by Joe Meno
The boy detective turns, picks up his bag, and begins walking decisively back toward Shady Glens. He hurries back into his room, hoping no one has noticed his quick departure, lays his suitcase on the floor, and climbs onto his bed. He finds one of his bottles of pills, the Ativan, and takes two more than he should and very, very soon his vision begins to blur. He looks up at the ceiling and smiles, then switches on the light. He stares up wide-eyed as a hazy cloud of delicate snowflakes gently appears above his face. He is surprised to see a tall office building outside his window disappear suddenly.
At one time, in nearby New York City, a beautiful silver cathedral was built. Before long, a masked villain blew it up with an explosive device and many people were killed. We hate to even discuss it because your pretty cousin Amy, sadly, was inside. Immediately, like everyone else, she was turned into a brilliant explosion of stained glass. Tiny bits of it fell everywhere. The colorful pieces were carried into the river and disappeared downstream, turning everything they touched gray. Little children, fish, deer—anything near the explosion—became slouched and old. Miles and miles away from the lights of that great city, everyone in our town, including you, became ill, either from the colored glass in their blood or the sadness of seeing the spot on the horizon where the cathedral used to be.
SEVEN
It is later that evening when the boy detective hears someone quietly sobbing in the hallway of Shady Glens. He pulls on his blue sweater and walks out, finding Mr. Pluto lying against the doorframe, gigantic tears splashing from his button eyes, a puddle of grief already forming. Clearly, this is a man who has been very upset by something. Billy frowns at him. Mr. Pluto, wiping his eyes, smiles back.
“What is it? What’s wrong?” Billy asks.
Mr. Pluto holds up a gigantic golden hairbrush and attempts to comb his hair, but it is clear: His wig is still most definitely missing. Mr. Pluto takes Billy’s hand and places it along his great bald scalp, still sobbing.
“Your wig is still missing?”
Mr. Pluto nods. Billy helps Mr. Pluto to his feet.
“It’s awful silly for a man your age to be wearing a wig in the first place.”
Mr. Pluto begins to cry louder, banging his fists against his chest.
“Fine, yes, I’ll help you,” Billy says, shaking his head and sighing. Holding Mr. Pluto’s hand, he walks down the hallway, searching for some clue, some evidence, some sign. He begins with simple questions, the grand tool of the boy detective, trying to establish the motive of this very minor crime. “Where was the last place you had it? Do you remember that?”
Mr. Pluto nods. He pulls Billy down toward the end of the hall to his room, where there is a small hand mirror lying beside a white Styrofoam head, the wig’s resting place, no doubt. Billy bends over and slowly inspects the brush. Along the bristles is a single, small, yellow hair.
A single yellow hair.
Eureka.
Billy nods and smiles knowingly, and at once the mystery has been solved. He grabs Mr. Pluto’s enormous hand and leads him down the hallway, stopping at Professor Von Golum’s room. Billy squints in front of the door, peeking through the keyhole, listening to a record of strange jazzy music playing loudly inside.
It goes like this: Through the keyhole, Billy can see Professor Von Golum, lying in his bed beside Billy’s blue sweater, which has been stuffed with pillows, the clipping of Billy’s sister Caroline resting where the face might be—Mr. Pluto’s long blond wig completes the ghostly figure’s head. The Professor is romancing the imaginary composite woman, talking very sweetly, gently rubbing its arm, telling it what he most admires in this, his only companion.
“You have very good-looking teeth. No, don’t talk. Just lie there and let me stare at them like that, as they are so pretty.”
Billy nods and motions to Mr. Pluto, explaining with a simple pointing finger that his wig is inside. Mr. Pluto, angry, his small eyes getting big and wide, gently moves Billy aside, steps back, and knocks the door in with a single great kick. Professor Von Golum lets out a high-pitched scream as Mr. Pluto strides across the room in one step, grabbing for the Professor’s throat, lifting him from the bed and choking him with one gigantic white hand. The boy detective moves to prevent certain murder, tugging on Mr. Pluto’s blue gown. Mr. Pluto returns the Professor to his feet, who, doubling over, continues to choke and wheeze.
Billy takes a step beside Professor Von Golum, staring at his shoulder and the long golden hair left curled along the evil scientist’s neck. The boy detective had noticed the foreign hair earlier—why? Because the boy detective’s mind is always detecting; it cannot stop itself. Billy picks off the hair and smiles. Mr. Pluto turns and retrieves his wig with a snarl, pushing the Professor aside.
“Now you, you stay away from my door,” Billy says to Mr. Pluto.
Mr. Pluto nods bashfully, then creeps out as quietly as he can, his enormous feet thundering down the hall. The Professor continues to choke, cursing, pulling himself upright finally. He turns and points one long dirty-fingernailed finger at Billy.
“That was an awful mistake. I tell you this. You can expect serious trouble from me from now on, boy detective.”
The boy detective sighs and walks out, returning to his room. He frowns, then blinks his eyes, staring at the newspaper clippings on the wall, adding the one he has just retrieved:
THE HORROR OF THE HAUNTED MINE
What Lurks Inside Miller’s Cave?
That evening the boy detective, asleep in this strange bed, in this strange room, wakes up to the sound of someone else’s screaming. He bounds out of bed, opening the door to the hallway, his face glowing red with fear. Nurse Eloise, in her white uniform, hurries past, stopping for a moment to console him.
“It’s only Mr. Lunt with his poor phantoms again.”
From down the hall, he can hear the old man shouting: “Phantoms! Phantoms! Merciful lord, grant me reprieve!”
Billy closes the door, crawling back to bed. He begins to fall asleep, but soon the old man is screaming again.
“Phantoms! Phantoms! Why am I cursed so? Lord have mercy on me!”
The boy detective lays in his bed and smiles. The sound of Nurse Eloise’s feet is the sound of something very comforting.
EIGHT
It is at the hour of midnight exactly when a man—appearing to be missing his head—opens his black valise. Hidden from the streetlights, he stands beneath a tree of small nesting bluebirds, his dark suit, white collar, black tie all hanging mysteriously around an empty neck. A pair of gloves suddenly appear on his hands. He sets down his suitcase, un-clasps the clasps, and removes a large silver pair of scissors. Soon the shadows all along the quiet street hum with life as the scissors issue their strange racket: It seems the trees and telephone phones immediately begin shrinking and expanding with each clip-clip-clip. The birds, high up in the tree, begin to sing out in terror, and then, in a moment, they are deathly silent, though the night air is still thrumming.
NINE
At the bus stop, the boy detective watches in horror as a glamorous woman in a white fur coat enjoys a long-tipped cigarette. The boy detective is terrified of cigarettes: The smoke, like the malignant, vaporous claw of near-death, is enough to send poor Billy into a fit. He inches away from the woman but it is no use—like a sentient cloud of gray infirmity, it nears Billy’s face as he begins to tremble and cough.
Before long, a handsome man in a blue business suit approaches the bus stop, talking loudly on his cellular phone. “No. It’s just as I said, I refuse to argue anymore,” he says.
Billy stares at the man’s face, his fragile mind racing: Who is he speaking with? What has he just said? Why does he refuse to argue?
“No. No. I already told you. No. Listen. Listen. Do not fuck this up. I am warning you. Do not fuck this up for me.”
Billy clamps his hands over his ears and glares upward, the advertising plastered all around the bus stop somehow echoing the same sense of doom:
ERECTILE DYSFUNCTION?
SHOOT SOMEONE WITH A GUN AND GO TO JAIL
On the bus, the boy detective stares at his fellow passengers—shabby, strange, menacing—glowering at them all with disapproval and disdain. The boy detective thinks: It is as if the world has lost all its manners and meaning. It is as if people have lost their minds. It is as if we are adrift in a glowing asylum hurtling through the darkness of space and there is absolutely no escape.
During that same bus ride, the boy detective must also stop himself from trying to tie three different strangers’ untied shoelaces.
At work, the boy detective is absolutely terrified. Having been hired by Mammoth Life-Like Mustache International to conduct telephone sales on their behalf, Billy sits in the drab green lobby, staring at the company’s catalog, which features various styles of fake beards and mustaches:
• The Junior Executive
• The Noble Hunter
• The Mysterious Stranger
The office itself is an unending maze of cubicles through which many businesspeople and important-looking white documents are constantly crossing. Crowded around the water cooler and various desks are several attractive, well-dressed mustache salesmen, all laughing and winking and shaking each other’s hands. They all have sleek expressions and very handsome, natural-looking mustaches. Above the cubicles, along a silvery wire, papers with completed orders for new merchandise are being sent along like a conveyer belt. Workers in other parts of the office take the papers and replace them with new ones, without any apparent order to their movements. It is very busy and chaotic, and this is what worries Billy.
“Billy?”
At that moment, Melinda, a handsomely dressed brunette in a professional blue suit, takes Billy’s hand. Billy nods in response. Melinda wears a huge amount of makeup, her lipstick bright red and smudgy. She continues to shake Billy’s hand as she goes on speaking.
“You must be Billy, am I right? Terrific! You’re going to be just terrific, I can tell. This is going to work out great. Let’s go a head and get you started with an entry-level hair-replacement product evaluation, OK?”
Like that, the boy detective finds himself taking a written exam, matching various hair products to their names, guessing at answers for the two hundred question true-or-false test:
Question #9: T or F: Toupee is French for savvy hair product.
Question #36: T or F: All Mammoth Life-Like Mustache International products are guaranteed flameproof.
Question #115: T or F: Wigs are only for women.
“Terrific! You’re a natural, I tell you! It’s amazing! I’m going to recommend you for an immediate interview with Mr. Mammoth. Just take a seat, he’ll be with you in a minute, OK?” Melinda says.
Billy sits in the hard green chair outside Mr. Mammoth’s office, his hands shaking uncontrollably. Melinda reappears, touching up her lipstick, waving the boy detective inside. Billy stands, clasping his shaking hands together, following the strange woman into the small room which is institutional-green and wood-paneled, instantly reminding Billy of the director’s office at St. Vitus.
“Now as you may know, the president of Mammoth Life-Like Mustache International, J.D. Mammoth, besides being an amazing entrepreneur, world-class athlete, and noted left-hander—that’s why everything in the office is left-handed, Billy—well, he was also something of a technological wizard. He passed away twelve years ago in a mysterious elephant-hunting accident right before we were federally investigated for the first time. It was a terrible year for the company and we would have been sunk if Mr. Mammoth hadn’t arranged all of his future affairs beforehand. He recorded over ninety thousand hours of plans, initiatives, directives, conversations, and requests on reel-to-reel tape to be played in his future absence. Hirings, firings, disciplinary actions—all handled by a color-coded system. Isn’t technology just amazing?”
Billy nods, frightened, looking about the room. A painting of Mr.
Mammoth, a bald, short, round, mustached man in a suit, hangs over an empty mahogany desk. There are several giant color photos of Mr. Mammoth hunting various big-game animals—a tiger, a lion, an elephant—their eyes staring back at Billy, plaintive and dead. Melinda steps around behind the desk, silently pressing a button on a large reel-to-reel tape player, the machine green and plastic and full of dust. Melinda leans to the side of the player and begins to smile widely.
“Now, there’s nothing to be nervous about. Go on and have a seat, Billy.”
Billy takes a seat in a small chair, holding his hands, staring at the tape machine as it whirs to life. From its gears and sprockets, a ghostly voice begins to rise: “Welcome! First of all, good citizen, we wish to welcome you to the world of Mammoth Life-Like Mustache International. By now, you’ve passed our extensive evaluation process and are about to enter the exciting world of hair-replacement telephone sales. Before you begin, we feel it’s important you know the history of the company you’re about to represent. How does that sound, good citizen?”
Billy does not know if he is supposed to respond but does so anyway. “OK.”
“Well, we’ll be honest with you, kind worker. When we were your age, we would often sit and stare up at the ceiling and wonder, is there room for us? Is there a place where we belong? And that’s when we hit on it, kind worker: mustaches. Do you know how many American men are unable to grow a good-looking mustache? Thousands. Hundreds of thousands. Some of them are fair-haired, some have low testosterone, some are victims of terrible crimes, but all of them have a dream. The dream to look good. Slowly, our product reached the homes and hearts of thousands. Then thousands after that. Then the international market—do you understand how many beards we sell in the Far East? Now we’ve moved into the brand-new world of weaves, extensions, and wigs, growing to cover all of our customer’s hair-replacement needs. Why? Because the world is a better place when we are all looking our best. Now, kind worker, I ask you, don’t you share that dream, kind worker?”
The boy detective whispers: “Yes.”
“Well, kind worker, with that, we want to wish you the best of luck here at Mammoth Life-Like Mustache International. Remember, in each of you is a little bit of me. End tape.”
“Um, thanks,” Billy mutters quietly.
Melinda shakes his hand once more and exclaims: “Terrific! Welcome to the team of Mammoth Life-Like Mustache International. How about we go and get you started off with something simple?”
TEN
The hair catalog of Mammoth Life-Like International looks like this:
For the Modern Attractive Male
The Junior Executive The Noble Hunter
is a real go-getter. Who gets the job done and still has time to play? Who’s going straight to the top every day? Available in natural brown, blond, and red. wants to be left alone, but doesn’t mind the company of a like-minded female. Beware his dead eye, once prey falls into his sights. May require out-patient surgery.
001-125—$44.95 001-003—$55.95
The Mysterious Stranger The Trustworthy Father
is the guy everyone is talking about. Who walks into the party and commands attention? Who’s the fellah taking you home tonight, ladies? Two pieces, custom-fit to each man’s preference. likes Saturday mornings in bed with the wife. His newspaper, slippers, a fresh cup of coffee, this guy is the one everyone turns to for answers. Just don’t buy this man a tie for his birthday. Black and gray only.
024-490—$44.95 009-121—$69.95
The Nordic Prince The Gallant Sailor
is dashing, aristocratic, a king among men. This is the fellah who always demands respect whether at the club or board room table. Only available in Arctic blonde. knows the port of call women prefer. Brash, but always a gentleman, he’s been around the world and knows what it takes to be captain of his own fate. Mustache and beard sold separately.
096-065—$54.95 871-063—$34.95
It amazes the b
oy detective that hair replacement is an actual business. It is not amazing enough, however, to keep him from wondering what he is doing there in the first place. Once he takes a seat in a small gray cubicle, Melinda hands him a phone receiver, which is connected to a large, greenish-gray computer; it is all plastic, like an appliance from the ’70s, and seems strangely out-of-date.
“Terrific! How about we start you off with something nice and easy, then? Super. Have you ever used a left-handed phone before, Billy?”
“No.”
“Well, you’ll get used to it quick. Now, the computer here does all the hard work—the dialing and account information—all you have to do is talk. Isn’t that easy? Now, Billy, Mammoth Life-Like maintains its competitive edge in the hair-replacement market by exclusively targeting the unwell and also the elderly. What happens is we buy lists of hundreds of prospective clients from credit card companies—prospective clients who are, let’s just say, not healthy: cancer patients, car-accident victims, survivors of fires and other natural disasters—clients who are getting on there in years. Sometimes it takes a while before we know whether a prospective customer is dead or not, which, believe it or not, isn’t necessarily a ‘dead end’ in itself—sorry for the pun, Billy. Believe it or not, sometimes the person who answers is also a cancer patient, sharing a hospital room. Or maybe they were in the same car accident or fire and managed to live, or maybe—maybe, just maybe—they’re also getting on there in years. The important thing is not to be discouraged. This will give you an idea of what to expect while you’re trying to improve the overall hair quality of someone’s life.”
Billy nods, staring down at the telephone receiver.
“So OK, here’s a beginning script. I’ll give you a few minutes to get comfortable, make a few calls, you know, just have fun with it!”
“Terrific,” Billy mumbles to himself as Melinda quickly exits.
