by Ian Williams
Well, not a million. More like a thousand, Hendrix corrected himself.
What’s between a thousand and a million? Army tested him.
Ten thousand, Hendrix said.
All right.
It goes thousand, ten thousand, hundred thousand, million, then billion, then kajillion. My teacher didn’t know what came after kajillion. She didn’t even know kajillion.
Yeah, so, Army said, I’m gonna make a thousand this summer, then ten thousand next summer, then maybe a couple of years to 100K, and so on. I’ll have my first million by the time I’m twenty, twenty-one. Trust me.
Me too. By the time I’m ten.
* * *
+
Army was nibbling a slice of cheese from its plastic wrap and watching TV when the bell rang. He thought it would be Hendrix or his dripping-hot sister—aura like beads on a pop can, aura of a close-up burger shot, aura of airplane flying overhead and getting your attention, holding it, until it was gone. An imperious roaring American airline with two huge engines per wing. He couldn’t believe his luck when Oliver brought his kids home from the airport. It had only been days but Hendrix was glued to him. The hot sister was a work in progress. He went around shirtless to signal his availability. He was taller than her. She was sixteen, the major hurdle. He was fourteen turning fifteen which was practically sixteen. If you rounded up. He could pass for sixteen himself. On the skinny side—lean, he liked to say—but exotic, muscled, flat, like lines drawn onto his body, no heft to the muscle.
At the door, however, was his first of two customers for the day, a Sikh boy, probably Grade 6 or 7, wearing a patka with a knot tied at the top.
I came at eight but you weren’t open, he said. He reached into his pocket and placed a five in Army’s hand.
Army hesitated. He was occasionally surprised to find himself in trouble after executing what at the time seemed like a good idea. In this case, however, he could clearly see trouble ahead. Yet he was curious to see under the patka and eager to expand his clientele. He could retire on all the Sikh boys in the neighbourhood.
You’re sure? Army asked.
The boy was already seated with the cape around his shoulders. Could you close the garage door?
Army did. There was still enough light through the clear panels at the top. The boy looked around as Army laid out his instruments. The shop was furnished with two adjustable hydraulic barstools, exactly half of Oliver’s former family, a narrow full-length mirror, a few divorce chairs in case people wanted to wait around. Army ran a divorce extension cord for his shavers and for his boombox, tuned to 93.7 Buffalo, rabbit ears alert to the best reception. On a divorce bench, he laid out a Mason jar with alcohol to disinfect the scissors and clipper combs after each haircut, a spray bottle with more alcohol for the scalps and brushes. The problem was Felicia’s car couldn’t be in the garage at the same time that his shop was in swing, meaning he had to set up and take down the business every day around Felicia’s work and night-school schedule.
You’re sure you’re sure, Army checked.
The boy undid his patka. His hair was braided and coiled on the top of his head.
It’s clean? Army asked.
The boy lowered his head and Army instantly regretted the question. He would be gentler. He would talk him through it. I’m going to have to use scissors.
He uncoiled the braid then held it out like a tail. It was as thick as his four fingers bunched together. The boy sucked in his breath at the sound of the scissors cutting his hair.
Army knew better but he asked, Does it hurt?
The boy shook his head. Shuddered. Should it?
You mean you never cut your hair. Like never?
He shook his head.
Army continued cutting.
I cut a little piece to test it, the boy said. I felt it but it didn’t hurt.
Army made one more snip to cut the braid. The boy’s hair hung in jagged pieces to the bottom of his ear. He touched it.
How does it feel?
Light.
Honeys be humping your leg, Army said. He told him about one of his first girlfriends, a girl who removed her hijab at school and almost believed him when he said he was Persian but his parents didn’t teach him Arabic. He told him about a Sikh boy he knew who used to remove his turban and tuck his hair into his collar and another who wore a doo-rag instead.
The boy smiled but he looked terrified. Can you make it even or is that more money?
I’m not going to leave you looking like you got cut by a lawnmower. Army hadn’t intended to charge him extra but since he asked. Chief, it’s a big job turning you into a playa. It’s not like a regular haircut.
I only have two bucks more.
It’s $2.50 but I’ll give you a discount. Army dropped the braid in his lap. Bring a friend.
The braid rolled to the floor when the boy dug for money in his pocket. An hour later Hendrix claimed it. Army had recruited him to clean the shop, paid him a dollar a day for unlimited service. His first employee. Introduced a taxation system where Hendrix had to give him back a quarter on every dollar.
Why? Hendrix pouted.
That’s how the world works, son.
Hendrix was keeping the hair.
* * *
+
Heather came down while Army was cutting the hair of his second and final customer of the day. The kid kept rattling a coughdrop against his teeth and feeling the level of his hair at the back.
Don’t make me look like a convict, Coughdrop said for the umpteenth time.
Heather turned the tape in her Walkman. She was wearing eight-hole Docs, cutoffs so short the front pockets were visible, a tank top, and a green plaid shirt tied around her waist. Army wanted to squeeze the juice out of her thighs, just fill his hands with it until it overflowed his fingers.
Heather relayed a message to Hendrix from their father, then started up the driveway. She clipped her Walkman to her itty-bitty waist and unhooked the headphones from her neck. The sponge from one side was missing.
Halt, Army said. He set down the electric shaver. He uncapped the repurposed Milo container, and made a display of licking his thumb and flicking through a wad of bills. Could you get me a root beer and some bubble tape?
Heather descended the driveway and took the money. Before she could leave (him forever, he felt), Army grabbed her wrist.
And get yourself something too. He scooped up some coins and sifted them into her hand.
Yay, she said. I can finally get that pony.
Get yourself a unicorn too. Army picked up the shaver again.
You ever heard about Sophie Fortin? Felicia had asked Army a week ago.
Unicorn, he said. He was designing the barbershop flyer. He’d need Felicia to photocopy it at work for him. She’s washed up. She used to be hot.
Don’t call women hot. I’m not one of your, your homeboys.
You’re my everything, pretty lady. He had her.
What was she in?
You mean apart from Playboy?
How do you know she was in Playboy?
I just heard about it. Army tried to quote Fortin, It’s nothing I don’t see every day. But I’m every man’s unicorn. You don’t remember that? Oh and when somebody asked her why she posed nekkid, she was like, I took a picture. It’ll last longer.
Are you sure it’s not too low? Coughdrop said into his chest. Army was lining the back. My mom got mad last time.
Your mom’s always mad, Army said. To Heather: Tell him it’s not too low. He’d do anything to detain the chevron her hips made holding up her cutoffs.
Heather grazed her finger against the grain of Coughdrop’s hair.
Coughdrop stiffened. He, like Army, was fourteen. What a gulf between them and Heather.
Seeing his reaction, Heather ran her finger over the top of his ear then traced the line around his sideburns, up his temple, around the front of his head.
My mom called last night. She started crying, Heather s
aid.
Why?
She’s just like that. Heather straddled Coughdrop’s legs to see the other side of his head. Aren’t your parents divorced?
Separated, Army answered for him. Coughdrop’s parents were the most recently infected by an epidemic of divorce that had swept through the neighbourhood. Locusts might be another way of explaining the suddenness and mysterious biblical scale of it.
Heather readjusted the spotlight. My mom and dad separated a bunch of times and they got back together a bunch of times.
She backed away and leaned against Army’s repurposed suitcase (now a counter) with her elbows behind her and her chest out.
Army made a note to himself to wear thicker shorts. To camouflage his excitement, he spun Coughdrop so his belly button was now in Coughdrop’s face.
Don’t cut the top, Coughdrop said.
I’m not cutting the top, Army said.
Because if I go home looking like a convict again—
You say the word convict one more time and I’ll cut your ear off.
Convict, Hendrix said, entering the garage, sucking a freezie and holding one out to Army.
I’m not kidding, Coughdrop said.
Cut off his ear, Hendrix said.
I’m just fixing the part. Relax. Army held up his hands. Is that all right? Can I fix the part or do you need to ask your mom? He kept his back to Heather while speaking. Did Mr. O and your mom fight all the time?
That’s so cliché, Heather said.
Army thought it was a perfectly legitimate question but she had said on a previous occasion that he didn’t know how families worked and that hit a sensitive spot. He tried again: Did Mr. O beat up your mom? Does he just go around beating up women?
Heather didn’t answer. She studied her reflection a moment before fixing her hair with the fine handle of a comb.
He got fired for beating up a kid, Hendrix said. His lips and tongue were purple. The police came by our house to talk to him.
We’re not talking about that, Heather said.
Mom used to beat him up, Hendrix said. Mom got tired of Dad going out all the time and coming back late. He used to get drunk lots. But it wasn’t just that. Like it was a bunch of things.
But it wasn’t because they were arguing, Heather said.
She used to hit him, Hendrix said.
She didn’t hit him.
I saw. He hit her.
He did not, Hendrix. You’re always seeing things that never happened, Heather said. He threw things but never to hit her, like, just to— I don’t know.
Heather applied lipgloss then wiped her teeth with her tongue. Army thought he would burst.
Coughdrop tried to claim the spotlight. I think my dad felt emasculated, without the job and with mom telling him what to do.
What’s emasculated? Hendrix asked.
When they cut your nuts off, Army said. Then to Heather: To what?
To, like, warn her. So, yeah, sometimes they argued, but most of the time, they just didn’t talk to each other. They were living together in the same house, but me and Hendrix would have to talk to them for them.
Hendrix said, That’s not why.
Why then?
He hesitated. And just when no one thought an answer was forthcoming, he said: Because she was fat.
Heather went red. Mom’s not fat.
Dad said she’s fat.
She’s not fat-fat.
She has a boyfriend, Hendrix went on divulging. That’s why she sent us here, so she could kiss him.
Filter, Hendrix! Shut up!
No, because you and her fight all the time over you and—
Shut up. She struck him hard on a shoulderblade. He punched her thigh and was about to hit her again when Army stayed his hand.
You and who? Army asked. Any name would drive a stake through his heart right now.
An ex, Heather said.
Army couldn’t bear the thought of Heather with anyone else. He removed the cape from Coughdrop and changed the subject: Maybe Mr. O could hook up with your [Coughdrop’s] mom.
So gross, Heather said.
Get his rocks off, Army went on. Better her than strippers.
Are you done? Heather squeezed her lipgloss into her pocket and pointed two fingers at Coughdrop. Mall?
I’ll walk you partway soon as he’s done.
I’m done soon as you pay me my money.
Coughdrop slapped five dollars into Army’s hand. He briefly admired himself in the mirror before leaving with Heather.
Bring me some business, Army called after them. He sank into the chair when they rounded the corner.
* * *
+
She has a boyfriend, you know. Hendrix swept the hair around Army’s feet.
The you know struck Army as bizarre, as jealous and malevolent. But he didn’t show it.
Oh yeah? Army said.
Yeah.
Army shrugged. So what?
Heather and him used to do stuff.
What kind of stuff?
I’m not telling you. Hendrix swept the hair into a scoop. But I know.
You don’t know nothing.
I heard them.
Come better than that, G.
They were talking and then I heard them kissing.
How does kissing sound?
Quiet, but I knew. Because I heard her kissing before. Hendrix emptied the scoop into a Zellers bag, tied a knot in the bag of hair and tucked it into the divorce rubble.
What are you keeping all this hair for?
Nothing.
It places the lotion in the basket, Army said.
What?
It places the lotion— Forget it.
Army noted the resemblance between Hendrix and Oliver, the same need to divulge.
Hendrix continued, I was going to drill a hole in my bedroom wall so I could spy on them.
Soldier, you can’t do stuff like that.
I didn’t though. Because she’d see the hole when she was putting on her lip gloss—that was from before she was allowed to wear makeup—and she’d know I was spying so what’s the point so instead I just hid in her closet.
G, what’s wrong with you?
I was just practicing. I was going to jump out and surprise her. Anyway, I saw Heather and Bruno.
Kissing?
More than kissing.
I need you to promise not to do that again.
I need you to promise, Hendrix echoed, not to do that again.
Serious, little man.
Serious, little man.
Hendrix is a punk, Army said. This had worked in the past.
Hendrix looked back undaunted. Hendrix is a punk, he said, nearly spitting out his purple ice.
* * *
+
In the kitchen later that day, when Army came back from balling and was ready to eat a shelf of the fridge, Felicia asked, What did you do today? From her tone he could tell she was after a confession of some sort.
I don’t know, Army said. What did you do today?
She told him what Oliver told her. Two women in saris and a boy rang his bell this evening. They started berating him in a language he didn’t know. The boy said they wanted to know if he had seen their recycling bin, maybe accidentally taken it. But Oliver knew that translation was false. The women kept turning the boy’s head from side to side, brushing upwards to suggest what was missing. Oliver told them that the person they wanted was not his son. He pointed downstairs.
I’m going to ask you again, Felicia said. What did you do today?
I just provide services. Army thought outrage was the right strategy in this case. I mean, it’s on him to clear it with his moms. I’m just an instrument of the Lord. I can give him back his hair if that’s what he wants.
Felicia seemed tired.
Army changed his tactic. He asked, You know where Mr. O goes in the day? I don’t care, Army.
It ain’t by Tia Maria, I tell you hwat.
Oliver doesn’t
want you cutting hair in the garage anymore.
Army was aghast. His shop had officially been open two days, although he had been cutting hair—and cutting it well—for a year. You’re paying rent here.
I know. Just shut it down a few days. Can you do that?
Heather
Exile
Heather and her best friend of less than a week, Diane, were taking their daily constitutional to the neighbourhood mall, a twelve-minute walk from their street by catwalk through mid-century houses. Cars were parked on both sides of the street, which left a narrow passageway, like a clogged colon, for cars to negotiate. One side of the street, she thought, the police should only let people park on one side of the street. She and Diane slipped into a catwalk, crossed the street, and walked diagonally across the mall parking lot. Beyond the mall was Army’s school, the one she’d be attending if she lived here.
The mall itself was anchored on one end by Zellers and on the other by an Asian grocery store with a poorly ventilated room of fish tanks. When Heather had to take Hendrix with her, she usually left him there and he’d converse with the Chinese fish-cleaners, who spoke little English apart from numbers, while they hacked off fish heads. She and Diane, meanwhile, might get a patty from the Jamaican stand in the atrium or peek at the girlie mags at Becker’s (gum for Army, she almost forgot) or shoplift makeup from the Dollar Store before finally heading to Zellers.
He stocked shelves at Zellers. He was a skinny boy who flicked hair out of his eyes. He didn’t wear a name tag. A rebel. His red shirt was always untucked from his black pants at the back. Without a cause.
Despite her best efforts at stalking, Heather couldn’t predict his shifts so she had to go to the mall two or three times a day if she wanted to see him and be seen. That day, as Heather and Diane entered the air-conditioned store at ladies’ wear, the skinny stocker was pulling his trolley of abandoned and rejected items toward them. He didn’t smile. He didn’t nod. But for the first time Heather felt his eyes flood her in the aisle. Heather touched her undercut. Sweaty. Sophie B. Hawkins was singing, Damn, I wish I was your lover.