by Tom Swyers
The man stopped writing, put his clipboard and pen in one hand, and reached under the overcoat with the other.
With the coat peeled back, David looked for a glimpse of a holster, a gun. Johnny said COs could carry concealed weapons. But he didn’t see one.
The man’s eyes fixed on David. In the mirrored sunglasses, David could see his reflection.
Phillip knew better than to look at the man’s face. He was focused on his hands and feet and nothing else. Those were the only things that could hurt you. That’s the way he dealt with COs. If you showed Phillip only the hands of a CO, he could tell you who it was without ever seeing his face. As a precaution, he stood ready with his blade.
The man pulled out an identification card hanging by a lanyard around his neck. “I’m from the Bureau of Licenses. I’m here to inspect this shop.” He waved the ID in David’s general direction before tucking it back under his overcoat.
David could see enough of the card to determine a few things. The man looked like the employee pictured minus the sunglasses. The card was laminated and carried the NY State Seal. It looked legit. It didn’t stay on display long enough for anyone to read the name typed under the photo.
Still, David was suspicious. The State of New York was a giant morass and it typically moved like molasses in January. He couldn’t envision the license material moving from the Application Unit to the Inspection Unit in such short order. But he decided to let it go—let it all play out. If this guy wasn’t legit, he couldn’t do anything to them except waste their time. If he did something stupid, David planned to document it and use it against him.
“Go ahead,” David said.
“Who’s the owner of this shop?”
“I am,” Phillip said. “My name is Phillip Dawkins.”
The man wrote the name down.
“You want me to spell it out for you?”
“No.”
“Yeah, I figured you knew how to spell it,” Phillip retorted.
With his back to the inspector, David glared at Phillip. With the palm of his hand pointed down to the floor, he slowly lowered it in an effort to get Phillip to tone it down. Chill, pal.
Phillip’s mind had shifted to the present. It was like he was back in his cell and this inspector was a CO. Any inspection in prison meant a guaranteed ticket. They’d always make something up if they couldn’t find anything. Phillip hated tickets based on lies. He fought all of those tickets. Now he realized the same crap he had endured in prison for thirty years was stalking him here on the outside. He wondered if he would ever be rid of it. This was not the life he dreamed about in prison. He didn’t feel like a free man. He gripped his razor in a big fist.
“Who are you, then?” the man asked David.
“I’m David Thompson, his attorney.”
“I see. I’m going to look around the shop now,” the man said. He looked at the ceiling and shook his head. “You’ve got a few water stains in your suspended ceiling tiles.” He walked over to the wall on the opposite side of Phillip’s station. “You’ve got some cracks in the wall above the baseboards too. Both these items are violations of 10.21. The overall lighting in here is inadequate. So I’ll have to write you up for a 10.14. I saw your entrance carpet when I walked in the door. It’s not a light color and it’s more than a single loop pile and it exceeds one-quarter inch in height. That’s a 10.13 violation. Do you have a receptacle for dirty towels and linens?”
“Yes,” David said, pointing towards the back wall.
“Where’s the cover to it?”
“On the floor, beside it,” David replied.
“Okay, the cover must be on it. The law says you must have a cover. That’s a 10.16.”
“There’s nothing in it to cover,” David argued. “We haven’t opened the shop yet.”
“You just used a towel to wipe the shaving cream off your face when I walked in the door. You should put it in there where it belongs.”
“What, and violate the law? I couldn’t get the cover on at the same time I put the towel in. You’d probably write me up for that. Besides, I’m not done using it yet. That’s why I have it in my hand.”
“I’m writing you up anyway.”
“Figures. Just make a note in your report that I was still using the towel and there was nothing in the receptacle to cover. Say, will I get a copy of your report?”
“Yes, when I’m done I’ll give you and the shop owner a carbon copy. Do you have a covered receptacle for trash?”
“Under the counter, in the cabinet. You pull the cabinet door open and the garbage container rolls out. Phillip, pull it out for the inspector.”
Phillip sighed. He marched over to the cabinet and yanked open a ground-level door. Out popped the trash receptacle.
“There’s no cover for it,” the inspector said. “That’s a 10.17.”
“Come on,” David said, “the receptacle is enclosed and covered by the cabinet.”
“I’m still writing you up.”
“Of course,” said Phillip, standing behind the barber chair with his arms folded across his chest, still clutching his razor.
The inspector moved towards Phillip and stood in front of the chair glaring at him. “I don’t like your attitude. You’re starting to sound like a real wiseass.”
Phillip’s face quickly inflated like a red balloon. Speaking in that tone, the inspector became a CO to Phillip. He always wanted to kick some CO ass for the thirty years’ worth of crap he’d endured. Now here was his chance. It’s not like there was a horde of inspectors ready to back up this clown with hats and bats. He was flying solo. It would be one-on-one. Finally, a fair fight.
David saw Phillip’s face and stepped over to stand at his side.
The inspector didn’t skip a beat as he continued to rattle off a litany of violations. “Under 10.23 (b), the headrest of the barber chair shall be covered by a properly laundered towel or paper for each customer before the customer is permitted to recline in such chair. I didn’t see you use either of those protections with this man here. I’m writing you up. 10.23 (c) requires that a sanitary paper strip shall be placed completely around the neck of each customer before any apron or haircloth or any other protective device is fastened around the neck. You didn’t use that either.”
“But we’re not open for business,” David said, “and I’m not a customer.”
“Tell it to the judge. I see you’re using a neck duster,” he said, pointing to Phillip’s counter.
“What of it,” Phillip huffed, shuddering. David put a hand on his shoulder.
“Dusters haven’t been allowed for years. That’s a 10.27 violation. I’m also writing you up for a general cleanliness violation under 10.20. The shop looks dirty to me.”
Phillip started to move towards the inspector. David grabbed him by the shoulder and pulled him toward the rear of the store. Phillip’s face showed that he was about to explode. He reached to open his blade. With his hand on Phillip’s chest, David shoved him hard. Keeping his back to the inspector, David whispered harshly to him, “Do you want to go back to prison?”
Phillip didn’t say anything. He started to move towards David. He bumped into David’s extended hand.
“Phillip? Do you hear me? Do you want to go back to prison?” David whispered.
Phillip closed his eyes and grimaced.
“Don’t fall into the trap, man. That’s what they want. Don’t let them get to you. You’ve come too far, Phillip. We’ve come too far.”
Phillip nodded, dropped his hands to his side, and backed off a few steps.
David turned around to face a grinning inspector.
“Is that it?” David demanded.
“One more thing. I’m writing you up for untrustworthiness and incompetence. That’s a discretionary violation.”
Phillip lunged forward. “You’re calling me a liar. That’s what untrustworthiness means to me. Nobody calls me a liar. I may be a lot of things, but I ain’t no liar.”
&n
bsp; David headed Phillip off again and blocked his path to the inspector. “Let it go, Phillip. We’ll take this before the judge and then we’ll appeal it from him, if necessary.” David looked over his shoulder at the inspector. “How much is it for each violation?”
“Let’s see,” he said, while tallying up the total. Looks like there’s ten total violations. They’re a maximum of $500 each. I’m going to ask for the maximum given his attitude. So that totals $5,000.”
“Five grand?” David shot back. “Are you kidding me? That’s ridiculous. Here’s an honest man trying to make an honest living and you’re doing this to him? You’re not enforcing the regulations, you’re trying to drive him out of business.”
With his nose in his inspection report, the man signed his name in a few bold strokes. He tore off a carbon copy of the report and handed it to David. Still grinning, he said to David, “So you really think this man—Phillip Dawkins—is an innocent man honestly trying to earn a living? Is that what you think? Well, I don’t think he’s innocent. Not for a second. Eventually, you’ll figure that out, probably after it’s too late. Serves you right—”
“Hold on there,” David interrupted. “What are you talking about? I said he’s an honest man and you go off half-cocked talking about how he’s not innocent. And what does it have to do with me?”
“I’m done here.”
“Yeah, that’s right. You said too much. You need to stick to your job of driving good people out of business by writing them up for everything under the sun. If you’re not going to explain yourself, you need to keep your personal beliefs to yourself—”
“Watch it there, Thompson!”
“Yeah? Why? You have no jurisdiction over me. You can’t write me up for being a state citizen voicing my opinion to a state official.”
“I can report you for interfering with a public official doing his job.”
“Wait a second, you said yourself that you were done here and I have the completed inspection report to prove it. I can’t interfere with a public official doing his job if he’s done doing it. So when is the hearing date?”
“It’s on the form.” With that, the man abruptly turned around and walked out--shoving the entrance door so hard that the shop bells were still ringing when he opened his car door.
David followed the man to the door and through the small window watched him get into his state agency sedan. There was nobody else with him in the vehicle. David wondered why he went on and on about Phillip’s lack of innocence. He looked at the report and couldn’t read the man’s signature. His name wasn’t printed anywhere on the form. The hearing address, date, and time were at the bottom. When David saw that the hearing was set for the following day, he almost lost his breakfast. There was hardly any time to prepare.
Phillip dropped into the barber chair and sat rubbing his forehead, staring into the floor. He had never had more than fifty dollars to his name for over thirty years. Phillip’s entire family tree never had five grand collectively when they were alive. But the fine was the least of his worries.
He was absolutely disgusted with himself for trying to murder David. He took pride in not being a liar, but here he was living a lie in his interactions with David—pretending to be his friend while just a second away from killing him. He had to tell David about his murderous thoughts, even if meant he’d lose that friendship. He’d rather lose that than end up destroying his friend. If he knew anything, he knew that was the right thing to do. He just hoped that David would be willing and able to get him some help.
Phillip’s dream of living happily as a free man was coming apart at the seams. The COs took pride in breaking men. The sole purpose of extended solitary confinement without any chance of release is to break you—break your spirit, crush your hopes and dreams, destroy your ability to be a productive human being. On the first day of solitary, a CO told Phillip he’d die in that cell—that this was his living coffin. Phillip always dreamed that life as a free man would be a challenge but magnificent compared to life in solitary. That was the dream that kept him going for three decades. What Phillip didn’t count on was that if they couldn’t break him on the inside, they’d try to break him on the outside. Phillip wondered if there ever could be such a thing as freedom for someone like him.
Chapter 9
That evening, David was holed up researching barbershop law and regulations in his basement office, while Annie made dinner in the kitchen. Phillip and Christy were out in the backyard batting cage. The cage was made from Kevlar netting that hung like a shower curtain from three lengths of high-tensile wires—one on either side, one in the middle—supported by three fifteen-foot galvanized-steel poles on either end. David and Christy had installed it themselves for their baseball team to use for practice.
Phillip stood behind an L-shaped screen to protect himself while pitching baseballs he retrieved from a big bucket for Christy to hit. For five minutes, he was either hitting them off the end of his bat or he was whiffing as the ball whizzed by him. It was a sure sign to Christy that he couldn’t catch up to the velocity of Phillip’s pitches.
Christy stepped away from the plate and raised his hand to Phillip to stop throwing. “You’re really throwing some heat there. Did you ever play baseball?”
“No, basketball was my sport.”
“Where did you learn how to pitch?”
“I guess I learned in prison.”
“Was there a prison baseball team or something?”
“No,” Phillip said, as he moved to touch the netting. It hung in the same diamond-shaped pattern as the galvanized fencing in his rec pen at Kranston. It didn’t feel like solid steel. It felt silky smooth, soft to the touch, as warm as the air. Phillip recalled the times when he’d take rec in the winter when most everyone else stayed in their cell. He’d clear a path on all sides with a snow shovel. If he wasn’t trying to catch a few winks in his igloo, he’d be throwing snowballs against the concrete walls of Kranston. Sometimes he would throw for the entire rec hour, all winter long, until the last bit of snow had melted. The state didn’t issue any gloves to him, but he didn’t care if his hands froze up. “It’s my therapy,” he told one CO.
“Mr. Dawkins, are you okay?” Christy asked. He was a few feet away from Phillip now on the other side of the L-screen.
“Yeah, I’m fine Christy. I was just thinking back to my days at Kranston. I learned to pitch by throwing snowballs against the wall all winter long.”
“Oh, that explains it.”
“Is baseball your sport?”
“Yeah, you could say that. I play rec, though. I don’t play for the high school team.”
“Why not? You’ve got a nice swing.”
“Well, I made the varsity team. But the coach said he’d never give me the opportunity to play. I know I might not be as good as some of the other players, but I could improve. All I wanted was a chance to earn some playing time. But he wasn’t even going to give me that. No matter how much I improved, it didn’t matter. I wasn’t going to come out of the dugout to play. That’s what he said. Can you imagine that?”
Phillip tossed the baseball that was nestled in his glove into the bucket. “Yes, I can. I lived that life for thirty years.”
“I’m sorry.”
“No need to apologize. It looks like you and me have something else in common.” Phillip had grown to like Christy. They had exchanged tales about adjusting to life—Christy as a teenager growing to become a young man; Phillip as a man who hadn’t been able to evolve since being a teenager. “So did you quit the team?”
“Yeah, I did. Nobody has ever quit the varsity team like that before. The guys on the team thought I was crazy.”
“You’re a maverick!” Phillip said proudly. That’s how Phillip viewed himself. Not a follower or a leader; he was a maverick.
“I guess.”
“What are you doing with so much free time on your hands now that you’ve quit varsity?”
“I volunteer to ride in a
n ambulance as an EMT. I’m also doing an internship down at Union College, in Mohawk City.”
“What’s the internship all about?”
“I’m helping a professor doing neuroscience research.”
“What is that? Like study of the brain? Are you studying brain surgery?”
“No, no, nothing like that. It’s the study of how the brain works.”
“How did you get interested in that? When I was your age, I was interested in muscle cars and girls.”
Christy laughed. “I like those things too. When I was a kid, I had wild dreams. I even wrote a daily journal about them. My biology teacher pointed me toward neuroscience and helped me land an internship at the college.”
The memory of Phillip’s wild dreams that morning began to replay through his head. He couldn’t believe he had almost killed Christy’s father. What was I thinking? How could I kill this boy’s dad? I never thought about how killing David might impact his son. What’s wrong with me? He held the netting with both hands and looked off into deepening shade of the backyard. He couldn’t look Christy in the eyes. In a deep voice, he said, “I’ve had some crazy dreams in my life, too.” Phillip turned and dropped the baseball glove he borrowed from David into the bucket of balls.
Christy realized then that batting practice had been cut short. “It’s no big deal. I’ve had a dream about satyrs playing football at the high school, about my ears being so filled with earwax that earthworms got stuck in them, about killing my dad. That one is recurring.”
Phillip gripped the net when Christy mentioned killing his father in his dreams. He almost buckled at the knees. “Why do you think you’re killing your father in your dreams?”
“Oh, from what I’ve read, he might represent an authority figure to me and, as I grow older and more independent, I’m rebelling against his restrictions. This impulse triggers these kinds of dreams.”
“Have you told your father about them?”
“Sure. Sometimes at breakfast, he asks if I killed him last night. We have a good laugh about them.”
Phillip thought he might be having similar dreams about David for the same reason as his son. But then he realized that he’d been having his dreams about David at Kranston, long before he arrived at his front doorstep. Plus his dreams were no laughing matter; he had almost acted on them. “You’re lucky to have such a good dad.”
