“That’s a deal, Mister. I don’t know…”
“I appreciate it, Melvin. Just be sure the door’s locked behind you.”
And with that, Bob “Fuzzy” Manes walks out of his little barber shop.
***
The drive across Buggs Island Lake reminds Fuzzy why he loves it so much in Clarksville. The crystal lake waters, the verdant rolling hills—little mountains really—and the azure blue sky with the perfectly placed cotton ball clouds all made for an idyllic summer evening. Fuzzy has always enjoyed driving through this countryside, often aimlessly. But tonight is different, no aimlessness allowed. He has somewhere he has to be. And like Melvin said, “times are tough.” Folks are waiting longer between haircuts these days, so Fuzzy’s cash flow has been reduced to more of a cash trickle. The state had cut back on full-time help in some areas, so he was glad this one time opportunity had come his way when it did. And it’s easy money. In and out. The extra cash will come in handy. A hundred bucks is a hundred bucks. Or, at least, it used to be. And besides, Fuzzy is the kind of man who likes meeting new people, likes getting to know them, likes to hear about their hopes and dreams. He likes to think of himself as a kind of therapist, a bartender without the booze, a psychiatrist minus the angst. It’s not that he cares about their hopes and dreams. He doesn’t. He just likes the idea of people confiding in him. This makes Fuzzy feel good about himself, feel good about the drive across southern Virginia, feel good about life in general His one regret right now is that the drive to Jarratt isn’t long enough to completely unwind and bask in his feel-goodness. Eighty minutes goes by in a flash.
He pulls up to the gate. “Good evening. How are ya?” Fuzzy asks the guard.
But Fuzzy’s neighborly overture meets a terse one-word response. “Name?”
“Manes, Robert.”
The starched, stone-faced officer checks his clipboard, nods, hands Fuzzy a clip-on Visitor badge, then dryly instructs him to park in lot C and wait for the shuttle to take him to where he needs to go. Fuzzy isn’t used to such indifference. He’s thankful he’s not the type that treats others the way he’s just been treated. Hell, this guy’s no better’n me, he thinks to himself. Who the hell does he think he is?
Eight minutes later Fuzzy comes to the stark realization that the guard at the front gate was no different than the one presently patting him down for weapons, drugs, or anything else not allowed to be brought into prison. Yet another guard steps up and instructs Fuzzy to, “Follow me, sir.”
The guard leads the barber down a brightly lit hallway, turns a corner, and stops at a door. “Do not engage the prisoner in conversation. No talking.” The loud buzz of the door lock disengaging, then the guard opens the door. “Step in, sir. I’ll be right out here. Knock when you’re finished.”
Fuzzy walks into the little windowless room to find everything already prepared for him: a small table with electric clippers, a brush, and a smock. He circles around to the front of the chair Lester’s sitting in, shackled to the seat back and the chair’s legs. He picks up the smock and lays it over the prisoner’s chest and arms, then reaches around his neck and snaps the fastener to hold it in place
“Good evening, young man. How are ya?”
Lester smirks, bemused by such an inane question. “You’re kidding, right? How do you think I am, mister?”
Fuzzy steps behind Lester, picks up the clippers, presses the on button, and starts cutting the prisoner’s hair. “My name’s Bob, but you can call me Fuzzy. Everybody does. Last name’s Manes. Fuzzy Manes? I’m a barber. Get it? What’s your name?”
“Mister, are you just stupid, or do you not pay attention to the world around you?”
Fuzzy knows the prisoner’s name all right. Everybody in Virginia knows his name. And everybody in Virginia knows that in twenty-seven minutes Lester will be dead. Anybody who rapes and strangles two teenagers, a young girl and a young boy, to death will die in the state of Virginia. Not a matter of if, a matter of when. Fuzzy can’t help but notice how young Lester looks. A boy, actually. A boy who has twenty-six minutes of life left in him. Fuzzy also can’t help but feel a touch of empathy.
“Just trying to be friendly.”
“Really? You want to be friendly with me? A little late for me to be making new friends, don’t ya think.”
Fuzzy doesn’t know what to say so he doesn’t say anything. The hum of the clippers seems to grow louder as he continues to cut off Lester’s long blond locks. Lester can’t help but notice the clippings of his hair cascading onto the spotless concrete floor.
“Mister, you say you want to be my friend?”
“I guess, yeah.”
“Okay. You can be my friend but on one condition.”
“What condition is that?”
Minutes later, Fuzzy can’t drive away from Greensville Correctional Center fast enough. The sun’s down now but the summer night air hasn’t quite cooled from the heat of the day. And Fuzzy’s mood makes him feel even hotter than it is. Get away, just get away from this God-awful place, his inner voice tells him. Get away and you can put all this behind you. He pulls into the southbound traffic on I-95, feeling a little better. He feels even better a few miles on as he gets off on U.S. Highway 58 and heads west, back to the sanctuary of his beloved little barbershop in Clarksville. No murderers or indifferent prison guards there. The smells of impending rain mix with the freshness of the Christmas tree farms he passes; that and the far off sheet lightning have a soothing effect on Fuzzy’s mood. He can think good thoughts now. He turns on the radio and tunes it to a station that plays his favorite country tunes, tunes he likes to sing along with. And why not? He’s got a pretty good voice. Fuzzy’s enjoying his duet with Hank on “Long Gone Lonesome Blues” and when it ends he’s pleased that he’s done Hank, and the song, proud. Fuzzy is feeling good about himself, about the drive back across southern Virginia, about life in general.
And then his feel-goodness is brought to a quick end when he hears the country radio deejay say that it’s nine o’clock and that this portion of the program is sponsored in part by Gold Bond medicated foot powder.
Nine o’clock. Lester is being strapped into the electric chair about now. The metal skullcap clamped down on his cleanly shaven head. In a few seconds 1800 volts at 7.5 amps will flow through Lester’s body for 30 seconds followed by 60 seconds of 240 volts at 1.5 amps. And the same thing will happen again for the next 90 seconds after that. Then the boy will be dead.
Fuzzy turns the radio up full, hoping that the loud music will drown out the gruesome thoughts screaming inside his head. Did I contribute to Lester’s death? Am I somehow responsible? Hell, if it wasn’t me that cut his hair it would have been somebody else. A hundred bucks is a hundred bucks. And I need it. He was a rapist and a killer. What he got, he deserves. Screw that scumbag.
Merle is halfway through the first verse of “Mama Tried” when Fuzzy joins in, perfectly harmonizing at the top of his lungs, right along with the country music legend.
The gas gauge is reading about a quarter of a tank as Fuzzy approaches the outskirts of Lawrenceville. He figures it’s best to pull over now and fill up rather than take a chance on finding another station open on down the road. His throat had a little tickle in it, too, so a bottle of water would hit the spot.
He puts the bottle on the counter.
“This and twenty dollars on pump two.” Fuzzy pulls out the crisp hundred-dollar bill and hands it to the sleepy-eyed clerk. A moment later the clerk gives him back his seventy-eight dollars in change. He pockets it and when he takes his hand out he is again reminded of the man he met a little over an hour ago. The man who is now dead. He’s reminded because there, in his hand, is a clump of blond hair. He is also reminded again because he is in Lawrenceville.
“Mister, something wrong?” Sleepy-eyes asks.
“No, no. Everything’s fine. Why are you asking?”
“Because, you’ve been standing there for five minutes.”
; “I have?”
“Yes, you have.”
Fuzzy sheepishly sticks the hair back in his pocket, grabs the bottle of water, and heads for his car.
The barber takes a long drink from his water bottle and turns the radio down before he pulls back onto Highway 58 running through the middle of town. He stops at the light at the intersection with 6th Avenue and waits for it to turn green. He reaches back into his pocket and takes the blond locks out again. It all comes rushing back.
“Mister, you say you want to be my friend?”
“I guess, yeah.”
“Well, then, there’s something I’d like you to do for me.”
“If I can. What do you want me to do?”
“Well…my mama can’t be here and it would mean an awful lot to her if you could maybe make sure she got something to remember me by.”
“I don’t know what you mean.”
“She used to always brag on my hair. How much she liked it. Maybe you could take some and see that she gets it. It ain’t much but it’s about the only good thing I’ve got to offer. Besides, the prison ain’t going ta do anything with it but throw it out.”
“I…uh…I suppose I could. I mean, where does she live?”
“On 6th Avenue, off of Highway 58 in Lawrenceville. Could you send it to her?”
“I can go you one better. I’m from Clarksville. That’s right on my way home.”
“Thanks, mister. You’re all right…Fuzzy.”
“Sure, no trouble...Lester.”
The light turns green. Fuzzy ponders a moment, then the loud horn blast from the car behind him helps him make up his mind. He steps on the gas, crosses 6th Avenue, and heads for home less than an hour away. “Screw that murderin’ rapist.” Fuzzy feels embarrassed for having had empathy for Lester, for agreeing to carry out a mission of sentimental gesture. “What the hell was I thinking anyway?” The tickle comes back. He clears his throat. Once. Twice. No help. Another drink of water. “Aah, that’s better.”
The miles melt away over the next fifty minutes. The street lights of Clarksville dot the silken darkness in the distance, flickering like a hovering swarm of fireflies. The occasional flash of sheet lightning in the background lends a certain majesty to Fuzzy’s vision of the safe haven he calls home. It’s starting to sprinkle as he closes in on the turn-off to cross the lake and on into town. The sprinkle turns to rain. In no time it’s coming down in buckets. Fuzzy rolls up his window and hits the wiper switch. “Dang, almost made it before the rain.” He can see no more than twenty feet in front of him as the ka-chooka swish, ka-chooka swish of the wipers and the pounding rain combine to compose a grand symphony, playing up the drama of the long last mile of Fuzzy’s journey across southern Virginia and back.
Fuzzy’s sedan crosses the last few yards of the bridge and enters downtown. His is the only car driving on the street. That’s a small town for you, though. They roll the sidewalks up at eight every weeknight. It occurs to him that old Melvin doesn’t always have the best of memories. One evening just last year he forgot to close the door on the coop after feeding his chickens. He came out the next morning to get some eggs for breakfast and there were none to be had. And there were none to be had because old Melvin had forgotten to close the door on the coop and all of his chickens were dead. Probably a fox, but no one’s really sure. Anyway, Fuzzy figures he better stop by the shop to make sure all’s well and that Melvin has locked the door as promised. Only problem is that there are no places near the shop to park and Fuzzy doesn’t have an umbrella. But what the heck? It’s just a little rain.
He jumps out of the car and walks the two blocks to his shop as fast as he can. By the time he gets there he is drenched to the bone. He tries the door and his suspicions of old Melvin are confirmed as he turns the knob and the door opens. He gives the place a once over. “Well, Melvin, at least you swept up.” Fuzzy makes a beeline for the back room, taking off his smock and unbuttoning his shirt as he goes. He coughs, then sits down on the folding chair and takes off his shoes, socks, pants, and underwear. He throws the clothes into a pile in a corner. Buck naked, he coughs again. And again.
“Dang, I hope this isn’t a summer cold. Nothing worse than a summer cold.” His throat tickles. No water. He coughs. “Ha-hulk. Uh-hum, uh-hum.” It’s not getting any better. “Ah-choo.” That’s one violent sneeze. “AAAA-CHOO!” This one’s even more violent. Fuzzy grabs a rag off the nearby shelf to blow his nose. “Hooonk!” He looks at the rag. “What the heck?” He blows his nose a second time. “What’s going on here?” His throat tightens. “HA-HULK! HA-HULK! HA-HULK! HA-HULK! HA-HULK!” Something is wrong, very wrong. He can barely stop coughing, and when he can he gasps for air in desperation.
He stumbles into the bathroom, clicks on the light, then looks into the mirror above the sink. This can’t be happening. This is not real. Thick strands of long blond hair sprout from his nostrils, spew from his mouth, grow out of his ears. He starts to scream but all the comes out is a gagging plea for life.
“ALK! ALK!…ALK!…ALK!…ALK!…alk…”
***
Melvin sits alone at his kitchen table, sipping his morning coffee as he scans the morning paper. “Two and a half inches of rain overnight. That’s some storm, I don’t know…” Suddenly, something occurs to him. “Oh shoot.”
Melvin approaches the front door of Fuzzy’s barbershop. He grabs the door knob and confirms that he forgot to lock it last night. “Well, at least no chickens got killed. But Fuzzy’d kill me if he knew I forgot to lock up. I don’t know…”
He walks into the shop to make sure everything’s in order. “Anybody here? Hello.”
Silence.
He steps into the back room, looks it over. “Looks okay to me.” Then he notices the light coming from the bathroom. “I thought I turned that off. I don’t know…”
He goes into the bathroom. “I thought I swept up all the hair in this place,” Melvin tells himself as he looks at the two-foot high pile of blond hair on the floor beneath the sink. “Better clean this up ‘fore Fuzzy comes to open up. He’d skin me alive if he saw this…I don’t know…”
Will Huston is primarily a filmmaker, having written and produced the award winning film Vic as well as directing movies and commercials in the U.S. and Europe over the past twenty years. He’s also an actor, having appeared in a number of motion pictures, most notably as one of the Knox brothers, alongside Kane Hodder, in Pumpkinhead 2. He’s pretty sure he’s the only actor in cinematic history who meets his end by being pecked to death by a pair of angry chickens. Will is from Branson, Missouri (yes, that Branson!) and credits growing up there as the number one reason he finds solace in the less frightening world of horror.
The Pipes
Trevor Denyer
I must admit that I wasn’t feeling at my best when Debs came up from the basement and complained about ringing in the pipes.
“What?”
“Howie, it drives you crazy down there. It’s like torture.”
My attention was always diverted when Debs appeared; those fulsome hips, large breasts, and dark curly hair. I secretly relished the way she referred to me by my first name, which strictly speaking was Howard, not Howie. Even so, today was “one of those days,” and it was only 9:00 a.m. I’d already had complaints from the Head Bitch, admonishing me for not letting her know that the contractors were coming to replace her old computer monitor and keyboard.
“What are you talking about?” I growled.
“The pipes. They’re ringing.”
“What, wet?”
She smiled, despite herself. “No, Howie. Ringing, as in making a noise.”
I sighed, exasperated and feeling stupid. “Okay, I’ll look into it,” I said dismissively, and promptly pushed it from my mind. I knew that today would be busy, what with contractors changing monitors and keyboards and inspectors due to arrive at any moment to check that Health and Safety rules were being properly followed.
As Debs grunted and
swayed away towards her office, I consoled myself by imagining the things I’d like to do with her, given half a chance.
***
It was always a relief to escape to the privacy of my office, high up on the fourth floor, overlooking the car park. The building had been a Magistrates’ Court before being occupied by the Council. Its Victorian gables overlooked the main road that led to the centre of Castlebridge, the small market town where I was born and had always lived.
My office was light and airy. I’d secretly christened it “The Eagle’s Nest,” a rather dubious title, I know, but I did feel it was the seat of my power. I resisted the urge to look in the small mirror by the coat-stand. It always led to me examining my dark hair for streaks of grey and mithering over how much it was receding. Then I’d examine the dark spaces beneath my slightly bloodshot eyes, frown at the bags residing there and the creases of aging skin.
I sat down and entered the password to unlock my computer terminal. I felt depressed, mulling over the opportunities I’d never taken over the forty-eight years of my life. If only I’d done this, been bolder then, followed a different course at that time…Fuck! If I’d not married when I did. Another disaster well and truly on the rocks. A fake partnership for the sake of the children who were not children anymore, but still reliant on Mum and Dad, for God’s sake!
My mind strayed, remembering the time I’d bedded the Head Bitch. Caroline Mortlake was one of those women that present a challenge to a man. A tough nut to crack. She presented herself as austere, taking no prisoners when it came to dealing with staff. She wasn’t a “people person,” though good at the more practical aspects of managing a Borough Council.
The memory was tinged with regret. The sex had happened after a long, frustrating car trip home from a National Conference on how best to utilize resources in the public sector. She had attended as Chief Executive and me as Premises Manager. We had travelled together in my car, mainly because we needed to show how we were best utilizing our own resources as a public organization.
HELP! WANTED: Tales of On-the-Job Terror Page 23
