by Jaime Cortez
“Manny keeps saying ‘no more kids,’ so I haven’t told him yet that we got another mocoso on the way.”
“He hasn’t noticed yet?” asked Raymundo.
“I’m a fatty, so when I put on fifteen pounds, bonehead Manny doesn’t even notice. It’s a good thing he’s dumb, aye.”
“He might be slow,” said Raymundo. “But eventually he’ll find out. Then what?”
“Then he shits a brick when I tell him. Oh well, screw him. After six years together, he should know I can’t always remember the pill, so he needs to use protection too. Besides, with two girls, I’m ready to try for a boy. He’ll be into it if it’s finally a boy. That’s how guys are. He’ll get completely culeco, like a chicken with her eggs. And if he doesn’t like it, tough titty.”
Raymundo worked the finish obsessively, snipping at the tips, blowing out the fullness, balancing the symmetry, and feathering the bangs to capacity. Finally, his scissors went quiet.
“Close your eyes, chica,” he warned. He brushed the clippings from her forehead and neck, and pulled off the drape with a magician’s flourish.
“Mirror, mirror on the wall, who’s the Farrah of them all?” he asked. Cookie giggled as he swiveled her chair toward the mirror.
“Ta daaah! Whaddya think, Cookie?” Her eyes watered over. She looked upset. His abdominal muscles clenched. Her lips parted, and she said nothing. Finally, she spoke. “Iss beautiful, Mundo. Perfect.”
* * *
He was a junkie for this moment.
* * *
Cookie left him a tip of three quarters wrapped in two sweaty dollars she’d been holding in her hand. This represented the better part of an hour of scooping ice cream at Thrifty.
“Thanks, corazón,” said Raymundo. “I’ll see you later.”
“Definitely see you later. Thanks so much for the cut, Mundo. I love it, love it, love it.” Sashaying to her car, Cookie checked herself in the salon window. Raymundo’s coworker Olga, on her way back from lunch, crossed paths with Cookie and fussed over the new haircut. Cookie drove away with a vigorous wave goodbye, and Olga entered the salon.
“Another happy customer,” said Olga with a roll of her eyes.
“Yeah,” he said. “That cut looks like it fell on her head from another planet, but what the hell? I styled it up the yin-yang and she’s happy. That’s all we can do, sister.”
“Ray, I’ve known Cookie since we were kids, and let me tell you she is a tough customer in every way. She’s got a mean mouth and strong opinions about beauty. The first time I saw Cookie coming toward the salon, I thought, Chingue su madre, and I hid in the back because I didn’t want to be her hairdresser. If you can keep that loca happy, that shows that you are really good at hair.”
“So are you, Olga.”
“Yeah, I’m good at it, but you’re really good. You ever think of getting a chair someplace bigger, like San Francisco?”
“Nope,” said Raymundo. “I don’t like big cities. I mean, I like going up there clubbing once in a while, but every time I go, I spend half my time trying to find a parking spot. Besides, there’s probably a million stylists up there. It’s like the elephant graveyard in the old Tarzan movies. The hair burners migrate there from all over the country. They can’t help it. Animal instinct.”
“Yeah, but you can build up clients.”
“I’ve got lots of clients here in Watsonville. Business is good, Olga. I’m not saying that’s the same as getting a degree and some big-deal career, but I’m not complaining. It’s real beautiful out here. The orchards, the ocean, the weather. I am a flor silvestre, Olga. I belong in the country. Wildflower power!”
“Well then how about a bigger town, like Salinas?” said Olga. “That’s country too.”
“Chica, it’s taken this town twenty-five years to get used to me, but they finally have. I’m the town fruit. Not the best job in the world, but it’s mine and I paid for it big-time. Half the culeros in this town have harassed or beat me, when they weren’t trying to get into my pants. But I’m still here and taking their money to make their wives and girlfriends look foxy. That’s home, Olga. I’m not going nowhere. Besides, what would I do without my regulars?” he asked as he gestured to the door.
* * *
As if on cue, the bells on the door jingled as Mrs. Katarina Kusanovich entered. Special K, as he called her, pulled in every Friday at exactly 1:00 p.m. Old-school to her bones, she favored gloves for her outings and wore adorable couture magically ferreted out of thrift stores and garage sales in the tonier neighborhoods of Monterey and Carmel. That day she sported a houndstooth Chanel number from the midsixties. The hemline was unfashionably high and probably not age appropriate, but Katarina was devoted to full-spectrum accessorizing, from earrings to autos, and felt convinced the Chanel suit went perfectly with her immaculate 1956 Nash Rambler.
“Special K! How are you?”
“I’m a mess, Rayboy. Save me.”
“How can you say that? You’re the most put-together woman since Jackie O.”
“Right after they shot Kennedy, maybe.”
“I’m serious, your outfit is super pre-retro, very chic.”
“I’ve had this one forever. Have I told you about the fateful Saturday I found this?”
“Yes, and if you repeat that story one more time, you’re walking out with a mohawk. Now sit yourself down and let me work my magic.”
* * *
If Special K had been a man, she would not have enough hair to do a convincing combover. Hers was a sobering head. Each silver strand seemed forlorn, wondering where everyone had gone. Nevertheless, she insisted on an outdated bouffant circa the Lady Bird Johnson administration. The construction of Special K’s signature hairdo was exceedingly tricky. It was an airy cathedral of a cut based on an architecture of Aqua Net and prayer. Raymundo blew and teased and teased some more, and slowly it rose. He shifted what he could to the front and spread it as far as it would go in the back: a cotton candy crisscross that looked miraculously full. Soon, no further amplification was possible.
“It’s done.”
“Let’s see it.”
“It’s so good I can’t stand it.”
“Let’s see already!” she said.
“Oh you wicked, wicked sorceress. The paparazzi will shit little green apples when they see this bouffant.”
Raymundo spun her chair toward the mirror. Special K gazed at herself square on. She arched one eyebrow and spoke directly to Raymundo’s reflection.
“If you ever leave this town, Rayboy, I’m following you.”
* * *
The special phone call followed two hours after Katarina and her Rambler had pulled away. Throughout the busy day, Raymundo had not taken any phone calls. In the middle of a rinse, he saw Bebe, the salon proprietor, stretching the telephone curly cord across the width of the shop to pass him the receiver.
“Oye, Ray,” said Bebe. “It’s someone from Eastlake Memorial Chapel. He called while you were doing Katarina’s hair, so I asked him to call back. Raymundo excused himself from his client, wiped his hands, and lifted the receiver to his ear. A soft, evenly modulated voice addressed him.
“Hello, sir. I’m Rodney, calling from Eastlake Memorial Chapel. So sorry to bother you today, but we have a situation with one of our clients and you come highly recommended as someone with the skills to help us with our situation.” Raymundo pressed the phone harder against his ear to better hear the soft utterings.
“What can I help you with?” asked Raymundo.
“Well, sir, it seems that sadly we have a homicide victim out here in Hollister. Point-blank gunshot.”
“Oh my goodness.”
“Yes, he was very unfortunate and this is a tragic loss to his family. When they shot him, the bullet left a hole toward the back of the left side of his head. Of course, we would never lay him out for viewing with all that missing tissue, so we got a wig for him. The deceased’s wife saw it, and she was not satisfied. She said i
t wasn’t him because the hair was wrong. We tried to restyle the wig, but nothing we did satisfied her, and finally she got agitated and said we could no longer touch his hair, well, his wig. She has asked that we bring you to work on the wig.” Raymundo took a moment to take in what Rodney was saying.
“Are you serious?”
“Yes, sir,” said Rodney. “I realize this is probably unusual, but she insisted that you were the only one who could help. Can you work with us? It would mean a lot to her.”
“Who is this woman?”
“Rosie Pardo Archebeque.”
“Rosie Archebeque? Thin, short, hazel eyes?”
“Yes.”
“I know Rosie from back in high school. Years ago, I used to cut her hair regularly, then she suddenly stopped coming. I think she moved to Gilroy or something. I didn’t know she’d married one of the Pardos. I thought she didn’t like those Pardo boys. That’s beside the point, though. Tell me, what is the dead man’s name?”
“Mauricio.”
“Oh jeez. I knew all those Pardos, but I never knew their real names. Only the nicknames. Either way, I’ll help. Rosie has always been real nice.”
“Wonderful. I think it would be a great comfort to her. You can bill us whatever is necessary. When might you be able to swing by?”
“The only time I really have is early tomorrow before work,” said Raymundo. “How about seven thirty a.m.?”
“Great. Thank you. That is just fantastic, sir. We’re at 237 Junipero Serra Street in Hollister. Do you know Bingo Burgers?”
“Of course. Everyone knows Bingo Burgers,” said Raymundo.
“We’re two buildings down from Bingo Burgers, in the red brick building. We’ll see you tomorrow.”
* * *
Raymundo brooded through the rest of the day. His small talk contracted, and he offered only noncommittal vocalizations to the stream of chatter from his clients. In contrast, Olga was noticeably starstruck by the Eastlake Memorial Chapel call. As she swept up after a client, she fussed over the call.
“Oh my God, Ray,” said Olga, “You’re famous. They called you to do this special job all the way from over there.”
“Ay, Olga, Hollister is about twenty minutes away.”
“Doesn’t matter. They knew about your work and they called for you.”
“It’s a haircut. No big deal.”
“Yes it is. They need you. It’s a tragedy, it’s special. Hey, do they pay good?”
“Olga! He’s dead, remember?”
“Well, there you go. He won’t be tipping, so you need to charge them good up front. For gasoline y todo.”
“Yes, Mrs. Scrooge.”
“They got equipment for you?”
“Probably not. Guess I’ll take my big ol’ Gucci emergency care hair burner purse like the doctor on Little House on the Prairie.” At his car trunk, Raymundo rooted through the clothing, tools, and magazines until he excavated his gym bag and emptied it out. Plucking items from his workstation, he packed everything he might need into the bag and headed home for an early night in.
* * *
The clock buzzed promptly at six in the morning. Raymundo ate some cold cereal, showered, shaved, and selected a black knit shirt for the day. Unaccustomed to driving at this hour, he was surprised at the stream of early Saturday farmworker traffic on Route 152. Still, he made it to Hollister in a half hour and knocked at Eastlake Memorial Chapel. The oak door swung open and a broad slab of a man filled the doorframe.
“Hi. I’m Ray and I’m here to do a job for Rodney.”
“That would be me.” As they shook hands, Raymundo registered the firm, restrained pressure of Rodney’s beefy hands.
“You didn’t sound like a linebacker on the phone, Rodney. I was expecting more of a five-foot-four professor kind of guy.”
“We morticians talk small. Please come in, Raymundo, and I’ll get you set up.” Rodney led him through the office and down the stairs, talking as they descended.
“We have reference photos for you to work from and a new wig. The original wig is … no longer with us.”
“Gone home to Jesus?”
“Let’s just say it’s in a better place.”
* * *
Downstairs, the fluorescent mundanity of the workroom was almost disappointing to Raymundo. Shelves of cleaning supplies, file cabinets, wicker flower stands. Only the stainless steel worktables and gurneys gave away the purpose of the place. Rodney placed his right hand on Ray’s shoulder and with his free hand, he offered an orientation.
“You can work at this counter. These are the hot and cold water taps, be careful because the hot water is extremely hot. Disinfectant and gloves are right here on the shelf. Trash cans are over there. Bathroom is on the right by the service elevator and that’s my desk over there, so holler if you need anything. And most critically, the coffee machine is back near the corner.” Rodney walked to a file cabinet, reached into the top drawer, and produced a business envelope.
“Here are the reference photos.” Raymundo opened the folder and began studying the small stack of photos. The first photo had the caption of “Birthday, 1979,” written in the corner. In the photo, a young man with a maniacal grin sat behind an adorably lopsided homemade cake. With a kitchen knife, he feigned a stabbing motion toward the frosted heart of it. The numeric candles read “24.” So handsome. Movie star teeth. Raymundo sucked air and went still.
“Everything okay?” asked Rodney.
“I knew him. He was called Shy Boy. I did my first Holy Communion with him,” said Raymundo.
“I’m sorry you lost a friend today, Raymundo. These small towns. Everyone’s connected. Were you pretty close to him?”
“No. Heck, I didn’t even know his real name was Mauricio. We took catechism together for a few weeks and did our Communion. Once, he and his friends bullied me for a bit. Not fun, but then he disappeared from school.”
“Oh. I’m sorry that happened.”
* * *
Raymundo studied the second picture. Shy Boy and two standard-issue cholo homeboys with sharply creased T-shirts and pants, web belts, and all the shiny brilliantine their hair could hold. Dimples and teeth. Arms draped across each other’s shoulders. Affectionate. Fraternal. Their hands are busy, forming gang glyphs: finger pistols, tripods, and hooks.
“Looks like maybe Shy Boy fell in with a rough crowd,” said Rodney.
“Shy Boy was the rough crowd,” said Raymundo.
“His wife, Rosie, is a tough one too,” said Rodney. “She kept complaining about why those so-called machos couldn’t just beat each other up like real men instead of using guns.”
“That sounds like Rosie, all right.”
“Here’s the new wig for you to style,” said Rodney. “You can work straight from the photos, we can pull him out of the cooler, or you can see him in the cooler. Whatever you like. The right side of his head is intact, and you can still see his hair.”
“I’ll have a look at him in the cooler,” said Raymundo. They entered the cooler. Three coffins on wheeled trolleys were lined up inside.
“You’ve got a full house here, Rodney. You should install parking meters.”
“Two were from a traffic accident. Siblings, eighteen and fourteen.”
“Oh no. I’m sorry. That was dumb of me to say that. I guess this is not a good place for joking.”
“Actually, it’s the best place. Long as there’s no family around.” Rodney pulled one of the trolleys out of the cooler and opened the top half of the coffin lid.
“Here’s Mauricio. I’ll be right outside. When you’ve finished looking him over, let me know, and I’ll close it up again.” Rodney stepped out of the cooler and the wide door closed behind him with a click.
“Alone at last,” said Raymundo to Shy Boy. He gazed at the face, and noted it looked much as it had in high school. A wave of sadness moved through Raymundo as he studied Shy Boy’s young face. Rodney had talent. From the right side, the face seemed a
bit waxy but almost normal. He imagined Rodney’s hands smoothing the shock and misery from Shy Boy’s face, dusting a bit of counterfeit life onto the cheeks, and tying the half-Windsor knot at his throat.
Shy Boy’s hair felt alive. Raymundo rubbed it between his fingers. It felt like it was on the thicker end of fine but not quite medium weight. A bit of natural wave. Simple part with feathers to the left and right. Why had it been so difficult to approximate this? As he studied, Raymundo realized it was the same hairstyle Shy Boy had used back in high school. He remembered the way Shy Boy and his friends once accosted him on his walk home from school. They made kissy sounds when he passed. They branded him with the usual array of sissified labels. Raymundo remembered that it was probably Shy Boy that first called him Raygay, the one name that stuck. He remembered realizing that Shy Boy had not been to school in weeks and feeling relief to have one less person around to hassle him, even if the others were ready to pick up where Shy Boy had left off.
Raymundo examined the broken side of Shy Boy’s head. The top of the ear was gone. The wig could cover that. He ran his hand along the edge of the gaping head wound. At the lip of the crater, he felt the skin on the scalp turn up slightly. He craned and looked. Where there was enough tissue, the site was stitched up. The rest of it was open.
“Ooh, Shy Boy. I’m so sorry. They really got you.” Raymundo pondered the fluids and signals coursing through his own brain. He wondered if this bit of plumbing and hardware was really all there was to a person. A second, greater wave of sadness suffused him. He placed his hand over Shy Boy’s heart and spoke. “About the Raygay thing, that was messed up but no hard feelings. In honor of your wife, Rosie, I’ll make you foxy again.”
When he held the wig that Eastlake Memorial Chapel had provided, Raymundo immediately felt the problem. He turned it inside out and checked the label. He called out to Rodney, who rejoined him in the cooler.
