Doughnuts. Coffee. Make a second shit stop cause you’re nervous. Nervous: these germy little spirit ladies shoot around your stomach streaking caustic stars, their throats warbling a high note so fine water ripples worldwide. That high note rattles the bowels and loosens whatever’s in them. And whatever’s in them then pants at the butthole like a dog wanting to go outside. You open the door in a toilet and the bowel dog rushes out, barking. The ladies unceasingly streak. It’s the shit they don’t show you in chick flicks. Nerves! Pull off and park the twenty-ton truck all for a thin line of poop. Rock that confused wolf again and again by pulling that damn machine over again. Wipe that red sensitive butthole again. Will it bleed? Let it. You’re lovesick. But wet a clump of toilet paper and hold it back there for a quick soothe. Return to the truck and sit on the pain. Now drive. Smiling.
An Arctic Tundra Grey wolf paces in the back of a semi coursing 75 miles-an-hour, 70 miles-an-hour, 65 miles-an-hour, and slowing. The Haircutter pulls into town.
I pulled into Ten Sleep at 4:00 p.m., an hour I’ve always liked. It was when my mom would finally get out of bed and start making us some food.
I parked in front of the house and my truck shadowed the balding yard. When I got out and shut the door, the slap echoed down the block.
My childhood home had ivy growing up on each side of it and meeting on the roof. Like curtains that went moldy staging the acts of same-ol’ same-ol’ inside.
I rang the bell because I didn’t feel right walking in.
Diiing-Dooong!—as if my family’s rich.
My mother opened the door and put her fat hand over her mouth and shook it there. She had more grey hairs. She went in for a hug, but flinched halfway to say, “I’m sure I’m even fatter!” I hugged her by just tapping my fingertips on her back like we do and said, “Hi. Hello. Hi.”
I stepped into the house and looked around to the music of her sniffles and squeals. She said, “I feel like I just got Publishers Clearing House! It’s about time! Gol dang it, I almost don’t believe it!” Then she got embarrassed and turned to slowly saying, “Well, I wondered why you never called, but I knew you would at some point, but gol, what’s it been that the time’s added up to, five years?”
“Eight,” I said.
I could tell Father John wasn’t there because the house felt like a bully. He has a feel that turns the house into just a house doing its functions, groaning its floors, giving its rooms and light switches. But even if he left for a flash to go retrieve the paper, the house seemed on the brink of telling me to stop breathing so loud.
All its stuff looked exactly the same—even had the same thinning towels hanging on the hooks in the toilet cabinet next to the kitchen; it had the same ornamental china shelf on the floor of the dining room with the screws and hammer still out next to it ready to put it on the wall; it had the same smell, which blended with my breathing after one sniff but was enough for me to get a kick out of it. The velvet horses couch sat stiff in its place under the front window. Grandma’s old furniture pointed at a new TV. Five remotes were on the coffee table with the same basket of dusty potpourri, a bit sun-faded now. The kitchen still had yellow tiled walls. Still had a wad of gnats over a pile in the sink. I sat in my old seat at the table and Mom said, “You still like bacon sandwiches?”
I said, “Absolutely,” and getting ready to eat had always put us in a good mood, so she came and kissed my cheek.
“So weird to see you!” she said, wincing.
I touched her mushy spotted arm and said, “Same here.”
I saw Father John’s seat had his butt impression on his cushion and it made my stomach ladies whisper, “Ready girls?”
I looked back at Mom and saw she was staring at me harder than anyone in the eight years I’d lived in New York had. It came with a nasty feel so I farted and that shook her off. She started moving around the kitchen with the same old tick! sounds coming from her hips and knees. She had a new shoulder blanket on, but it had the same old fringes that swung lightly when she moved like they had no choice in the matter. She saw me watching and came over with a frying pan and pretended to smash one of my hands with it.
“Hardee-har. Look how young you make me seem,” she said. “Why didn’t you write at me if you weren’t gonna call?”
“I called you!” I said.
“Just the once to see if you had any letters!”
Yes. The truth was, I called the once to see if Carol had contacted them asking for news from me, and I never called again out of stubbornness for my dad, of course. What kind of “man” needs to call home?
“Mom, Father John dropped me there and left me!” I scoffed and laughed it off like I hadn’t thought about it in a long time.
My mother slapped the table and said, “I told eem! I told eem he shouldn’ta done that! I told eem he abandoned my boy! I spent two years not lettin’ eem talk to me, Junior!”
And stuff like that.
Without saying Go, I finally looked over at the spot where I killed Jenny and it made me say, “Whoa!” out loud and Mom said, “What?” And I said, “Whoa coke-a-moe,” to brush it aside. She laughed a high hm! sound appreciating her big son’s rhyme. I was like, Alright.
She cooked the bacon while I prepped four slices of bread by putting peanut butter on them. She kept turning around to ask little questions like, “Now do you get snow there or not? … Right, see that’s what I thought … Now, y’all do a subway over there, isn’t that right? … and does that cost, or? … TWO DOLLARS?!”
All my mother’s ever known is her Fair Fare van. It’s the only job she’s ever had—thirty years running. She works all night long, which is why she was asleep during the day my whole life. What she does is she gets drunks from bars and takes them home, or the other way around. She’ll beep outside their house like she’s their friend (which she is) and they’ll chat happily towards the bar, and then she’ll see them later throwing themselves at the door of the van and opening it with more force than necessary. I know that my mom is most comfortable at work, and I know that that’s why she does it. Her blanket falls off her shoulders when she’s in her driver’s seat—it’ll even annoy her and she’ll get it out from under her and ask someone to fold it and set it on the floor. She’ll chat in the most relaxed voice she has, and she only has it at work. It’s her ultimate relief, her safe place—a smelly van full of her drunks.
As we were eating our sandwiches, Darron came in.
“What?! Brother John?!” He locked his legs and his eyes rimmed up red. “Well let me get a hug for a surprise like that! I almost just passed out!”
I stood up to hug his small, muscular body.
“Nice to see you!” he said, laughing and beating my back. He had those same bruised-looking eyes, and a few grey hairs here and there in his razor cut, and he looked a bit clammier.
“You gained a little weight in the face?” I said.
“Hey! You’re one to talk!”
I smoothed my hands over my belly.
“Shit, brother!” He took out a handkerchief and blew his nose. He fed it back into his pocket, smiling. “That’s not your truck out there is it?”
“Yeah, it’s a mini-semi I guess. I’m just in town for the night, actually, cause I came on a hired job.”
“Hey!” My mother said through a mouthful, “You didn’t tell me that!”
“Well, you didn’t ask why I’m here. I got hired by an art dealer in New York to transport a wolf cross-country, so that’s what I’m here for. I’ve got a wolf in back.”
“A wolf?” Darron said.
“Yeah, I’m set to release it tomorrow morning and head back outta town, so.”
“Junior, gol! You shouldn’t leave that soon. There’s your old bed for as long as you want and you know you’re welcome to stay. Frontier Days is comin’ up. We could getcher old fringe vest out. It’s up there in a box I’ll bet,” Mother said, trying to sell me something she didn’t give a titty about. She was busy with her sandwich.
Darron said, “Now when you say wolf. Does that mean a domesticated wolf, I’m assuming?”
I said, “Nope. A wild one.”
“Shit! Let’s go see it!” He hit Mom’s shoulder.
“Say! I’m eating my snack right now,” she said to him, ticked off. When she chewed, her sparsey black mustache hairs drew circles. I took a bite of my own sandwich, then finished it in four more. I eat those on Wednesdays and Fridays for dinner.
Darron kept popping and locking his legs, crossing his arms and slapping our shoulders. “How’s the Big Apple?” he said. “I love tellin’ people you live there.”
“It’s wonderful,” I said, and for a flash I accidently pictured the New York I had in my head before I’d ever been: a cartoon alley cat singing jazz till someone breaks a bottle over its head.
“Well shit, you gotta come to Blue Bear with me tonight!” Darron said.
“Are you still? You can’t be,” I said.
“Yep, still jivin’.” He spun around quick in his black clothes.
“Hey, you cut off your tail!” I said.
He rubbed his neck where it used to hang. “Cause I’m a workin’ man now! I went back to college and all that. It’s why I still live here—I got student loans to pay. Hell, you’ve been gone forever. I’m the gym teacher at Benson now!” He grabbed a banana from the middle of the table and scarfed it down.
“Wow, somethin’ to be proud about,” I said. Then I surprised everyone, including myself, by asking a personal question. I said, “Do you have a girlfriend, too?”
Darron and Mother looked at each other, and Darron tossed his banana peel at the sink—it cut the wad of gnats and made them scatter. He said, “Not my kinda thing, if you know what I mean.”
Mom stood up quivering her empty plate. She curled a hand back to unhook her blanket from her rump and said, “Are you gonna tell your brother what you meant by that or just leave it as a puzzle?” She checked to see if I would laugh with her but I didn’t know what was going on yet, so I couldn’t.
Darron said, “Sure! I came out after you left, Bro. I don’t know … a few years ago? I woulda told you, but you never gave us no address, so.” His eyes flicked to our mom.
I said, “You came out to visit me?”
He said, “What? No.”
Mom said, “Different kinda comin’ out, Junior. He’s talkin’ closets.”
I said, “Oh!” Then I shuddered real hard. I said, “Oh, I thought you said somethin’ else.”
Darron said, “Nuh-uh. I wish I came out to New York, shit! What’s that cost though, a million dollars?”
“I don’t know, ask Father John. He paid for the tickets when we went out,” I said.
Mom set her plate in the sink soundlessly, then sniffed her nose to the side with her arms crossed. “Yep,” she said, looking at Darron.
I said, “Well dang, okay. You’re talkin’ gay.”
He said, “Hey, that rhymed.” Then he swung his body side-to-side all hard like you’re asking a five-year-old what’s his favorite color. “Yeah, that’s right. Can’t do anything about it. Don’t do anything about it, actually. I just don’t have romantic whatchamacallits.” He grimaced. “I just like to dance, don’t I.”
I huffed a hard chuckle. “Well okay!” I don’t mind having close-talk moments, it’s just that I don’t care about them. I said, “Am I supposed to do anything?” and he laughed, “No, not that I know of.”
“He’s the way he is,” our mother stated, proud to do it so matter-of-fact.
“Ha!” I said.
The three of us looked at each other nodding, then started clearing our throats so we didn’t urinate down our legs like satisfied dogs.
“Well sure I’ll come to Blue Bear with you tonight. Course,” I said.
And then I remembered: CAROL! I’d forgotten about her for a whole twenty minutes! Blue Bear equaled seeing Carol! I suddenly felt my bowels fill with gun powder. I excused myself and went upstairs and my butt shot the toilet.
I went and visited my old room in the attic and took some boxes off my bed. When I pulled down the sheets a spider crawled out and I let him live instead of coming along and claiming the place for myself after all these years. There was a sewing machine on the desk where I used to write and read while drinking Cokes. I used to like it there with just me and my lamp and Cokes and books. Hell—like? It’s the only thing I’ve ever actually enjoyed doing besides haircutting. I even had my own little fridge.
I heard Darron yell, “Hey, Brother John! Check this out!”
I went down to his room, which was exactly the same as it’s been his whole life: it smelled like his genital-scented bed, his lava lamp was performing on the dresser, and there were dirty dishes on the wheely TV stand he got for his twelfth birthday. He’d shook so hard with happiness to get that wheely TV stand, he pissed Father John off—Father John kicked it across the room and dented it and Darron later that day was like, “That’s okay,” and showed how he could put a cluster of Solar System stickers in the dent. He was sitting on his twin bed smiling up at me.
“Look. My new enterprise,” he said.
I said, “Where?”
“Under my bed.”
I lifted up his new adult-grey bed skirt and pulled out a stuffed potato sack.
“There’s a bunch more under there,” he said. “Open it up.”
I pulled out a rope, a cowboy hat, and a jean jacket from the sack.
“Each one’s got a rope and a jacket and a hat,” he said. “They’re my Imitation Cowboys.” He waited with a hanging smile for me to say something. “It’s so easy, people buy these up like penny candy! Alls I need to do is go to the Salvation and pick up any old jean jackets and hats! Some rope and a tater sack and you got an Imitation Cowboy!” He put stress on the second part—Cowboy. “Tourists love ’em,” he said.
“We ain’t got tourists comin’ through Ten Sleep!” I said.
“We sure as shit do!” Darron said. “I sold ten’a these already and I only been doin’ it a week! Thirty bucks a pop! People from Florida?”
I’m still proud of my brother Darron for his Imitation Cowboy enterprise. I patted him on the back, “Looks like you got it all figured out.”
He said, “No I don’t,” and scoffed me off like I’d told him he could fix a rocket.
“Smart move,” I said and left his room. Was I whistling? Sure, you can add all that.
I went downstairs to ask Mom where I could find Father John. Though, I’ve kicked myself ever since because I should’ve just gone to find Carol and then went for a good night’s sleep and woken up in the morning like, Oh, hi Dad, I’m here but I’m leaving. But, stupidity is as stupid does. Or whatever the hell they say for it.
Mom was on the velvet horses couch with a dirty look on her face. She was holding a Romance and I could tell she’d gone up to her vanity and done a shellac on her bangs. She has long brown hair and she’ll do a bang and spray it till it’s stiff when she nods. Me and Darron always said it looks like a crushed tarantula on her forehead.
I said, “The hell’s wrong with you?”
She looked in pain. The horses around her reared their heads to match.
“I’m all bloated now. You made me break my diet.”
She started on a coughing fit.
“Where’s Father John?” I asked, trying not to sound too interested.
“What’s it, five? Down at Willie’s then. You gonna pick eem up for me? I can’t barely move.”
“He still didn’t get his license?”
“Hold on,” she said, and tipped aside to creak a fart out as if to see if it would sound like, “No,” which it did.
I left the house, shocked by the silence of the outdoors.
Going back to Ten Sleep, even in my head, gives me the squirms. Makes me forget about all I’ve seen since and all I’ve accomplished. Idiot H.C. standing with his wee-wee in his hand saying, “What’s this?” And Father John walks by in dusty boots go
in’, “It’s your vagina, dummy. Is it on its period?”
When I walked into Willie’s, it smelled like someone had just bleached the toilet, and The Cosby Show was loud on a big TV. Two old vets sat at a square black table with a pitcher of beer on it. Two young men cracked pool in back by the velvet Elvises. My father was alone on a bar stool. He was wearing his tan cowboy hat after all these years: still clean.
I just went up to him and hiked myself up on a stool. He had his head pointing down like a sleeping cow. He had hearing aids.
I watched him in the backbar mirror. A Fun-game somewhere was sounding out a jingle and passing a blue laser over our faces. Ring-a-ding-ding, it’s the year 2000 and look who’s back.
The tender came up and said, “What can I get ya?”
It made my dad turn to look at me. Our eyes still matched, even with all the added age. He looked away for a beat, then looked back at me and his shoulders jumped.
“Didn’t recognize you,” he said and put out his hand.
“Hello,” I said, and I shook it. Then I got giddy about shaking hands, so I squirmed my lips trying not to smile. I smacked myself upside the head with a trout in my mind, the trout growing bigger and bigger after each time till I simply couldn’t lift it.
My father said to the tender, “Better make it a Manhattan,” and the sudden speech made him hack.
“No, I’ll have a whiskey soda,” I said.
And after that, I couldn’t think of anything else to say, though I technically wasn’t thinking. It was like I had my finger in a socket and my brain was stuck on one thought: you can’t think of anything to say. I felt like that time I went to the store with him on accident when I was twenty-five and I had to think of something to say in line, which I didn’t.
The Haircutter Page 3