“This a visit or are you here to stay?” he said.
“No, just for the night. I got some work to do in the area.”
“Kinda work?” he said.
“I was hired to drive a wolf out here? And release him in the wild?”
“A what?”
“A wolf? It’s in the lot right now in back’a my truck.”
The audience exploded into laughter on The Cosby Show.
“It’s pacin’ in back’a my truck, prolly hungry,” I said.
My dad took time between saying things—something men in Wyo do just because they have all day.
I sipped from my cocktail and shivered. I don’t like the taste of alcohol.
“You drive it from New York?” he said.
“Yes sir, I did.”
He said, “Psh!” and took a big pull on his beer. I looked at the hairs hooking out of his nose pores and felt my own nose to see if I had them—I don’t. I squirmed on my stool. I was waiting for questions I knew he’d never ask. I didn’t want the scene to end, but I didn’t want to sit there like a poop stuck in a rear either.
I drawled a long, “Weeeell. I need to get this wolf back to the house and catch a rest. We leave first thing in the morning.”
“Time is it?” he said.
I read the Budweiser clock in front of us. “A quarter till.”
He picked his bottle up an inch and smacked it back down on the counter. “I asked for the time, not a goddamn math problem.”
I got up from the stool and tossed a twenty down, the wind from the motion making the straw pop out of my full whiskey soda, which the scene could’ve done without.
“I’m not ready to go yet, thanks for askin’,” my father said.
“I’ll be in the lot.”
The sun was doing its set. Crickets did a Welcome Back chant, taunting me. I shoed at the gravel and looked through the bullet holes at the wolf. He was curled up sleeping, or meditating?—I wouldn’t know. Father John came out holding my whiskey soda. He had a chain connecting his wallet to his belt and it swung lower than his knees. Long enough to give a pickpocket time to go “Woo hoo!” before an old man topples over five feet back and drags on the end of his prize. Anything to make someone feel dumber than they already are. Father John limped on his age-rotted legs, and I counted a limp for each of the eight years he’d abandoned me.
“The hell you lookin’ at?” he said, still across the lot, but it sounded like he said it right in my ear.
He didn’t compliment me on my truck, he just got in. I drove us home with the windows down and it smelled like the refinery. I was used to the passenger’s seat being empty and now my father was in it. He looked around to judge the town while he rode, burping and cracking his teeth on ice, rattling the plastic cup. We didn’t say anything until I parked in front of the house.
I said, “You wanna see the wolf?”
“There ain’t really a wolf back there.”
I climbed my fatass into the back and unstopped the peephole. I opened the food bag and funneled some pellets in. My dad came back to see. He wheezed his face up to the hole and looked in for a while before his eye adjusted.
“Christ!”
I tried a long yawn.
“What’re you gonna do with it?” he said with breath so sour the wolf coughed.
“Release it,” I said.
“Release it?! You’re dumber than a box of rocks if you think that’s the thing to do.”
“I’ve been hired to take care of this wolf. I’ve been given exact instructions off a note.”
“Lemme outta here! If you think I’m a toad! Lemme out!” he said, panicking in that old kid’s way of his that always made me feel sick and thirsty.
So I let him out, knowing simple-as-that how this whole “parading a wolf in front of my father” thing went.
The father sat down at the kitchen table with the grace of a hog. He picked up his fork and used it to point at The Haircutter and say, “This jack-in-the-box thinks he’s gonna let go of a perfectly good piece’a cash like it ain’t weird.”
The brother turned on the small TV on the counter and The Cosby Show was ending. He changed it to the news.
The father said, “Even though the first thing I saw in that wolf was dollar signs. And same’s with that truck.”
The mother said, “Father John knows. Trust eem.”
The Haircutter closed his eyes and took his scissor to a head of hair in his mind. He felt a rush and rode it. His mother and father and brother flicked their eyes from the TV to him, from the TV to him. The sun came in through the window above the sink and set while they were eating, making long shadows draw out from the salt and pepper shakers and from their moving hands, making the room warm-colored to go with the smell of country pot pies. The mother ate with one arm hugging herself around the middle, and the other arm—white with black hairs—coming out of her shoulder blanket to fork around. The Haircutter noticed she had peanut butter on her cheek from the earlier sandwiches. The father ate with his hearing aid ringing and one wrist resting on the table edge far out from his body. He’d laid his toothpick next to his plate in order to eat.
The news reporter on TV said, “A new study on theory shows evidence of opinions? We’ll explain after this.” The father pointed at her and said, “Now how come she’s so homely lookin’?” The mother laughed and it sounded like a turkey gobbling. She put a cube of grey turkey into her mouth, her teeth like grey lace once strung up white but forgotten about, as people forget about what a special occasion it was to be born and go on to never brush their fuckin’ teeth.
She cleared her throat and said, “How’s the meal, boys?”
“It’ll make a turd,” is what the father said.
The mother ticked her tongue and smiled.
It was always all about Father John.
The brother brought his plate up to his face and licked it clean. Someone silently farted in order to have something be under the table besides no family dog.
The Haircutter stood, saying, “I’ve got some paperwork to do out in the truck.”
I’d been sitting for an hour or so doing who wrote autobiographies in the ’50s, when Darron knocked on the window.
“Can I see the wolf?” he said, and I said, “You bet,” and showed him the peephole.
He looked in and said, “Whoa, hi, buddy! See you can tell right away that’s a wild animal.” He saw Wolf Fancy next to him. “Aw cool—Wolf Fancy,” he pronounced the name and fanned the pages, sticking his face near. “It almost even smells like a wolf.”
I said, “Well there you’re smelling the wolf, not the damned mag.” I said, “Psh!” like our father.
“What a cool animal,” he said as he crawled back to the front seat.
He said, “Hey bro, I know you did what you had to do with Jenny.”
I flinched. I said, “Ach.” I said, “That was damn stupid and you know it.” Then I said, “WHOA! Did you see that?! I think that was a turkey buzzard with a cat in its mouth!” pointing to a fake spot in the sky.
Darron craned his neck for a while trying to see, and when it went calm again he said, “We made a grave for her out back. You should check it out.”
I went through the bushes on the side of the house instead of cutting through; I didn’t want the whole house knowing, Oh, he’s going to see the grave. The backyard had an unused shed and a three-wall fence of ivy. I looked around for a grave till I was like, “This?” It was a pathetic little cross made out of two pieces of fire kindler.
When I was in my late twenties, my father traded a chainsaw for a buzz-haired mutt dog named Jenny. When my father was with Jenny, it was like we had a grandchild in the family. It was his precious “Lady Jenny.” When he held her, all your attention went to the smile lines shooting out from his eyes. Every single time he came home, he had a McDonald’s cheeseburger for Jenny and never one for us. When he sat on the couch and Jenny sat up on the back of it, his hair would lift to point at her—h
is love was electric. When I was thirty, when I was in love with Carol, I would talk to her about Lit, as I’ve said. And so there came a day when I asked her to come to my house to see my collection of books. She came. She rang my bell. No one was home but me and her. I was horny and excited. I said, “Come on in!” and went straight to the kitchen and opened the fridge to get Cokes. I heard Jenny’s nails on the floor and a single bark.
Then I closed the fridge door and saw Jenny’s jaw clamped on Carol’s leg.
If only the little fridge in my room had been stocked with Cokes that day.
Carol’s screams were like death-metal music supporting the horror. I kicked Jenny hard and she yelped but snapped forward to bite that leg again. I kicked her again but she was prepped for it—her jaw held fast. Blood was filling her mouth and spilling out the gaps in her teeth. And there was a knife on the table right next to my hand. Like, “Yoo-hoo!” I stabbed Jenny twice in the potbelly.
She immediately bent up to lick the wounds, but then went all erect like she’d suddenly been stretched taut by invisible hands—her eyes were terrified.
I looked up and Carol was gone. Spots of blood pitter-pattered out the open door. I got the portable phone in my hand and Jenny jerked with her tongue popped out.
The dog was dying on the plastic floral floor.
I called information and asked for a vet’s number. The nails from one of her paws dinged on the metal table leg as if to keep my attention. Her hyperventilation blew blood bubbles out of the knife slits in her potbelly—they rose in the air and drifted away or popped.
I yelled, “Stop it Jenny!”
And in a while more, she stopped.
Father John came home and the scream that he made was the most horrifying sound I’ve ever heard in my life, and I’ve woken up to the sound of a mouse writhing on a sticky trap under my bed till it ripped its stomach and its guts slipped out. Father John got down and gave her CPR (as his last kiss from Lady Jenny). He looked at me with blood around his mouth like Ronald McDonald—“The fuck’d you do?!”
The Fair Fare seats looked like someone had doused them in acid. Dirty yellow foam showed through. My sneakers stuck to the floor mat.
Darron was telling a boring story, at which he was an Olympian. “Cotton, I think. But wait—he went to Toledo, he might’ve said—I think he said his nephew lives there—oh wait, Tampa? Hold on, I’ll look on my globe later.”
Here was the same scene that had played out every night before I left Ten Sleep for good: Mom was driving me and Darron to the Blue Bear and I was sweating over seeing Carol. I was so nervous my teeth started chattering. I had on a plain white T-shirt that I’d picked up on the road. Cause Carol once said, “Guys look great in plain white T-shirts.”
We pulled up in front of the massive oak doors, “Bye Mom!” like two children. A neon sign hung over the top: Blue Bear Saloon. I saw Darron in that blue light again. This time with a heap of potato sacks on his back. I hate how the poor kids say “Santy Clause” like me and Darron did.
It smelled the same: sawdust and cigarettes. Twinkle lights dangled and a moon-shaped dance floor took up half the room. Darron clasped his hands behind his back and did a footstep down the length of it, a couple whoops coming out from waitresses like, “Darron’s here!” I looked for Carol. I weaved through the big black tables and got to the bar and sat down.
“Coke please,” I said to a young, blond bartender.
When she gave it to me, I said, “Hey, is Carol workin’ tonight?”
She looked at the other end of the bar and lightning struck when she called, “Carol!”
From the back it could’ve been Carol on a big weight gain. But when she spun around I saw a druggie old lady like from out of a mug shot. Her jugs swung back and forth for a sec from having spun around. Her eyes pointed in whichever direction they damn well pleased. She grunted, “What?” with spaces in her teeth.
“No! Carol Mary Mathers! Carol Mathers! She’s young!”
“Oh that’s the only Carol that works here,” the tender said.
“Are you sure?”
“This place is like Cheers bar, everyone knows everyone,” she said.
My heart decomposed. I looked at her again in case she’d been ravaged by time. I shouted, “You’re not Carol Mathers are you?”
“Huh-uh!” the woman grunted. “Carol Couch. Who’s askin’.”
I sucked down my entire Coke through the straw and pushed it away from me. I heard Carol Couch go, “Psh. I don’t know what that guy thinks he wants!” She said to her friend, “I don’t know—there’s a guy down there bein’ an asshole.”
Carol.
I heard the buttery countryman on the sound system spread “I’m gonna love you forever” all over the room. I went to the table where Darron had laid out his Imitation Cowboys. I sat down and burped out loud as a fuck you to the situation.
Darron was wearing black pants, black shoes, a black long-sleeved half turtleneck tucked in, and a black belt. Same outfit he’s always worn. I ordered another Coke from a waitress who passed by. Why not? I had a show right there.
He was finishing up a dance with one of the waitresses. You could tell they’d done that dance a million times, but she still had on a proud, quiet smile, with her big butt swollen inside of her light denim jeans, her cowboy boots scurrying, and her big hair getting in Darron’s face sometimes when they switched directions. When the song finished, he kissed her hand and she walked off the dance floor holding her lips in her mouth.
A faster-paced song came on and Darron’s sweaty hair flopped and followed his jerky movements—till three ugly girls went and had their pictures taken with him. I heard them yell, “What’s your name?” and he winked a stupid amount of times saying, “Think Bewitched.” And they were like, “What?” After they sat down, Darron did a succession of kicks for them. He’d pump himself up with his tongue stuck out on his cheek and then run for a jump-kick in front of their table. They took pictures, the flash going off when his leg was midair and his hair was swooping to meet his tucked head. Patrons watched with their cigarettes up near their raised brows—“Are y’all catchin’ what them girls are doin’ to Darron?”
I was finishing my second Coke when he came over, panting, to ask why I wasn’t dancing. The way he said it, “Wanna dance, brotha?” while moving his hips, made me ache for him. Like, That’s my brother and he’s not a bad guy. The song changed and he clapped and threw his arms up, flung his head around and yelled along to the lyrics, “Freedom like a BLACK HOLE!” He sprang off like a cat, ran toward the table of girls, and just when it looked like he’d hit the wooden fence surrounding the dance floor, he did an air kick, throwing his head forward to touch his knee—their camera flashed just in time. The girls screamed and bent over to laugh; one girl fell out of her chair and you could see her underpannies. Some patrons hooted, some stubbed out their cigs like they were going to take a stand, but then only hopped in their chairs clucking like chickens till they let out their smiles and relaxed, lighting up again, loving the show, because they know that it might be the only thing that’ll happen tonight.
I went to the foyer and used the pay phone to call my mother.
She was like, “Already?”
I said, “I’m tired. It’s been a long day.”
I hung up and stood there listening to the wind whistle through the leaks in the door. I’ll admit, I nearly cried thinking about Carol. The cling she had on my heart was maddening. I was completely in love with her. And was she married? Did she still live in Ten Sleep? Was she still alive? I didn’t know.
In all the years I’d lived in New York I just never got around to dating. If I was feeling sexed, I’d jack one to the thoughts from when I used to jack one when I was in love with Carol. Carol Mary Mathers! I had to find her! And just then, I saw a broken chord hanging from the pay phone and I shouted, “PHONEBOOK!”
I tore back inside and hurried to the bar and asked the tender girl, “You got a phonebook,
please?”
She shook her head and said, “Got stole.”
I asked every waitress if they knew Carol and I got no’s all around. I went to Darron and he was handing out Imitation Cowboys to the drunk girls. They immediately put on the hats and went on the dance floor to rope each other. Darron licked his fingers as he counted their cash, germs building up on his tongue. A poopy-smelling lady poked him and said, “How much? It’s my grandson’s birthdee next Wendsdee.”
I said, “Darron, you remember a girl named Carol who worked here?”
He said, “Is that that lifeguard girl from the pool? She dudn’t work here, I can sense athletes usually. Wait—how would you know her? Oh, her name’s Carrie. Who’s Carol? Oh, is that that one girl! Hell yeah, I remember her—what ever happened to her?”
I floated away on a wave of rage.
When my mom pulled up there was a drunk in the van with her. We drove to the emergency room cause he had tickled someone in the bathroom and had gotten smacked so hard he cut his head on the paper towel dispenser.
“Why’d you tickle eem?” Patty asked.
“Cause he was bein’ a cunt!” Earl said.
“Do you know Carol Mathers? Either of you?” I said.
They both said, “Who?” and Mom said, comfortably, “You coulda brought a rag, Earl. You’re gettin’ blood on my new seat cover.”
“That’s what it’s plastic for!” he grouched.
Mom chuckled, “You wanna get tickled too? Cause I will!”
Ten o’clock on a two-lane highway. Cars flashed past with the cast of a bobcat bolting because he knows the Wyos think his beauty looks best stuffed and posed in a pouncing position. The wake of the passing bobcat cars vibrated the phrase Carol Mary Mathers.
After the emergency room, Mom said, “So you seen him dance? That entertain ya?”
“I had a fine time watching him,” I said.
“So you’re still talkin’ like that, huh?” She had her hands on the tan shag steering wheel and she was straining up to look in the rearview.
The Haircutter Page 4