The Calling

by Jeffrey Hancock

  “What no startled jump or gasp of surprise? I’m disappointed,” she exclaimed in a mock pouty tone.

  “Was it you at the park the other day?” I enquired as I stared out the window.

  “Of course. I was dealing out some much-needed payback to that woman. Normally I don’t take a direct hand in things, but that bitch deserved it.”

  Turning to look at Karma, I said, “Why? What did she do to deserve losing her purse and having the living crap beat out of her?”

  “Did you hear about the Hit and Run last week?” I shook my head no. “It was her. She had been drinking. She hit and killed the poor man as he crossed the street.”

  “That’s terrible, but we all make mistakes. Why not point the police in the right direction and let them take care of it?” I turned back to look out the window.

  Karma reached over and took me by the chin and turned my face. Our eyes met. The same little electric feeling was still there, but I ignored it. “She wasn’t so drunk she didn’t know what she was doing. She left that man to die in the street because she understood it is a lesser crime to kill him, leave the scene, and be caught with no alcohol in her system than to kill him, call for help, and own up to what she did. I never would have intervened if she had done the right thing.” Karma’s tone changed to giddy glee, “Besides I wanted her purse. Did you see it? It’s a beautiful Coach bag, not a knockoff. I’ve always wanted one,” she giggled a bit with the last statement. “And it will go great with a pair of shoes I have. By the way, I did call the police too.”

  Shaking my head in disbelief, I turned back to the window. My stop was coming up. “Tell me, Karma, what can I do for you that my wife won’t beat me from head to toe for doing?”

  Karma leaned over and put her lips to my ear and whispered, “You never know. It might be worth the beating,” she leaned back away, reached into her purse, a Dooney & Bourke I believe, and pulled out an envelope. “You did me proud last night. You saved a life. You earned yourself a little good karma. Take this,” she handed me the letter. “I want you to go to this address at the time indicated. There will be a job there for you, if you want it. I also put some money in there for you.”

  Spying the address and the time on the outside of the envelope, it is forever in my perfect mental filing cabinet. Giving back the envelope without looking inside, I said, “I earn my money. I don’t take charity. Thank you, though. My suspicion is this money came out of a certain Coach handbag and it seems like stealing to me. I don’t steal.”

  “Save me from the stubbornness of men. I know you are about tapped out. Besides, this is not the money from the woman’s purse. All the cash in her purse has gone to help with the man’s funeral expenses. This is to help out until you start getting paid at your new job.” The bus pulled up to my stop. I disembarked, and Karma promptly followed me.

  As we walked to my home, Karma asked, “Tell me, why you are so eager to help others, but won’t take any help from someone else?”

  “I can support my family. I always have, and I always will,” I stated with a stony resolve.

  “With a memory like yours, I would think you would have noticed Moiraine is not wearing any new clothes for school.” Her statement hit me hard and fast.

  Stopping dead in my tracks, I used my memory to flash through every morning since school started up. Every outfit was from last year. Char has a rotation all worked out with Mo’s clothes. This year’s school clothes become next year’s play clothes and so on. Moiraine had no new school clothes and I never noticed. The sounds of my mental scream echoed inside my mind, What kind of father am I?

  “A fine one, and better than most to boot.” I stared at Karma with a puzzled look on my face. “Sorry, but you’re thinking pretty loud.”

  “You can hear my thoughts?”

  “Everyone’s, if I take the time to listen.” Karma tilted her head and smiled at me.

  “I’ve heard some scientists are working on a machine which can project mental images on a television screen. If I have heard of this, I am sure some highly refined and secret government version is possible. You like to play the mysterious femme fatale with powers beyond my comprehension, but your smoke and mirrors are tech dressed up. Babylon 5, one of my favorite sci-fi series, referred to persons such as you as Techno-mages,” I mansplained.

  Karma rolled her eyes like a teenage girl when she can’t believe the stupid words her parents said. “Go see to your family. I’m done with you.” She turned and walked away. Even though I don’t like all the makeup she wears, I had to admit to myself she did have an enjoyable little wiggle to her walk. Karma turned her head toward me while still walking and with a smile she mouthed, “I heard that.”

  Finishing up my trek to home in quiet contemplation, I conclude while Karma’s opinion is kind, it is also wrong. Arriving home, I heard the usual greeting from my daughter, but for some reason it brought no joy. “Char, can I talk to you for a bit?” Seated at my place at the dining room table, I awaited my wife. After a few moments, Char sat across from me.

  “What’s up?” Charlene asked.

  Pulling the envelope Karma gave me out of my pocket offering it to my wife. “I am so sorry. I didn’t realize Mo doesn’t have any new school clothes. Take that,” motioning to the envelope, “in there should be enough for some new school clothes,” I handed Char my final paycheck from the car wash.

  Char opened the envelope and looked inside. Her eyes widened a bit, then fury hit them as she looked back at me. “Where did you get this money, Nathan?” Her tone delivered accusations galore.

  “It’s pay for a job I did,” trying to leave the scene, I stood, but Charlene grabbed my hand and pulled me back down. The first time she has reached out to me in months, and it had to be for this. “What’s wrong?”

  “I’m afraid you did something stupid, Husband Mine. Lies have never been your style, but I heard you hold something back.” She is smarter than she is beautiful, and she is gorgeous.

  While trying to find a way out of this trap, I heard an all too familiar line in my mind, It’s a trap! I mentally sighed. Okay, Admiral Ackbar, that’s enough. Charlene politely waited for me to spill the beans or my guts whichever. “You could call it under the table work for a woman who is kind of a friend and a little bit of a tormentor.” Char kept looking at me waiting for more. “Don’t worry it was all legal, moral, and nonfattening.”

  “Okay, I didn’t hear a lie.” She took my hand again, squeezed it, and intoned, “Nathan, I worry about you. We will get back on our feet. I trust you, us, to come through all this.” She paused and still holding my hand suggested, “Maybe I should find a paying job?”

  “In truth, it might come to that,” I can’t believe those words came out of my mouth, “but I know how you love working with the kids at Moiraine’s school. Let’s wait a little longer. Besides, my friend said I had a job if I wanted it.”

  There was relief in her voice as she asked, “Where? Doing what?”

  I pointed to the address on the envelope. “That’s the place. The what, I have no idea.”

  “Nathan, I think we should have this woman over for dinner to say thank you. What did you say her name was again?” Char asked, laying the innocent curiosity on a bit thick.

  “I didn’t say her name Miss Nosey, but it is Karma if you must know.”

  “And her last name?”

  “You know she never told me, funny. Besides I’m not so sure asking her to dinner is a good idea. I don’t know her well at all and I’m sure she is busy.” Getting up from the table, I made my way to our bedroom. Getting out of my “Sunday-go-to-meeting” clothes is priority number one.

  As I passed the threshold to the bedroom, Char asked me, “Is she pretty?” and left the question kind of hanging there waiting for an answer.

  Well, this is where you separate the men from their sanity. After a 180 degree turn, I walked back into the living room and in a clear a loud voice said, “You’re way prettier and pleasingly curvie
r. Did I say you’re prettier?”

  “Nice try, Husband Mine. So, she is pretty. Is she younger than me?” Nope, not going to answer on the grounds if I did answer, she might dig my grave in that ground. “Come on fess-up. Is she younger than me?”

  Summoning up all the guile I could muster. “She appears younger than you, but what man wants a pretty girl when he already has a beautiful wife. A woman who not only has a brain, but who has also shared the same life experiences, and who has born him a beautiful daughter. I ask you. How can any true man want a trophy on his arm when he already has a prize in his bed?”

  “Nathan, I am not jealous or threatened. I only wanted to see you squirm a bit. I must say your gentle and sweet soliloquy was inspiring to hear. Invite her to dinner. It will be enjoyable.”

  Enjoyable for you maybe. I foresee many giggles and chuckles at my expense. Outnumbered three to one. Those are some long odds. I could invite John to shorten the odds, but one of us should keep his manhood intact. No John, go back. Save yourself. Standing there facing my wife, I tried to come up with a reason we should not have Karma over for dinner. Crickets began chirping in my mind. “Sorry, but I have no way of getting ahold of her.” My phone rang. Looking at the caller ID, I saw the name Karma on the screen. “Son-of-a,” Answering the phone I interrupted myself, “Hello, Karma. I was just thinking of you. No, not like that. Funny you should call…” After the invitation was delivered and plans set, I kept to myself the rest of the evening. Oh, this is not going to go over well. Those women will have me tripping over myself trying not to sound the idiot. Maybe I will be run over by a bus. Nah, I’m not that lucky.

  Chapter Five

  My first plan is to believe all of yesterday had been a dream. The morning came, and unfortunately, yesterday was real. My second plan is to hope the matrix would have reloaded while I slept, and Charlene had not invited Karma to dinner, but my hopes were dashed with salt. In a week’s time, Karma would be sitting at my table, eating my food, and having a laugh or two at my expense.

  As I walked out of the bedroom, I could see the house is busy with everyone getting ready for the day. After breakfast, Char and I were clearing the dishes, and I asked, “Char, I want to make an impression for my interview, so could you give me a haircut before you head into your docent gig?”

  “Oh, Nathan, I don’t have time today. In fact, I’m getting a little tired of giving you haircuts. It was fun at first. Soon it became a habit, and now it is a dreary chore.” My heart gave me a twinge of pain as those words came from her mouth. “Give me a second,” Char left the room for a moment and returned with something in her hand, “Here take this and get a haircut.”

  I looked at my wife in bewilderment as she pressed money into my hand. Charlene has been cutting my hair ever since we started dating. It saved the expense, and there is nothing like having a beautiful woman run her fingers through your hair, and when she’s your love, it’s all the better. “Where did this money come from? You didn’t take it out of Moiraine’s new clothes fund, did you?”

  “Don’t be silly. I took some money out of what I put away for my hair. I’ll just put off my appointment for a week.”

  “You know we could save even more money if you let me do your hair. I grew up in my mother’s shop. I think I could do alright.”

  Char laughed, “Don’t talk crazy, Husband Mine. I trust you with my life, but nobody works on my hair except for Janine.”

  “What’s her number? Maybe she has time to do my hair this morning.”

  “She doesn’t do men’s hair. She says it isn’t fun.” Charlene went back to see what needed to be done about the house and set about doing it. After Char and Mo finished getting ready, they headed out the door and to school.

  Well, if I am going to get my hair cut before the interview, I better be off, too. I took public transit to downtown San Diego. There are any number of haircutting establishments within walking distance of the bus stop. I have enough time before my interview, so I didn’t have to rush. I could go to one of the many barbershops that cater to the military, but getting a high-and-tight is not what I have in mind, so they’re out. There is a new place, “Karaoke Kuts.” I’ve heard they’re pretty skilled. However, the idea of standing in front of strangers and crooning your favorite song without first getting a little lubed up frightens me. Besides, I haven’t performed in front of people since my high school drama club days, so they’re out. I remember seeing another strange shop named “Get A Grip It’s Only A Haircut.” Sure, they’re cheap, but the name did not instill confidence in their skill. If Char hadn’t needed the car, I could have tried the other new place, “Drive-thru Haircuts.” I wasn’t sure how they kept the hair from getting all over the inside of your car, and since I don’t work at the carwash anymore, I would rather not create any extra messes.

  I remembered the barbershop down the street from my mother’s old shop. I wonder if they are still open, it was named “The Old Times Remembered Barbershop.” I found myself walking there without telling my feet to move. It wasn’t long before I passed the storefront where my mother had her shop. She named it “Fashionette Beauty Salon.” I haven’t been in this part of the city since my mother was diagnosed with cancer and I had to close up the shop. Melancholy hit me hard out of nowhere like a rogue wave. The memories of my mother painfully wasting away, tried to take hold. I shook them off with some effort. I finished the half a block walk to my destination.

  It’s my lucky day. The shop is still there. Pushing through the door, the ambiance overwhelmed me. In this blast from the past, there sat three old style chairs. They were black leather and shiny chrome. In the first chair sat an elderly man getting a haircut and arguing with the barber performing the task. Old photos from San Diego’s past decorated the shop. One picture stood out from the rest. A picture of Perry Como sitting in the first chair getting a haircut. It was autographed “From One Barber to Another.” Perry Como was a barber until his voice was discovered. He had a few hits. My mother used to listen to him from time to time. His singing is not exactly to my taste, but my mother enjoyed it. Immediately Perry Como came in loud and clear from my mental radio station K R A P, “It’s impossible. Tell the sun to leave the sky. It’s impossible…,” after a moment, I quieted the music.

  The rest of the décor included an ancient television with a tuning dial and rabbit ears sitting on a rickety stand. Also there was a coffee table pressed against the wall with four wooden captain style chairs on each side. Magazines covered the coffee table. Standing there, I picked up a copy of Popular Mechanics and examined it. By the date, it’s an old edition. All the magazines looked new but had old dates. They must have been reprints because they looked too new to be original. Sitting there on the coffee table, they gave the décor a finishing touch. I looked around some more and declared to my self, I like this place. If Charlene continues to refuse to cut my hair, I think I will make this my go-to spot. I sat down to wait my turn.

  Finishing his argument, the barber said, “There you go, Jim. I don’t know why you came in today. You obviously didn’t need my services.” The barber removed the cape from Jim. It had been hiding the fact Jim didn’t have any legs from about mid-thigh down. “Let me bring your chair around.” The barber retrieved the chair from the corner behind his station. He began to assist Jim.

  “I don’t need your help! I’ve been getting in and out of my chair longer than you’ve been in big boy pants!” Under his breath, Jim began mumbling some words I think would make my ears burn if I heard them clearly. Jim transferred to his chair without any fuss or muss.

  The door to the business swung open, and a man walked in dressed in wrinkled well-used clothes. He had blue jeans on, a tee-shirt with a faded peace symbol on it, and he was wearing an army jacket from the sixties. The jacket was rumpled and dirty. His hair was messy and needed washing as well as a cut.

  Jim, the man in the wheelchair, turned to me and in a gruff voice, said, “Don’t you have no respect? Stand, da
mn you.” I took note, Jim had lifted himself up using his hands on the armrests of his wheelchair. I think it’s his way of showing this newcomer respect. “I said stand, you! Can’t you see what’s around that young man’s neck?”

  As I stood up, I looked. A medal hung from his neck. “Sorry, I didn’t see the Medal of Honor.” The man who walked through the door stood a little straighter and held himself with a little more pride.

  Jim lowered back down and started wheeling for the door. He stopped short in front of this young man and held out his hand to shake. “I want to thank you. That there medal tells me all I need to know about you, son. You done your country proud.”

  The men shook hands. The young man touched the medal with his other hand and said, “This ain’t really mine. It belongs to those guys back there in Nam. I am only holding it for them until they all come home.” Sadness came to his face as he spoke.