by Simon Wood
Suddenly, they all go quiet and the room’s silent except for a low beeping noise I can’t place at first. Then I notice where they’re all looking and realise it’s the wheelchair guy clicking words out onto his screen and the rest of them just sitting like pillocks watching them.
‘Toto’s asking what gave you the needle phobia,’ says Gym Dad, reading it.
‘Toto?’ I ask.
‘Nickname,’ says the yoga woman.
‘I’ve got quite a few issues,’ I say. ‘PTSD, I suppose is the best thing to call it for quick.’
‘Ohhhhhh,’ said Watch Man. ‘From the…incident? Who was it said they’d read about it.’
Then they all stop speaking again while ‘Toto’ beep-beeps another message. It would drive me nuts if I had to put up with him every day, but maybe they’ve only brought him along for a special treat. Maybe one of this lot is his carrier.
‘Toto read about it,’ says the woman I’m shaving. Have finished shaving actually. I let her smell both kinds of lotion I’ve brought with me, the citrus one and the rose. She goes for rose and I smooth it onto her scalp, trying not to wonder what the great big R stands for, if it’s not her initial.
‘A gay-bashing?’ says Watch Man, reading the screen and then lifting his eyes to me. ‘That’s horrific.’
‘You next?’ I say.
He takes half a step back, his face falling, before he realises I mean for a shave. Then he swallows and steps forward to the seat, while I’m brushing the first woman’s hair off the stool and cleaning my clippers.
He’s quicker than her because he’s kept his short all year. I can see the tattoo through the growth even before I start, because I know it’s there and I’m looking. It’s a T, I see, as his scalp is revealed.
‘But not your initial?’ I say.
‘Not my initial,’ he echoes. ‘I’ll take the citrus, by the way.’
‘Toto’s asking if they ever caught the people who did it,’ the oily scalp woman pipes up. I didn’t hear the beeping, used to it already. Maybe that’s how they can stand him hanging round their parties: because he fades into the background. Mind you, Yummy Yoga’s changing his bib. That would stay pretty sickening. She rolls it up and drops it on the floor, reaching round him to put on a fresh one.
‘They never did,’ I say. ‘I never saw anyone. I couldn’t describe anyone.’
‘What about the other guy?’ asks Gym Dad. ‘There was another guy, wasn’t there? You were together? That’s how they knew you were gay?’
‘Bi,’ I say, like I always do. ‘The forgotten letter in the bowl of alphabet soup.’
‘Right, right,’ Gym Dad says. He’s taking the shoulder gown from Watch Man and sitting in the chair.
‘And the other guy?’ says Olyve Oyl, with the scalp.
‘He was even worse off than me,’ I say. ‘My head got slammed into a metal support and it knocked me out. I was in hospital with concussion. But the other guy—’
‘Your boyfriend?’ says Dracula, with the stiletto sideburns.
‘Date, wasn’t it?’ says Yummy Yoga.
‘Not even that,’ I tell her. ‘A hook-up. We’d only met minutes before. In fact, I didn’t even know what he was about, at first. At first, I thought—’
But I stop myself before I say it, not knowing how it would go down with this lot.
Toto’s beeping again. Yummy Yoga slews to the side to read what he’s got to say.
‘Behave!’ she goes, when he’s finished. ‘I’m not saying that.’
‘You can’t offend me,’ I tell her. ‘It’s shit off a shovel to me, love. Life I’ve led. Things I’ve seen.’
I’m shaving Gym Dad now. I start in the middle, dying to see what letter’s tattooed on him. N, it turns out to be.
‘And it’s not your initial?’ I say.
‘It’s not my initial,’ he says.
‘What did he write?’ I say, looking at the Yummy Yoga.
She frowns. ‘You can talk to Toto, Marty.’
‘Sorry,’ I say. ‘I’m slow learner.’ I freeze after it’s out, thinking no way I should say ‘slow learner’ in front of an actual drooling cretin, but they don’t seem to mind. I glance at Toto and notice for the first time that he’s got a little mirror arrangement set up on the other arm of his chair from the screen. It’s on a bendable stalk, like an angle-poise lamp. If I look at it I can see his face reflected there and he can see me too. ‘What did you say?’ I ask him, feeling a right plonker, seeing he can’t answer, except in beeps.
‘He said he bets you thought it was a drug deal,’ says Yummy. ‘At first. Not a hook up.’
I swallow. ‘As it goes. That’s a pretty good guess. I mean, not a ‘drug deal’. A bit of blow for a Friday night. Nothing nasty.’
‘And what did you say happened to him?’ says the young one, with the R. ‘The other guy. The drug dealer.’
‘He wasn’t!’ I tell her. ‘He was as keen as me to hook up. It could have been a magical night if the ’phobe hadn’t seen us going round the back of the van and followed us.’
‘Lucky,’ says Watch Man. ‘He lures you round the back of a van at a fun fair. You think he’s got a bit of blow to sell. Then he makes his move and it turns out you’re gay. Could have ended badly for him otherwise.’
‘Bi,’ I say. I’ve finished Mr. N without hardly noticing what I’m doing and now I’m rubbing rose lotion over his scalp, without asking. ‘It did end badly. He got kicked in the head. Steel-toe cap boots. He needed surgery.
Olyve Oyl sucks her teeth. ‘Terrible,’ she says. ‘What was his name?’
‘I never asked,’ I said. ‘Like I was telling you. It was a hook-up.’
‘But afterwards.’ She’s coming over to sit in the chair now, ready to gunk up my good clippers. ‘You must have read the newspaper reports, didn’t you?’
‘My mum tried to protect me,’ I said, which was true. ‘And the papers always called him by his surname…I can’t remember it now. A long time ago and all the trauma.’
‘I can imagine,’ she says. ‘It sounds absolutely terrifying, what you went through.’
‘It was,’ I agree. ‘Thank you for understanding.’ But the silence in the room’s a surprise. I’d expected a ripple of sympathy from the rest of them. They’re like statues. Especially the bald ones. Sitting stone-face and shiny, staring at me.
I look back down to the scalp I’m uncovering. Her skin’s dark and the tat doesn’t show up well but the light’s good and I can tell it’s an E.
‘E,’ I say. ‘Is it code for something?’ I’m still thinking about drugs. About that guess that was far too lucky.
Beep, beep, beep. And then Stiletto Sideburns says: ‘Toto’s giving you a clue.’ I wait. ‘R, A, N, E. And two of us to go.’
‘Oh my God!’ I say, as the penny drops. ‘You’ve never all got CANCER spelled out across your bonces, have you? That’s…’
‘Of course not,’ says Sideburns. ‘That would be beyond morbid. And what good would it do?’
‘And they’re in that order, are they?’ I say.
‘Nope,’ says Watch Man. ‘We can’t make it too easy for you.’
‘So you’re not a C,’ I say to Yummy Yoga, as she sits down and pulls the cape around herself.
‘I’m not a C,’ she says. ‘Get cracking and see for yourself.’
There’s no chatter now. There’s no sound at all except the hum of my clippers and the shush of hair falling over the nylon cape and dropping like snowflakes onto the dust sheet.
It’s a T I uncover on her bony, white skull.
‘TRANE,’ I say. ‘TARNE. I’m not good at these…what do you call them?’
‘Anagrams,’ says Sideburns. ‘Listen, before you do me. Can you check out Toto. Could you have a feel of his scalp and see if you’d be happy to shave it? I know we said six and that would make it seven but maybe you’d stretch a point?’
‘Course,’ I say, e
ven though there’s sweat popping out on my palms at the thought of touching that curled-down head on its crooked neck.
At least when I stand behind him I can read what he’s tapping out on his screen without anyone needing to relay it to me.
Not sure I’d suit a Picard job, he writes.
‘For a good cause though,’ I say. But truth is, I’ve never felt anything like the mess of his scalp under his pelt of hair. My fingers probe and stroke and I can’t tell what I’m touching.
I’ve got a lot of lumps and bumps up there.
‘I feel them. What are they? Not…I mean, I hope they’re not. I mean…what with this being a cancer charity thing…’
Not tumors. Scars. From surgery.
‘Ohhhhh. Did you sue your surgeon?’
No one laughs.
I wasn’t always this way. It was brain damage. It happened when I was twenty.
I take my hands off his head as if they’re burning. I stare at the screen.
It was a gay bashing.
I take a step back. But there’s someone right behind me, stopping me moving farther away.
I’m not bi, he writes. Let me rephrase that. I’m no more bi than you are, Marty. But it was a smart move. I’ll give you that. It was a stroke of genius.
‘What?’ I say, but no one believes me. I don’t even sound convincing to myself.
They never caught the guy, he writes. So I put it behind me. Got my degree. Started my business. Met my husband. Bought this house. Adopted our children. I’ve got a good life. And great friends. It would never have crossed my mind again if you hadn’t decided to start speaking.
I unstick my tongue form the roof of my mouth and try to run it round my gums. It catches. When I open my lips there’s a clicking sound, loud as his letters. ‘What did I say? What did I—’ I manage not to let the words ‘get wrong’ slip out of me.
We never went on the big wheel. We never locked eyes. I wondered why you’d say that if it wasn’t true. Then it struck me. It was supposed to convince the cops and your mum that you were a victim too.
I feel my face go pale and there’s a sinking lump in my guts. I really did say that, didn’t I? About the big wheel and the looks of lust. I made a sweet puppy-love story to make myself feel better and all these years later when I started talking to that local hag, that was the tale that came out. I’d nearly forgotten it wasn’t true.
I open my mouth with another click. ‘What are you going to do to me?’ I say.
‘We haven’t decided,’ says Stiletto Sideburns. That’s who’s standing behind me. ‘Toto’s a much nicer man than I am, aren’t you darling? I’d string you up. But all he wanted was a chance to look you in the eye and hear your side.’
‘There was no one else there.’ I can’t get the words out my mouth quick enough. ‘I thought he was selling. He made a pass. I panicked. I shoved him. And when he was down. I kicked him.’
‘Who are you talking to, Marty?’ says Yummy Yoga. ‘Who’s ‘he’?’
‘You!’ I say. I look in the mirror, at his eyes staring back into mine. ‘I kicked you. I forgot what I was wearing. I forgot I’d come straight from work. On a building site. Steel toe caps. And then, when I saw what I’d done…’
You nutted the metal bar and knocked yourself out.
I nod.
And then you lied and lied and lied and lied and lied and lied. He must have a shortcut key the speed the words are spilling onto his screen. He’s shaking, spit flying out of both corners of his mouth from the way his breath is heaving in and out.
‘Toto, don’t upset yourself,’ his husband says. ‘The kids are upstairs. They might come down. Don’t let them see you like this.’
And lied and lied and lied and lied and lied.
‘I lied,’ I say, to stop those words jerking out onto the screen. ‘I had to ‘come out’ to keep the story going. So I said I was bi. I married a woman. I do wome—sleep with women. But I say I’m bi and who’s going to argue? I’m a hairdresser, for God’s sake. No one bats an eye.’ I can feel the tears starting. I don’t want to show myself up, dissolving in front of this crowd of sadists. But I can’t help it. ‘What are you going to do with me?’
We’re going to sentence you to the worst punishment you can imagine.
My mouth’s not dry now. It’s flooding, as my stomach heaves.
‘It was Toto’s idea,’ says Olyve Oyl. ‘I’m his lawyer and I advised him against it. So did his husband, his trainer.’ She’s pointing at them all. ‘His PA, his best friend and her husband. We all think he should call the police, but it’s Toto’s decision.’
And I choose this for you, Marty. You’re going to live your empty life, telling your lies, acting out your cover story. All I ask is that you put a photograph up in your salon. Big as you can blow it up. You in the middle and the six of my dear friends ranged on either side, facing backwards, spelling out the thing you’ll never forget. We’ve got a good camera. One of the kids will take the picture.
‘You can’t get children involved in this!’ I say.
‘They’ll never know,’ says Watch Man. ‘It’ll look like a joke. Like a charity stunt. Hell, it’ll look like a good advert for your business. We’re going to send it to the papers. See if we can get coverage. It’ll be in all the cancer awareness campaigns for sure.’
‘Yes, Marty,’ says Stiletto Sideburns. He’s loving it. ‘This picture’s going to pop up every time anyone Googles you for the rest of your days. You just need to shave me and we’re good to go.’
‘Come on then,’ I say, through numb lips. My guts are still churning. The coldness of them. The deviousness it took to set this up, last year for the tatts and this year to reel me in. ‘Let’s get cracking, Mr. B.’
The smile he gives me would freeze the warts off a toad, burn the hide off a rhino.
I step back onto the dustsheet and start up the clippers, as he turns his back and offers his head to me.
Back to TOC
Tea Leaf
Inspired by the Rhyming Slang for Thief
Susanna Calkins
Maria’s text is stark and, quite frankly, irritating. “Hurry up,” it says.
Even though I don’t want to, I still find myself picking up my pace as I walk towards Second Street. Maria is my boss after all. But after months of working late nights at a bar, my body finds it hard to adjust to the morning hours required of my new job as a jewelry store clerk. And of course, there had been Dmitri. I hadn’t seen him in several weeks, so we’d enjoyed getting reacquainted last night.
My face cracks into a wide grin as I think about how he’d woken me with a kiss earlier. Dana, I gotta go, he’d whispered, his deep blue eyes peering into my own. But I have a surprise for you tonight. The start of something new. I’ll give it to you, before your shift at the bar.
He’d left before I had a chance to tell him that I’d been fired from that bar. That I’d started a new job in the weeks he’d been away. Oh, well. There was time. I’d tell him later.
When I step into Jenkins Diamonds, the bell jangles over my head in its irritating way. Maria, a petite Latina dressed in her customary dark blue suit, glares at me. “Dana, you’re late,” she says, pointing rather dramatically to her watch. “I expected you here fifteen minutes ago.”
Fifteen minutes late doesn’t seem so bad to me, but I bite back a retort as self-preservation kicks in. I really can’t afford to lose another job, and Maria knows that. I have debts, bills to pay, and unfortunately, I like nice things, which means I really need to stay employed. Besides, she hired me despite the fact that I had no background in retail, so I just give her an apologetic smile. “Sorry,” I say. “It won’t happen again.”
“I have a big client meeting later,” she says, touching her sleek black hair. Apparently mollified by my contriteness. “Off-site.”
I shrug, not as impressed as I’m sure she’d like. Her big client was probably some rich North Shore wom
an seeking to pawn her cast-off jewelry to maintain appearances. I’d learned early on that’s what most of those “client meetings” entailed. We were really nothing more than a high-toned pawn shop, tricked out in a veneer of wealth and glamour, with our sparkly carpet and dazzling displays.
Sighing, I go behind the long counter, reaching for the rag and blue glass cleaner which were always stored in convenient reach. I begin to wipe the glass top of the showcase, removing the non-existent fingerprints and grime from the glass. The owner, Mr. Jenkins, was kind of fanatical about fingerprints, I’d learned. Like a few fingerprints would really keep someone from buying a diamond bracelet.
As I move the cloth in indifferent circles along the glass, Maria comes over and unlocks the large sliding doors behind the long counter. Since not everything will fit in the display cases, the extra stock is stored in rows of individually locked storage trays stacked in drawers beneath the case.
“Inventory time,” she says, handing me a stack of printed pages stapled at the corner and a set of little keys that fit each tray. “Just compare the items in all trays in each drawer against the stock list. Start on the bottom row.”
Taking the list, I crouch down behind the counter. As I insert the key into the bottom drawer, I am startled to discover that it’s already unlocked.
That’s not good. When I had first started the job, I was told repeatedly that all drawers must be relocked after trays are taken out to show a customer. Forgetting to re-lock a drawer was a firing offense.
I stifle a groan when I realize this drawer is the one that contains trays of sparkling tennis bracelets. I remember removing a tray the day before, to show the bracelets to some hippy chic retro-wannabes. Ugh. I’d probably forgotten to lock the drawer when I was done.
I glance at the rotating camera swiveling around the room, and then I pretend to unlock the drawer. Saying a slight prayer to a god I’m not even sure about, I pull the top tray out. Thankfully, all twelve tennis bracelets still gleam on their plush purple cushion, as do those in the tray below. A careful check against the printout shows that each bracelet is present and accounted for. Hopefully no one will ever know about my mistake.
