’t we?”

  “Lay off it, Billy. It’s going to be a hell of a day.”

  “So, you’re all ready to catch your bald man?”

  “I’m about as ready as I’ll ever be. Here’s hoping my bald man plays along.”

  “The odds are good, Jack.”

  “I’d rather it wasn’t a matter of odds. Right now I’m in the mood for certainty.”

  “I’ll keep my fingers crossed for you. How’s the costume?”

  “I’d be lying if I told you it wasn’t brilliant. My mother knows her way around a needle and thread.”

  “I have a pretty strong set of eyebrows that’ll attest to that! If you’ll excuse me, I have to get some things prepared. We’ll meet up later ok?”

  “Sure thing, Billy, knock em dead.”

  Billy headed toward the podium on the athenaeum stage. I headed toward my mock food table. It was a perfect location, a mere two feet from the jars. I removed my disguise from the satchel and laid it out on the table. It wouldn’t be long before we had arrivals on our hands. I began to carefully slip into my basket of crows. It was perfectly designed. I had a clear line of sight through some borderline invisible peek-holes. As I settled into my final position I could see the table of jars perfectly. It would be impossible for the bald man to know he was being watched.

  * * * * *

  I don’t know how long I’d been situated but eventually I heard the sound of patrons shuffling inside. The electric mood managed to seep into my body despite the disguise. Not being a part of the group stung me somewhat but I bit my bottom lip and reaffirmed the importance of my current situation. I kept my eyes planted firmly toward the table of jars. I could barely afford to blink. My ears couldn’t help but seek out conversation, which unfortunately came across as muffled and incomprehensible. The room was really filling up now. Unfortunately there was still no sign of the bald man.

  The amplified voice of Martin Stinkwater assailed the air in search of attention. Martin was a longstanding master of ceremonies for the conference and a wonderful moustache sculptor. The athenaeum ebbed into a barely contained hush as Martin began his introductory speech:

  “Gentlefellow of the industry; guests from rotund locales, I would cordially like to extend my yam-like arm in welcoming you to the 35th annual Hair District Barber’s Conference.”

  -90 minutes of uninterrupted applause-

  “We currently face uncertain times. In such times it is remarkably easy to lose your bearings. Life loses its essential vim. The turn out I see before me however, proves one thing that I believe to be full of certainty. We as a group, as a culture, are strong. If someone knocks us on our backsides, we proudly proclaim ‘oh yes, on my backside is it? I shan’t be beaten whether on my feet or on my backside. I can live a perfectly acceptable life right down here. I shan’t rest. I shall open up a chain of restaurants bearing the slogan ‘I’m still here’. Perhaps I’ll marry an abstract notion such as the colour green and invite my friends and family to bless the union. Dearly beloved, we are gathered here today to fart at convention and suck on society’s hairy man tits…”

  Martin Stinkwater’s increasingly tangential rant was mercifully cut off at this point, which triggered a further 30 minutes of applause. I couldn’t help but chuckle. Stinkwater’s rants were as much a part of the convention as the procession of ‘slight forelocks’. I yearned to escape my disguise all the more and no doubt, news of my absence was already spreading throughout the crowd. I was usually situated at the registration table, greeting the guests with a warm smile as they retrieved their name badges and complimentary packets of roller fringe. The name badges were, by and large, a formality as everyone knew everyone, but it added a little something to the day. It would be naïve to assume that the bald man would brazenly waltz up to the registration table. That isn’t the way life works. Solutions aren’t handed to you wrapped in a bow. Solutions require a painstaking process, which my cramped muscles could adamantly attest to. I wanted to pop my head out of the disguise and exclaim to my comrades, “It’s alright, your friend Jack is here!” But I knew it wasn’t an option. I knew it wouldn’t bag me a bald man.

  My first real test arrived about 20 minutes after the aborted opening address by Stinkwater. A brief recess was declared after the physical exertion caused by excessive applause was deemed too much for some of the older attendees. As one would expect, they made a bee line toward the food tables, only briefly finding themselves waylaid by the hidden bounty on the jar table. I was on one of nine dozen food tables and was situated in the outer quadrant. Most attendees seemed happy enough to gorge on the delectable pastries, lovingly crafted at the hairline bakery on the main strip. Other, more weight conscious attendees begrudgingly ate standard, supermarket grade fruit, lovingly crafted by no one. Although my crow costume dulled most auditory signals, I could still hear the groans of pleasure as mouth after mouth savoured the flavours. Several people wandered toward my table but only made disparaging remarks about the culinary merits of crow. This was exactly what I wanted to hear. It was evidence that my costume was a resounding success. A potential issue did emerge during the recess however. The desirable nature of the comb jar table ensured that many attendees were magnetically drawn toward it, obscuring my view to a rather unfortunate degree. I had to hope that our bald man wasn’t the kind to mull about in crowds. If he was going to approach the jars, it was my hunch he’d do it when the crowds weren’t looking.

  A bell rang throughout the athenaeum, which signalled the end of the recess. If history was a guide, I would have placed a bet on many last minute pastries being stuffed into hair-filled pockets. The separation anxiety I was feeling only intensified as the mystical voice of Old Man Muttonchop filled the room. As far as the genre of Barber Pop music was concerned, Old Man Muttonchop was it. After the gory demise of traditional barbershop music of the 50s, Old Man Muttonchop was a torchbearer of sorts. The violent backlash toward barbershop music started when mercenary barber enthusiasts proclaimed the absence of barber-related material within the style as blasphemous. Many promising musicians were lynched in what will go down as one of the darkest days in the history of barber culture. However the solemn weight of history never deterred from the grandeur that was Old Man Muttonchop’s vocoder-drenched voice. It sat in the middle of the room in a rousing monotony, even affecting me within the confines of my costume. The compressed kick drums resounded in a dependable four to the floor loop. Stabs of synthesiser accentuated the musical meal like capers. Old Man Muttonchop wooed the crowd with a bumpy version of his hit, ‘I Hair You’. The crowd sang along with every word, which managed to conceal the passages that Old Man Muttonchop forgot. I was thankful for the ear bursting applause that heralded the end of the performance, as it successfully masked the wolf whistles I couldn’t help but make.

  * * * * *

  The whole day turned sour late into the afternoon. An intriguing colloquium on shaving techniques had entered into its third hour and I was doing my best to soak it all in while keeping my eyes on the jar table. I had survived two more recesses and my counterfeit crows had remained untouched. The bald man was still distressingly absent and my bladder was leaking embarrassingly. A foul smell began to waft in and around me, trapping itself within the claustrophobic confines of my costume.

  My initial assumption was that I had defecated unknowingly and the smell was breaking free. As best as I could tell, my backside remained unsullied, except for the shameful patch of urine. The smell didn’t strike me as pissy in nature and it was attacking from the wrong direction. This was originating externally and burrowing interna
lly. The smell couldn’t have been coming from me but it was damn familiar. I ran my olfactory memory around in circles trying to place it but collapsed before I arrived at a conclusion. Then I saw it. The answer to my dilemma. There it was, hovering right about my peek holes. A damn, stinking wank fairy.

  In the light of the athenaeum I could actually make out the dull green odour trail. The wank fairy was the epitome of foul. Its many veins pumped thick and black. Its face was permanently contorted into a hellish, lockjawed scream and its dilated eyes darted frenetically. A voice accompanied the wank fairy in flight.

  “What d’ya have there, girl?”

  The voice was familiar and didn’t come as a surprise. It was Messy Phil, gatecrashing the convention and sneaking a feed from the food tables. I couldn’t blame the guy, the convention put on a hell of a feast and stale gourmet pastries were better than the guff he normally called a meal. Still, it stung to know he wasn’t here for love of hair. Phil’s shadow loomed and darkened my line of sight.

  “You gotta be kidding me! It’s a basket of crows. That’s your favourite!”

  I swore under my breath. That messy bastard had dragged his newfound wank fairy along and the little bitch had an appetite for crows.

  “Which one d’ya want? I’ll pick it out for you. Maybe even feed it to you if ya want.”

  The wank fairy vanished from my sight, probably landing somewhere on top of the costume. I pictured it skulking about up there, tainting everything it touched. I really needed a shower.

  “You want that one, girl? Nice choice. It looks proper juicy.”

  I could feel Phil’s hand picking at my costume, trying to force one of the crows off.

  “The little bastard’s stuck! They must have congealed or somesuch.”

  I was gritting my teeth, trying my best not to yell at him. My thoughts were deafening but I knew they couldn’t be heard. I knew it was a redundant exercise. That gormless putz was ruining everything.

  “Something weird is happening, girl. I don’t think these crows are real.”

  His voice was getting louder and I just knew he was attracting unwanted attention. I had to do something.

  “Psssstt,” I whispered, “Phil, down here.”

  He kept on picking at my costume, getting more forceful with every passing second. I raised my voice ever so slightly.

  “Flaming heck Phil, it’s me, Jack Backtrack! Will you get your hands off?”

  His grip loosened on my costume and through the peek holes I saw Phil take several steps back while stroking his stubbled chin quizzically.

  “D’ya hear that, girl? I swear one of them crows just spoke.”

  He looked around in every direction, attempting to deduce another possible source for the voice he believed he’d heard. Eventually he just chuckled with a shrug of the shoulders and reapproached me.

  “Must be getting a touch of the ol’ crazies.”

  Once more the tugging on my costume began, much more forceful this time. I could sense he was going to tear it apart. I couldn’t control myself.

  “Fucking hell, Phil! Get your fucking hands off me!”

  He squealed sharply and starting yelling repeatedly, “The crows are talking, the crows are talking! Come quick everyone, you ain’t gonna believe this.”

  I gulped in despair. The jig was up. The sound of shuffling multitudes approached and although I couldn’t see it, all eyes were on me. The din had morphed into an elongated, questioning tone.

  “Just listen,” Phil yelled.

  The crowd obeyed and the din was replaced by a hush. Phil was yanking at my costume with vigour, rocking me back and fourth. I bit my bottom lip and braced myself for the inevitable collapse.

  “Speak to me ya little buggers,” he pleaded as he continued to yank ever harder.

  I felt myself topple forward with uncontrollable momentum. I let out a yell, which provoked a surprised murmur. “I’ve got ya boys, Phil said, as I came falling down like a cracked piñata, spilling out like liquid and colliding directly with the table of precious comb jars. The table rocked slightly before deciding to give up and collapse. The jars broke free of their delicate covering in exaggerated slow motion and bounced on the unforgiving ground before rolling erratically in a dazzling display of perfection. Billy Backwash’s unmistakable voice howled in horror as convention goers all caught unavoidable early glimpses of his pride and joy.

  I remained still, praying for death to pluck me up and take me. I wasn’t capable of rolling over and staring my comrades in the eye. They knew it was me regardless and their eyes burned searing holes in me. Billy was unsympathetic. I couldn’t blame him. After all, I’d ruined the impact of his work. He strode over toward me and kicked the rest of my costume away until I was utterly exposed.

  “You little fuck!” he yelled, “Look at me!!!”

  Shunning commonsense, I obeyed and slowly rolled over like a dying animal. Their eyes were upon me, clouded with hatred, screaming for blood. I stammered and spluttered, excreting a pathetic I’m sorry.

  Billy’s arms were folded in front, his compassion broken and wounded.

  “Get the hell out,” he said coldly.

  It wasn’t easy but I managed to stand on shaking, cramp-raped legs. I kept my head down, avoiding their rage as best I could. I stumbled toward the door, willing my legs to increase their speed. They didn’t. My passage was slow and hopeless. My tears were trite and meaningless. The crowd had begun muttering sour nothings toward my back. One chap was quite vocal in sarcastically thanking me for catching the bald man, before calling me a hack. His spit sprayed the back of my neck and I felt his passion.

  * * * * *

  I made the trek toward my apartment with nothing but my tears and emerging erection for company. I felt as if the District was trying to push me out like a constipated turd; waste that had overstayed its welcome. Barber’s poles had stopped spinning and the wind was mocking me.

  I had to believe the District would find a way to forgive me aided by the passing of time. I was only trying to protect it. I had so much invested in this place, in these people. I needed them and I felt as if deep down, they needed me. The defeatist nature of my thoughts tried to convince me otherwise. I wasn’t a barber, so essentially I contributed nothing to the District. I was merely a chronicler of events in which I wasn’t a part: a professional observer, an amateur sleuth, a hack. I could have just caught the next bus out of the District and I’d have been forgotten like a snap of the fingers. Perhaps if I were lucky, a few of them would remember me as the bastard who ruined Billy’s new jars.

  My tears were flowing and my erection was painful. I’d have to get home fast and gratify myself before the tears subsided. My legs were a little more cooperative by now so I jogged the rest of the way home, allowing the District to pass me by in a melancholy blur. I kept my head down and my ears closed until my apartment complex loomed.

  I was approaching my front door, contemplating the bottle of bourbon I’d stupidly decided not to throw out when I had embarked upon the dry life. It had my name on it in flashing neon and there wasn’t a damn thing stopping me from quenching that aching thirst. Besides, I’d earned it. It had been a true stinker of a day and I wanted to lose myself for a while. My key slid easily into the lock and the door clicked open. It was dark and nasty in there, as if my room had been adjusting to my emotional state and giving me that miserable company we all sometimes crave. I was about to remove my dick and give it a whack but a rustling sound broke my concentration. I zipped myself up and surveyed the darkened room. As my eyes adjusted, the fuzzy silhouette of an intruder began to reveal itself. A sickening, cold shiver ran up my entire body, killing my erection and quickening the beat of my heart. I was frozen in fear, wanting to reach for the light but finding myself incapable. I whispered, ‘Who’s there?’ but found my words vanishing into inaudibility. Suddenly the click of a cigarette lighter introduced dull light into my apartment, followed quickly by a glowing orange dot. Instinctively my
hand, disobeying my mind, flicked at my light switch. My apartment was doused in dirty, piss-coloured light, revealing everything.

  He was sitting awkwardly in my armchair, trying to hold the cigarette smoke in his lungs without coughing it up. He wore a trench coat that struck me as an affront to the real him lurking inside. His head was noticeably miniscule and his face was puffed up like a Botox nightmare. His eyes were beady, like they originally belonged to an old doll and his lips were pink leather. I didn’t have to strain the old noodle too hard to know who he was. There was no doubt about it. It was the bald man.

  He ground his cigarette out on the arm of my chair before standing up with an outreached hand, imploring me for a shake. My fists wanted to smash his face but he spoke up before they were given the opportunity.

  “Hello there, squire, I’m Max.”

  Part 2: I Wish I'd Never Met Max

  He remained standing there for a socially awkward amount of time, his hand reaching out like a child trying after his mother’s tit. I wasn’t giving any ground. I had too many questions sprinting around my head. The most pressing of which concerned his ability to get into my apartment. Besides, I couldn’t deny how cute he looked, reaching out for my hand, not giving up. He was inching toward me like time lapse photography. His movement was borderline imperceptible but he was definitely getting closer. He struck me as the sort of no talent kid who would have been forced to play a tree in school plays. I could picture the drama teacher calling out directions from backstage, telling him to shuffle this way and that but him never quite managing to find the right spot.