by Mic Palmer
“If my wife’s going to dye her hair, I’m going to grow a beard,” Jack commented, immediately knowing that he was making things worse.
Within a week, maybe days, his face would be plastered on the front of every newspaper and magazine in the country. Should this drippy youngster remember him, he might spill the beans over the beard and hair color.
“Ok,” responded the boy.
“Now I did it,” Jack told himself. “Now he thinks I’m a weirdo.”
“That’s twenty eight dollars, please.”
“I probably won’t even bother,” Jack went on, trying to appear as relaxed and casual as possible.
“What’s that?” said the attendant.
Jack could begin to feel the blood rushing to his cheeks. “Shut the hell up!” he told himself.
“Oh, the beard,” said the clerk. “Why not? Go for it.”
“Well see,” said Jack, determined to say as little as possible.
“I wish I could grow one,” said the boy.
“Great,” thought Jack. “Now we’re having a conversation.”
While examining the box, the clerk rubbed the palm of his hand across his cheek. “How do you put this stuff on without getting it on your skin? Does it wash off?”
“I don’t know,” mumbled Jack. “I doubt I’ll even use it.”
“Here you go,” said the clerk, giving Jack his change. “Good luck.”
“Thanks,” said Jack, with an eye to the door.
“Wait a minute,” said the boy, reaching back into the bag. This is black. Your hair is blond, at least judging from your eyebrows.”
For a moment Jack considered returning everything, but that would only give the kid more time to take in his image. Instead, he just waived, as if it didn’t matter. “What a disaster,” he murmured.
Chapter Eight
His next stop was a local fitness club. Given the possibility that the police had already gotten a fix on him, he didn’t want to spend one extra second walking around as a blond.
Having paid for a day pass, he walked through the place, sporting the cowboy hat and sunglasses. “What a jackass I must look like,” he thought to himself.
Fortunately, the locker room was empty. After storing his hat and clothes, he raced to a shower stall and began mixing the dye. Carefully rubbing it into his hair and eyebrows, he peered into a rather distorted mirror, anxious to make sure that none of it ran off into his eyes.
Now it was only a matter of time. Checking his cheap waterproof watch every now and again, he observed that his scalp had begun to feel hot and tingly.
“Come on,” he grumbled, but only five minutes had passed.
“Maybe I’d better turn on the water,” he reasoned, “before someone starts to wonder what I’m doing in here.”
While positioning the shower head toward the blue tiled wall with one hand, he used the other to turn the knob.
“Ten more minutes,” he sighed, as his face and arms began to itch. “Shit,” he whispered. “Am I having a reaction?”
Wiping the mirror off with his hand he noticed that he was looking a bit ruddy. “I should have followed the instructions and tested the stuff on my arm. Stupid moron. I’ll probably wind up in the hospital!” Nevertheless, he stood there and waited, and to his surprise, it didn’t become any worse.
Finally, he was able to wash it off. Watching the black liquid as it circled the drain, he felt that he had dodged a bullet; for a moment he relaxed, allowing the hot water to pelt the nape of his neck.
Having toweled off and dressed, he found a clean mirror and examined himself. The change was dramatic. He was especially shocked with the difference his eyebrows made. They were so dark and thick that they almost appeared fake.
Although he had sketched thousands of faces, he was still surprised at what a dramatic effect just a few minor changes could make. A slight lengthening of the nose here and a thinning of the lips there and you had a totally different person.
Despite being a bit bushy, his eyebrows had always blended in with his skin, making them for the most part inconspicuous. Now, however, they jumped out like a couple of ebony caterpillars, the effect of which was to frame out and therefore widen his eyes, causing him to appear more somber, almost sad.
As to his thinning blond hair, which at the very least possessed the virtue of appearing to flow naturally from his scalp, it now had the appearance of a jutting peninsula on an ocean of skin.
“Christ,” he grumbled, as he took in the full immensity of his elongated forehead, but instead of trying to cover it up, by combing his hair forward, he slicked it back, thereby exaggerating the effect.
“The hell with it,” he told himself. “It’s not like I’m going to be dating any time soon. The worse the better.”
Indeed, he accomplished what he had set out to – he had transformed his appearance. With wet looking coal black hair, done up Bela Lugosi style, a large vertically rectangular forehead, and a newly prominent brow ridge, he had succeeded in creating the illusion of boney angularity, even while the rest of his face was a bit flaccid.
Chapter Nine
Still lingering before the locker room mirror, he shook off his new appearance and focused on what needed to be done. First and foremost was his car, which would have to be painted, but how? Not wanting to have to worry about it, his first thought was to bring it into a shop. For a few extra bucks they could probably finish the job in an hour.
“No,” he finally concluded, having gotten back on the road. It was too risky. Soon his face would be everywhere. Should the men at the body shop recognize him, they’d quickly contact the police, describing not only his new appearance, but that of the vehicle. Thus, he’d have to paint the car himself.
“Why not?” he ruminated.
Just hours before, he would have deemed the job beyond his grasp, but now, with his mind being stretched out and twisted like a lump of dough and his freedom hanging by a thread, it didn’t seem all that complicated – this from the man who turned every trivial project into a hair robbing, mind throbbing, soul crushing exercise in the law of diminishing returns – but that’s how it is for people who don’t think clearly; everything’s difficult.
Taking nearly four years to pick out his beloved flat screen, he’d obsess over the most minor of details, even while he was forced to make do with a fuzzy, twenty six inch, headache inducing, tube job – and while he liked to brag about the price he had finally gotten, the fact was it wasn’t worth it. Between running to sales, searching the internet, and scrutinizing newspapers, he had thrown away a significant chunk of his life, all to save a couple hundred dollars.
Today, however, he was determined to be more decisive, even if it meant crushing a lifetime of comforting habits. Indeed, upon entering the auto supply store, his first thoughts were to check the flyers for sales, chit chat with the staff about means and methods, compare products, and carefully consider the color and quantity, but instead he raced to the paint section and began filling the cart with cans.”
“Good enough,” he uncharacteristically mumbled, as he grabbed some gloves, paper overalls, and masking tape.
And that was that. Within just five minutes he had performed a task that ordinarily would have taken him hours if not days.
Some things, however, are beyond our control.
“What the hell?” he grumbled, having to stand in a line of about fifteen people. “Since when do city people work on their own cars?”
The man standing behind him was a tall thin grizzled looking fellow with a nose that whistled with each rather truncated inhalation. “Never sheen that before,” he said, unable it seemed to produce the sound of an “s.”
“How’s that?”
The man rested his thick oil stained hands on the side of Jack’s cart. Wearing a grey collared shirt, navy blue pants, and work boots, he appeared to be a mechanic of some sort. “Looksh like you plan on painting a whole car with cansh?”
Jack subconsciously put hi
s hand in his pocket and jiggled his keys. “I’ve done it before. It’s not that bad.”
Shooshing up a storm, the man couldn’t tell that Jack wasn’t in the mood. “Ish not gonna come out even. Why don’t you jush rent a compreshor? It’ll take you a third of the time.”
A compressor would have been nice, but then Jack would have had to use his credit card, which was not something he was about to do. “That’s alright. Actually I’m just doing part of the car.”
Shifting his unlit cigarette from one side of his mouth to the other by manipulating his lips, the interloper ran his fingers through his grey black hair. “Well thash what cansh are for – small jobsh.”
“I know,” said Jack, painfully noting that he still had six people in front of him.
Tucking his round chin into a rather flabby neck, the unwanted expert again peered into Jack’s cart. “But if you’re only doing a part of it, you probably got way too mush.”
“I realize that. I gonna give the rest away as gifts.”
“Hee hee hee,” cackled the man. “Thash an exshpenshive proposhition.”
“That’s ok,” said Jack, blissfully amazed at how fast the line was moving.
“Make sure you shake em good,” added the mechanic.
Jack found himself clenching his teeth.
“Cause if you don’t shake em, it’s gonna run.”
“I realize that.”
“And not just once, every minute or so.”
“Got it,” he responded, imagining himself spray painting the man’s face.
Mercifully, he had finally reached the register. “Here you go,” he uttered, handing over his credit card.
Already he had begun considering his next move, but with dozens of incipient thoughts motoring through his head, all of which were competing for his attention, he seemed to have lost the ability to prioritize. Just when an idea began to present itself, it was usurped, guillotined, cannibalized, leaving his mind a complete blank.
Suddenly, however, he heard the sound of a plastic card being swiped, and it was as if his throat had been slashed. “No,” he called out. “I didn’t mean to use my credit card. I’m overextended.”
The boy frowned. “It’s already processing.”
“Cancel it!”
“Hee, hee, hee,” chortled the scruffy looking man. “Shpensive, ain’t it?”
“Ok,” moaned the cashier.
“Did you catch it?”
“I think so.”
“The request wasn’t processed?”
“Not as far as I can see.”
“Well, look – does it say cancelled or terminated?”
“What’s the difference?”
“If it says cancelled, that means it went through.”
“So?”
“Will you just check.”
Punching one key after another, the boy frantically searched. “All it says is request aborted.”
“Perfect,” Jack commented, like it was no big deal, but the truth was that he was fed up with himself. Not three minutes before, he had consciously decided not to rent a paint compressor to avoid using his credit card, but did that stop him? Of course not.
Throughout his life it had always been the same – moments of genuine clarity followed by mindboggling stupidity.
“THINK!” he’d often tell himself, but the truth was that even at his best, when every synapse and micro-tubule seemed to be buzzing with activity, his thoughts were rather ordinary; if he had any advantage – it was that he knew it.
Chapter Ten
Red Hook had been a good choice. Even these days, with all of the gentrification projects taking place, you can still find a nice chunk of vacant lots and abandoned buildings.
Standing in the back lot of what had once been a hat factory, Jack admired his handiwork. Jet black, like his hair, the car didn’t look half bad – from a distance at least. “I should have done this years ago,” he thought to himself.
With the sun setting over the Gowanus Creek, a cool breeze had begun to clear the paint fumes from his head. He felt good, even drunk – high on formaldehyde and benzene. Rubbing his index finger and forearm, he sat for a moment on the rear bumper, taking in row after row of giant cylindrical oil tanks. Like invading pods, they dominated the landscape, making it feel sterile, robotic, alien.
Feeling like a cigarette, he remembered the big Russian with the little smokes. A Capri would have been nice just about then, if not to settle him down, then at least to keep him busy. Having been running around most of the day, he didn’t know what to do with himself, except of course consider his mistakes.
If only he could have kept his mouth shut, he would have given himself a fairly decent grade, but as it was, he couldn’t help but wonder whether his misplaced explanations and unnecessary wisecracks would eventually bite him in the ass.
As for the kid at the pharmacy, he had probably already forgotten him. He was a teenager, and teenagers only remember that which directly concerns them. What worried him was the weirdo from the line. Staring at Jack as if he were crazy, he was just the type to remember not only his purchase, but exactly what he looked like.
“Know-it-all busy body!” Jack said out loud. He’d probably recount the whole non-event with his equally annoying friends, as if it were an actual story.
“Ah, the hell with it,” he finally decided. What he needed to do now was to get a hold of some license plates. Gathering up the many cans, he came to the conclusion that his best option was to find a car that was barely used, perhaps one that was covered. Otherwise the missing plates would be quickly detected.
Thinking on it for a moment, he came up with an inspired solution, even if it caused a twinge of hesitation.
Gomez had just purchased a mint condition 1967 Corvette Sting Ray, which his wife often referred to as the other woman. For except for being shown off at an auto show every now and then, it spent most of its time within a protective cocoon of fleeced satin and woven polyester.
“Beautiful, he thought to himself, but sliding back into his newly painted Mustang, he suddenly became unhinged. “The phone!” he shouted. While turned off, it still had the battery in it, meaning that he could be tracked. How the hell could he forget that?
Throwing both the power supply and phone in the glove compartment, he took off for his friend’s house.
Although he couldn’t recall the street, he was confident it would come to him once he reached the general vicinity, which he believed was a bit southeast of Yankee stadium. What stood out in his mind was the yellow door and green hammock. As for the rest of the place, he’d know it when he saw it.
Chapter Eleven
Having stopped at a drive thru for a quick salad, he reached the Triborough Bridge by about five and from there took the Major Deegan to 149th street.
Within the last couple of hours the temperature had dropped precipitously, but that was good. It meant that the streets would be empty.
“How lucky could I get,” Jack thought to himself. Just about a mile from the remains of the house that Ruth built, he spotted a structure with a canary yellow door.
“This has got to be it; then again where’s the hammock? Ah, he probably took it down for the winter.”
In the driveway was a metallic green Honda Accord. A thick boned teenager was removing some packages from the trunk. He had a wide jaw, high cheekbones, and throaty laugh that sent ripples through his face. “Must be his son,” Jack thought to himself.
Nearby was a skinny white kid, with short blond hair and a nearly invisible goatee. Wearing an insulated vest over a white T-shirt, he displayed long thin arms, so full of green and red tattoos that not a centimeter of natural flesh remained. In between the contorted representations of naked women and exotic birds appeared Mayan glyphs and Gothic calligraphy. “Such wisdom,” Jack mused.
On the young man’s right arm was the proverb, “Let Sleeping Dogs Die,” and on the left, “Early To Bed, Early Demise.”
“Cute,” Jack t
hought to himself, “but even assuming he had come up with something profound, which he clearly hadn’t, was it really worth making a billboard out of himself? It’s like saying the same thing every second of your life. Can’t these kids see how boring that’s going to get. It’s like dull’s the new interesting.”
Just then the boy with the illustrated arms juggled and then dropped what appeared to be a bag of flour, causing his friend’s son to break out in stitches. “Be careful man,” he told him. He even sounded like Gomez.
Having all the charm of a detention center, the two story structure was covered in wide strips of sooty beige aluminum siding, but what stood out was the multiplicity of exceedingly narrow windows. Sandwiched between rundown, yellow shutters, most of which appeared to be on the verge of falling off, they resembled the arrow slits of a castle. Oddly, he had never noticed this.
It was twilight now, meaning that it would soon be dark. Driving down the silent street, he eventually found a space next to an abandoned bodega.
Once night fell, he’d return to take care of the license plates; for now though, comforted by the thought that things were going rather smoothly, he put back his seat and closed his eyes.
Chapter Twelve
Jack jumped up from his nap with a gasp. With his heart thumping like a drum, he inhaled deeply, trying to catch his breath.
Having parked several blocks away, he appreciated the chance to stretch his legs. It was dark out now and the air had a nice bite to it. Silhouettes filled curtained windows, bathed in the flickering glow of their televisions.
Hopping the fence into his friend’s driveway, Jack cringed at the sound of the reverberating metal. “Shit,” he exclaimed, feeling his lower back begin to lock up.
But for a dog barking at the squeal of the fence, all was quiet.
“This should be easy,” Jack thought to himself, as he quietly limped down the driveway toward the yard.