Smoke

by Joe Ide

  The barbershop was a familiar place. Pete was slow, withered, had Don King hair and smiled every other Tuesday. Old Man Dupree was sitting in one of the shoeshine chairs, reading the Racing Form, a pipe between his teeth. Dodson had never seen him shine shoes or do anything else for that matter. Two other barbers worked for Pete. They looked too young to be entrusted with a grown man’s hair. No, they should stick to carving gang signs into the side of your head.

  Gloria took Pete aside and spoke to him in hushed tones. At one point he laughed, but she silenced him with a look that made him take two steps back.

  “Let’s go, Dodson,” Pete said, dolefully. Dodson’s hair was relaxed and straight. He wore it combed back like Pat Riley. He knew it was old school, but he liked that. It made him stand out in a world of deep waves, sponge twists, frohawks and box fades. It made him look too cool to care. He lowered himself into the chair like he had a severe case of hemorrhoids.

  “I don’t want to look,” he said. Pete turned the chair around.

  “Okay,” he said with a sigh. “The big chop.” Dodson closed his eyes, clenched his fists. He heard the scissors working, felt swatches of hair fall on his shoulders. “Could you stop moving around?” Pete said. “I might make a mistake.”

  “The whole goddamn thing is a mistake.”

  “Don’t listen to him, Pete,” Gloria said. “You’re going in the right direction.” Lord have mercy, Dodson thought. What direction is that? Oh, please, God, don’t let it be Will Smith. The big chop was done. Pete moved Dodson to a sink and washed his hair with a special shampoo. He left it there for five minutes and rinsed it out. Back to the barber’s chair. Pete cut his hair again, carefully this time, then he washed it a second time and dried it. He whipped off the barber’s apron and said, “You want to take a look?”

  “Should I?” Dodson said.

  “Not for me to say.”

  Dodson nodded, and Pete turned the chair around. Dodson’s first impulse was to say, who the fuck is that? It was a plain old haircut. No waves, twists or surgical lines. Just his natural hair cut very short. With the exception of Gloria, everybody in the place was either stifling a laugh or pointedly looking away.

  Dodson said, “I look like Will Smith.” And the whole barbershop burst out laughing. Old Man Dupree laughed so hard the pipe fell out of his mouth and he burned a hole in his pants.

  “How could you do this to me, Gloria?” Dodson said as they walked out the door. “What have I ever done to you?”

  “You married my daughter.”

  Dodson was waiting for inspection when Cherise got home from work. He was wearing the suit, the shiny black oxfords and the new haircut.

  “An improvement, wouldn’t you say?” Gloria said. Cherise’s lips curled in, her forehead wrinkling so she wouldn’t start laughing.

  “What’s so funny?” Dodson said.

  “You look like Will Smith!” She laughed so hard she went into the bedroom waving one hand in the air.

  “Thank you for your support,” Dodson called after her.

  Gloria went home. Dodson stood on the balcony. He ran his hands through the hair he didn’t have anymore. The makeover had left him feeling naked and vulnerable. He didn’t realize how much he’d invested in his appearance. It reflected a particular image of himself, one that proved convincing to others and himself. He had become that image. He was what he imagined himself to be. Gloria had blown that to shit in one afternoon. She didn’t realize what she was doing, or maybe she did. She’d put wooden wheels on a lowrider and turned it into a metal-flaked donkey cart. He shook his head ruefully. This wasn’t the worst of it, either. This was the start of it.

  Dodson used to enjoy sitting in the kitchen. A comfortable place where you could come up with ideas, think about your agenda, your plans, your goals for the future or nothing at all if that was your pleasure. He especially liked eating Cocoa Puffs at the breakfast table. You could listen to the sounds of your teeth crunching on the cereal and taste the chocolate melting on your tongue and the cold milk carrying it down your throat. Now the kitchen was like a robbery in progress. Somebody dangerous and unpredictable ordering you to take all the self-respect out of your pockets.

  Gloria cleared her throat and began. “How you speak tells people who you are, where you’re from and your level of education. As soon as you open your mouth, folks know you are a hoodlum from the ghetto who dropped out of high school because you were dull-witted and couldn’t compete.”

  “Soon as I open my mouth, huh?” Dodson said.

  “Your pronunciation and vocabulary are decent, but your grammar needs work and you use run-on sentences far too often. The graphic images will have to go as well as your use of street jargon and profanity.”

  “All that?” Dodson said. “That crimps my game, woman. Won’t be nothing left to say ’less I’m fakin’ jacks. Maybe I’ll be an intern at the goddamn zoo and conversate with the animals, bark like a seal or screech like a muthafuckin’ howler monkey—what? What’d I say?”

  When Cherise came home from work, Dodson and Gloria were practicing proper speech. Dodson looked like his spirit had left him for someone else.

  “How’s everything?” Cherise said. Gloria nodded at Dodson, urging him with a wide-eyed glare.

  “Everything is—fine,” Dodson said, haltingly. “We was—were—doing—I mean having, lessons on communicating right—I mean correctly.”

  “Oh, really? And how did that go?” Cherise said. Another glare from Gloria and Dodson reluctantly went on.

  “The lessons was—were very pleasant. I didn’t have no—any problems at all. I be—am, making progress, you feel me—I mean, don’t you think so?”

  “Well, the grammar’s better,” Cherise said, “but he sounds like he lost twenty-five IQ points.”

  “I know. He’s a slow learner,” Gloria said.

  “There must be some other way.”

  “I’ve been thinking about that, but he’s so hardheaded.”

  “Do y’all know I’m here?” Dodson said.

  Cherise thought a moment. “You know what? My friend Kumiko learned to speak English by watching TV.” Dodson perked up.

  “I like TV.”

  Dodson’s assignment was to binge-watch Friends. He was to say everything the characters said exactly the way they said it. Dodson watched the opening of the show; six white people jumping around in a fountain. “One thing for sure, none of those people can dance,” he said. “Who is that fool in the water doing the twist?”

  The episode began and Dodson echoed every line.

  “It’s a shepherd’s pie! It’s got layers of meat, cheese, sponge cake, hot dog mustard, preserved pork fat, and blueberry jam!”

  “Is the shepherd dead or is he still okay?”

  “My list of boyfriends includes a dog walker who growled when he answered the phone, a little person who punched me in the kneecaps because I thought his shoes were for a baby, and the mascot for the Mets. You know, the guy that runs around dressed as an apricot?”

  “Was the apricot a good kisser?”

  “Everybody knows what turns a woman on. You’ve got zones A, B, C, D, and W.”

  “Why W?”

  “Because it’s way the hell down there.”

  When Dodson was done watching, he wanted to drown Ross in the fountain, choke Chandler to death with that sweater-vest, smash Phoebe’s guitar on Joey’s empty brain cavity and swing the smelly cat at Monica and kill her. Dodson wondered why there were no people of color on the show. The Friends lived in Manhattan after all. There weren’t any blacks, Puerto Ricans, Sikhs, Filipinos or any other ethnicity that made the Big Apple big except an extra or two in the coffee shop. The fuck was that about?

  The lessons with Gloria went on. And on. Every day, taking orders from a woman who didn’t like him, trust him or regard him in the slightest way. Today’s session began in the living room. Gloria was sitting on the sofa, Dodson standing in the doorway, wearing his suit and tie.


  “All right,” she said. “Walk over there and sit down in that chair—and remember, keep your head still, stop nodding and take that hitch out of your stride. You look like a pimp prowling around the bus station.”

  Dodson thought a moment, taking in all the instructions. He proceeded so cautiously he stumbled and nearly fell. He felt better when he sat down in the chair. It’s hard to fuck that up. Gloria was shaking her head.

  “Don’t stick your legs out, and sit up straight,” she said. “No, don’t cross your arms over your chest. You look like you’re waiting for your parole officer.”

  “Where am I supposed to put them?”

  “See those armrests?” Gloria replied. “They’re for your arms.”

  They were in a booth at Denny’s, looking over the menus. Gloria said, “When you’re with people from the office, don’t order anything that’s awkward to put in your mouth, makes your hands greasy or drips down your chin. Hamburgers, fried chicken, gravy, onion rings, burritos, tacos, French fries, maple syrup, wings, spaghetti or anything with sauce—and, oh yes, don’t order anything with the words hot, garlic, spicy, super, Southwest, ultimate, jalapeños or skillet in it, and never, ever order dessert.”

  The server arrived. Dodson said, “Could I please have a bowl of dry oatmeal, an empty glass of water, a side of Handi-Wipes and a hazmat suit? And could I get that oatmeal medium rare? Thank you so much.” Gloria said grilled chicken was a good choice. It came with a zucchini and rice pilaf. Dodson had a few bites and wondered where the flavor went. Maybe they left it in the kitchen. Gloria didn’t let up.

  “Don’t run your tongue over your teeth, and take smaller bites—oh for goodness’ sake, chew discreetly, you look like you’re eating taffy. No, no, don’t cut your meat all at once. You’re not making lunch for your ninety-year-old grandfather. Cut a piece, eat it and then cut another. Could you please slow down? Eating is not the same as running from the police.”

  “I’m trying to get this over with.”

  “Don’t bend your head down to the plate,” she continued. “That might be appropriate if you were in Beijing eating noodles but not here in America eating grilled chicken at Denny’s—and dab with the napkin. You look like you’re erasing your lips.”

  Dodson put his fork down. “You know what? I’m not gonna eat anymore. It’s too stressful. The only way to make you happy is to die from starvation.”

  “If you weren’t Cherise’s husband, I’d say that was a good idea.”

  On the drive home, Gloria brought up another topic. “Music. That’s important,” she said.

  “I like music,” he said. He remembered saying that about watching TV. He shouldn’t have said anything at all.

  “You know all those rappers you like?” Gloria said. “Forget them. From now on Ice-T is ice tea and ice cubes are in your freezer. I want you to find some singers you can be familiar with so if somebody asks you what you like you won’t say Mister Assault Rifle or Overdose Willy or whoever those people are.”

  Dodson said, “Overdose Willy?”

  He listened to some music on Spotify. Ed Sheeran? First of all, the boy looked like a leprechaun or a toadstool or a leprechaun sitting on a toadstool. All the money he makes and he can’t buy some decent clothes? Who cut his hair? His mom? A samurai? His gardener and a Weed Eater?

  Dodson had heard the name Taylor Swift but that was all. One thing for sure, this girl should start her day with a few bowls of Cocoa Puffs and follow it up with a double-meat Fatburger and some chili fries. Dodson had a closet rod with more curves. She sang okay, but two high notes from Jennifer Hudson would blow her skinny ass right out of her Tesla. And by the way, who is Adam Levine and why does he have his shirt off? Dodson liked Gwen Stefani. She had style and attitude when she wasn’t singing with her countrified boyfriend. Dodson couldn’t listen anymore. If somebody asked him what music he liked he’d say jazz and leave it at that. Nobody knew shit about jazz.

  They were in the kitchen again. “Conversation is very important,” Gloria said. “What you talk about is as revealing as how you talk. Subjects to be avoided. Drugs, gangs, guns, your past, your nonexistent job history, your friends, your criminal record, your business failures, your experiences as a convict, and of course, politics goes without saying. Stick to safe things like sports. Do you golf? Never mind. Do you work out? Lift weights? Run on a treadmill?”

  “No, I don’t work out or lift weights. I don’t need to,” Dodson said, “and if I’m gonna run somewhere, I want a destination. I want to be somewhere. You could run on a treadmill all damn day, and where are you when you get off? The goddamn treadmill. That’s a waste of my time.”

  “Then say you ride one of those fancy bicycles,” Gloria said, impatiently, “or you like to go rock climbing.”

  “Rock climbing?” Dodson said, his voice rising. “Did you say rock climbing?”

  “Yes,” she snapped. “That’s what I said. Do you have a problem with that?”

  Dodson was fed up. His blood pressure was so high he thought his eyeballs would explode. It was time to speak his mind, fuck the torpedoes and get the hell out of my goddamn way.

  “When’s the last time you seen a nigga rock climbing?” he said. “I got all kinds of danger in my life without hangin’ my ass off a goddamn mountain. Where the fuck are them people climbing to anyway? Ain’t shit up there but snow. You can find snow at sea level if you know where to look. You wanna know why you don’t see more than two or three mountain goats at a time? Cuz most of ’em slip up, fall and break they muthafuckin necks, that’s why. Rock climbing. Really now. What kind of pointless shit is that? What else will white people think of next? Rock climbing backward? Rock climbing buck naked while you drinkin’ a cappuccino? It’s just like all the other bullshit they make up. Like ice fishing. Ice fishing. Have you seen that nonsense? First you gotta drill a hole in a frozen lake—that’s some crazy shit all by itself. Then you gotta dress like you dog sleddin’ across Siberia and fish with a fishing pole that ain’t no bigger than an ice-cream stick. And for what? To catch a fish? I got news for you. You can go to the store and buy a goddamn fish and you don’t even have to wear a sweater. Come to think of it, you can buy a fish that’s already cooked. Muthafuckas never heard of Mrs. Paul? You don’t have to find, catch or clean a box of fish sticks. All you gotta do is turn on the toaster oven and open the bottle of tartar sauce. And what was that other thing? What’s it called? Curling. Yeah, that’s it. I ain’t never seen a nigga curling and I hope I never do, slidin’ down the ice with a muthafuckin broom sweepin’ shit nobody can see. You might as well dust the furniture while you moonwalkin’ or wash your car while you doing reps with a cast-iron frying pan. You know what I seen on ESPN? Some white people kayaking in the goddamn white-water rapids. You believe dat? First of all, if you take a kayak in the rapids you deserve whatever happens to you. You know you shouldn’t be in there with all them rocks and currents and shit. You could die. Use your damn head. Drive a couple of miles to the lake where all the black folks is swimmin’ around and having picnics. I’ll tell you something else too. Any time you need a helmet to go in the water you know you ’bout to do something stupid. What if somebody told you to wear a bulletproof vest before you got in the Jacuzzi or strap on a Glock nine when you’re ’bout to take a shower? Wouldn’t that give you pause? Wouldn’t you think maybe I’ll stay dry today? You wanna know what I seen on TV? A white boy had a goddamn lion for a pet, named him Chauncy and treated him like a great big kitty cat. Wrestlin’ around, playing with each other, this stupid muthafucka talking ’bout how they were true friends and bonded on a spiritual level. Yeah, he said that shit right up to the day that lion ate him like a Chinese chicken salad and spit out the bones. His wife said she couldn’t believe Chauncy would do something like that. Ain’t that some shit? You know a black woman wouldn’t say nothin’ like that. If you can’t believe a goddamn lion wouldn’t eat a big juicy steak that come into his house and plays with him every day, you are too st
upid to be alive in the first goddamn place. Somebody like that shouldn’t have a bedbug for a pet. And one more thing—” Dodson stopped. Gloria was gone. “Well, all right, then,” he said.

  He went out on the balcony and brooded awhile. He’d learned something about himself. He was afraid of the unknown. Strange, for somebody who grew up on the streets where unpredictable shit happened all the time, but in that context, you expected it. Every day was a safari. You didn’t know where the quicksand was, but you knew there was quicksand and you knew to look out for it. A cape buffalo could charge out of the jungle at any moment, but you knew there was a cape buffalo and you knew he’d charge. This shit was altogether different. Tomorrow was his first day at Apex. There’d be no map, no road signs and no idea what form the quicksand and the buffalo might take. He called Isaiah.

  “You okay?” Isaiah said.

  “Fuck no,” Dodson replied. He told him about Cherise, the internship and his makeover. He got no sympathy. Isaiah laughed as hard as Cherise.

  “I feel so much better now, I’m so glad I called,” Dodson said.

  “Sorry, sorry, but I haven’t laughed like that since I left Long Beach,” Isaiah said.

  “You want to see something even funnier?”

  “Is there such a thing?”

  Dodson texted him a photo of his new look. Cherise had insisted on taking it. The sounds Isaiah made weren’t laughter. They were more like a police siren with the hiccups or a goose with hay fever. “Oh, God, my stomach hurts.”

  “I’m glad I can bring so much entertainment into your life,” Dodson said. “How are you?”

  “I’m in trouble.”

  “Is that supposed to surprise me?” Dodson said. “I didn’t expect you to say anything else. What is it this time? Army ants? Dracula? Hurricane Cleo?”