The Haircutter

  Copyright © 2018 by Dana Thompson

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any manner without the express written consent of the publisher, except in the case of brief excerpts in critical reviews or articles. All inquiries should be addressed to Skyhorse Publishing, 307 West 36th Street, 11th Floor, New York, NY 10018.

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  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data is available on file.

  Cover design by Erin Seaward-Hiatt

  Print ISBN: 978-1-5107-2580-5

  Ebook ISBN: 978-1-5107-2582-9

  Printed in the United States of America

  For Anna-Patrick

  CONTENTS

  CHAPTER ONE THE WOLF JOB

  CHAPTER TWO THE YELLOW-SUITED COWBOY SPINS

  CHAPTER THREE TWO FLOWERS BLOOMING IN EACH OTHER’S FACES

  CHAPTER FOUR THE DICK OF FATE

  CHAPTER FIVE HUSH, HOWLER—HUNT

  CHAPTER SIX THE HEADSTONE

  CHAPTER SEVEN A LADY SCREAMED

  AND THEN FARMHOUSE

  POSTSCRIPT FROM LESLIE CHRISTMAS

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  CHAPTER ONE

  THE WOLF JOB

  The day after I murdered Jenny, I was standing in the kitchen crying with a jug of milk hooked around my finger—I was thinking, Oh god, here I am just a regular human wanting a glass of milk even though I stabbed a living thing to death just yesterday! My father, Father John, was kicked back in his La-Z-Boy in the den. I could see the tips of his cowboy boots bobbing in the doorway to the kitchen. I thought, Shh! I thought, Don’t let him hear you cry! I thought, Just pour the milk! It landed like a virgin laughing and the glass filled like a virgin relaxing. I watched with my mouth messed up and quivering like it would slide a shit out.

  Then, I flinched so hard the glass flipped off the table. Father John’s face was snarling at me where his boots had been. A bubble grew from my nostril and popped—I swatted at it.

  My brother Darron walked in, “Whoa, don’t cry over spilled milk!”

  I said, “WHAT JUST HAPPENED?!”

  The virgin spread its legs on the plastic floral floor.

  My father added crying to the fact that I was thirty and still living at home, and he multiplied it by the bloodstain I’d made on the welcome mat yesterday. His total was to tell me to pack my stuff. He took me to the bus station with a toothbrush in his hand and nothing else.

  We got on a bus that took us three days and two nights from Ten Sleep, Wyoming, to New York City. Our seat had a spring poking out of a slash in the vinyl between us, which we picked by choice. If there had been a glass under the seat that was half-drank or half-poured, and if the driver had turned around to ask us if it was half empty or half full, I would’ve gotten off the bus to wait for a different driver, while Father John would’ve ignored the whole thing cause it didn’t have anything to do with scrap metal or favors. Which is all pretty useless to poke at if it’s a wolf playing poker saying, “the better to understand your father with, my dear,” when this dear doesn’t do understanding, and definitely doesn’t do touching knees.

  Father John read billboards the whole way, cross-armed and picking his teeth. He called my mother from a gas station pay phone, and I’ll never know what he said. The miniature bus bathroom leaked a floral mist when people went in and out of it, and as a coincidence I found a magazine on gardening crumpled at my feet. We all swayed as customers on a coach not knowing the route but knowing damn well where we were getting off. A malnourished lady with a coon hat on her son talked nonstop to her aisle neighbor who was a good-listener fat lady with a grey mustache, so I was glad Father John and I could just read and pretend it was too loud for us to be able to talk as well, not that we would’ve talked if able—we’d have just found something to curse at under our breaths as if suddenly mad at it.

  We rolled through seven states without so much as “check that pretty pasture” or “what state are we in.” The only thing I said was “Whoa!” if I suddenly thought of Jenny while reading my flower magazine, which felt like going from standing at a kitchen window watching a bunny hop the backyard to standing at a kitchen window watching a hopping bunny get squashed by a slaughtered body falling on it. The magazine mocked me rightly, telling about how life was gladiolus before the murder and how now, after the murder, it’s gladiolus for everyone but me.

  The lady with a coon hat on her son talked about her old boss Larry firing her, “I’ve been at that diner since the last two Christmases. I says to him, You’re a son-of-a-meatball, I got a son at home. I says, You gonna fire me from the bowlin’ team too? I says, Cause I quit. And I went and I got his lucky pen outta his pocket on his shirt, and I dumped the free candy dish into my purse, and I bumped the front door with my ass and it went flyin’, and I says to him, Your lucky pen just went missin’, and I held it up. And I told the first person in the parkin’ lot, You know what? I’m free,” and she kept her mouth in the shape of that “free” with her eyes hooked on her aisle neighbor and held it while switching from stroking her son’s coon tail to scratching his mosquito bite. Her son spent the drive with food smears on his face, walking the aisle hunting for a certain-someone-interesting, and found it interesting that there was a certain someone in everyone he saw.

  “What’s your name?”

  He cast spells with a wand made out of duct tape and said there’s a live snake in it. “I taped eem up.” He dipped it into our seat spring to “recharge eem” a couple times and I saw his teeth went so straight out of his face they could’ve been a shelf for Larry’s lucky pen if the president ever came to their house. I don’t do kids, but I would’ve poked his belly had I not told him to go away. In the mornings, his “mumma” woke up coughing till all the other smokers joined in and made like dogs barking that they wanna go outside to smoke. I watched him introduce his hat to a roadkilled muskrat on the side of a five-lane highway. I watched him suck his mumma’s thumb instead of his own. I watched him flex his baby biceps so hard he grunted and his face shook—a trick he did for semi drivers when they coasted by the bus on their cloth, dick-scented benches, waving nicely at him like we’re one happy world. His coon tail lifted high when he ran to his grandma’s car in Indiana, and his mom’s ponytail was the size of a string of drool as she walked casually to the car in white pumps.

  The bus went silent without them. Like our senses had truly been sucked up by that wand and were now riding taped up with a snake in the back of that car to Coony’s next chapter. Lady’s mustachioed aisle neighbor was like a lone house left standing after a twister. She was all we had left. She sat still for a while in her XL shirt with a picture of a rock ’n’ roll rooster on it, until she felt miscast as the new star of the show and got out a ball of yarn—her exit. Outside it started raining grey like a stage curtain closing the show. Her tinkering hands ticked the needles around skillfully—fine, we get it—that’s a wrap, folks. I looked in my green Velcro wallet for something to do, but besides car wash tokens and a bank card, I only had paper scraps and the little pencil that fit in there. Father John was sleeping but facing me. I couldn’t make my lists in front of him because he always tore them up—once he even grabbed one out of my hands and ate it.
Truth was, I wanted to spend that ride asking him questions about what the hell’s going on, but I couldn’t ask questions because he always tore those up too and never once thought to eat one. I know my own father, thanks very much, and what’s your return policy like?

  We pulled up to “the city” in the late afternoon. I looked at my father and he was lolling his head snoring in a way that whispered “boo” on the exhale and got scared on the in.

  “Wake up,” I said, “It’s your big city.”

  I pulled down a window and stuck my hand out. New York City was crisp in weather, the buildings were sharp in their cluster, each sharp building letting you know just how many damn buildings there were. My father hacked himself to attention and got his arms re-crossed, then let loose one last “boo” through the weave of his Wranglers.

  When I was twenty, I dropped out of Parts Management training at a tire factory in Bozeman, Montana. It was a good job that I gave up because I didn’t like the big city and wanted my simple life back home in the town of Ten Sleep. Father John never forgave me, and brought it up every time New York came on TV. He’d turn to me and pretend to watch my face for signs of fear. “Bozeman’s not a city,” he’d say. Ten years later, we were here. It was fate, or it was my punishment, or it was just what it was.

  We got off the bus at Port Authority Bus Terminal and found the subway, where people were sitting so close to each other they touched. Where people ate apologetically bringing their mouths to their food instead of the food to their mouths. Where people stared at each other and then looked up at advertisements when they were caught. One man had a normal man’s body, including trousers and a tie, but his head/face was the size of a boulder and it was bubbly like his brain had boiled. And he was smiling. I called him Planet Head like he’s here observing Earth. Father John was busy relating to a pole like it was a pussy little glass of champagne he was being forced to hold. Planet Head was sitting between two people who were curving away from him like leaves on either side of a (cat-chewed) tulip. And across from him was a woman sleeping with her mouth open and there was probably a NASA hidden camera in her throat recording him. I thought, “He’s gonna stab us all.” After that, I just kept my eyes on Father John’s toothbrush till he took it from his shirt pocket and put it in his jeans so I couldn’t see. I didn’t ask where we were going on the subway. I didn’t say “wow” when, at one of the stops, he got out to buy a Coke from a vending machine and got back in before the doors dinged shut. That was him showing a last sample of what he wanted me to be.

  He’d said at a midnight McDonald’s stop in Ohio, “You ain’t a man.”

  He said it to the orange pop coming up my straw.

  I looked at my reflection in the window and snarled at all the greasy fingerprints on the glass, then realized Father John might’ve thought I was snarling at myself, so I switched to pretending that my hamburger was “especially good for some reason.”

  He said, “You killed Jenny, you fuckin’ retard.” He said, “What’re you now, thirty-five?”

  “I’m thirty.”

  “Well you’re damned weird and we both know it,” he said. “That’s why we got you that little fridge for your room is so you’d stay up there is what!”

  We’d never had such a father/son moment before, let alone one in a restaurant facing each other. Lady and Little Boy Coon Hat were gone, so we were bare-all. Father John kept having to lift his cowboy hat off his head so he wouldn’t have to let communicating be the main thing he was doing, and I tried to keep it casual—nodding, whistling, pointing a finger, going, “Oh hey, what about Darron? Why’s he ain’t along for the trip?”

  He said, “Darron’s got a successful hobby. He’s his own thing.”

  My brother Darron lived at home too, and his successful hobby was dancing at the Blue Bear Saloon. Like the moon and stars, he showed up every single night and shined for anyone who looked. He wore all black and danced hours on the rambling wooden dance floor like he got hit by a car once and never told anyone. I have no idea why he did it. There weren’t even other people dancing.

  At the Times Square station there was an escalator that my father and I both knew was five times longer than the puny one at the mall, but we just stepped on and were transported five times farther then we’d ever been transported before. I farted hard to show how I won’t buy into being impressed.

  And I’d farted too soon: when I saw Times Square, I started shaking. My brain started boiling and my head/face grew to the size of a child who’s hugging its knees in fright. More like Times Scare. Or, hell: Scare Time. Where’s the hidden camera? People in Japan zoomed in on a Wyo cowboy and his large, fat son.

  My father shouted, “Noisiest bullfuck I ever seen!”

  I shouted, “Huh?”

  He walked us to a bald spot in the crowd, shoving crowd members out of his way, “I said we’re throwin’ you to the wolves, you heard me!”

  A cop on a horse galloped past with a beat stick.

  I shouted, “Whoa!”

  Then it was my turn to speak more, and it paralyzed me dumb. All the colors of skin in the world rushed past my planted mass on their way to be quicker than me. All the billboards rearranged their letters to spell Say Something!

  I chose, “It is noisy, you’re right, and there’s horses—hey, who knew?”

  He shouted, “Alright, I’m goin’,” and left.

  I started following him but did the old Hollywood stop after two steps. You know. It was then that I understood what the whole bus ride really meant.

  Times Square was a blur except for the plaid shirt on Father John’s back as it walked away. I’d gotten that shirt at Salvation Army but it was too small for me, so I’d left it draped on the arm of his La-Z-Boy like whispering “you can have this” into a Dixie cup up in my room. Little did I know, that plaid would be stained on my brain one day. When I look back on watching it walk away, I always say in my head, “Movie moment alert,” as a tic before switching to a better thought. Why wonder why the sky is blue if you can just not look up? Coughing on tears, I watched my father cut through the crowded crowd. My heart throbbed eight times, going, “MOvie moment alert,” “MOvie moment alert,” “MOvie moment alert,” “MOvie moment alert,” “MOvie moment alert,” “MOvie moment alert,” “MOvie moment alert,” “MOvie moment alert,” before he sunk back down into the rock veins of New York City.

  That was in ’93. In the following eight years I ate every single meal alone, unless you count eating near people at restaurants or at baseball games. Once, I ate on the subway next to someone who was eating chicken wings and dropping the bones on the floor, and many times I ate off snack tables at open-to-the-public events; I also ate in parks next to family picnics.

  I’m cutting to the wolf job now as I should the chase.

  It was the year 2000—ring-a-ding-ding. I worked alone in the basement of a law office—I ran a bunch of suction tubes—so after work I’d be happy to be back worming through the streets of the Big Apple. I’d either cut hair on my hours off, or I’d go to bookstores. I’ve been into “Lit” since I learned that it’s something you can memorize and be good at. I do lists of who wrote what and when they wrote it. I like to get recommendations and then tell if I’ve already heard of the recommendation and then add what else the author wrote and when they wrote it.

  So it was: a cold summer day while I walked into a southbound wind on Broadway Street. Being like the Flatiron building, my large body divided the wind. People flicked their eyes at me when I passed them, but hey, I was flicking mine too. I strode into Biggest Browse Bookstore, fanning my jean jacket and soaking my Met’s T-shirt in sweat. I wheezed and sucked in my stomach to get around the shoppers that crowd the bestseller tables. I saw one of the employees shelving books in Horror and I went to talk to him—it was the artistic boy Finn (a name you could pin without hesitation to your grandma’s sweater).

  Tall, thin, red-cheeked Finn said, “Do you want to drive a wolf cross-country?”
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  The Haircutter picked food out of a molar and flicked it.

  Finn said, “I do art installing for this gallery owner who has a wolf right now because one of his artists is doing an art project with it.”

  “Huh? A what?”

  “A wolf. They got it from someone’s fucked-up cousin in Wyoming who trapped this wolf and had fifteen albino cats too, and a boa constrictor—really fucked up—I saw him and he’s cross-eyed by the way—so they convinced him to deliver all the animals to New York for five grand cause this gallery owner loves animals and always rescues them, but anyway the other day they were like what do we do with this wolf now that the show’s had its run? And I was like, I know a guy from Wyoming, I’ll ask him if he wants to drive it back out there to release it where it’s from.”

  “How do you know I’m from there?” The Haircutter said.

  “What? You’re H.C. from Wyoming,” Finn said, then he got out a cell and said, “Oh, I just got a cell.”

  “Huh!” The Haircutter said, and Finn clipped it back to his belt, saying, “Even though I can’t afford it.”

  These employees are my friends, The Haircutter realized, adjusting his stance, crossing his arms, smiling so hard that giggles slipped out like there was a giggling little girl skipping rope with his intestines.

  “His pack’s probably somewhere in the Bighorn Mountains—you gotta help him get back, man. Otherwise it’s just some rescue center where he’s fenced in,” Finn said. “It’s weird but it’s easy. The guy’s name is Mr. Christmas and he’s really eccentric, but trust me I do shit for him all the time and he always pays as soon as the job’s done. And he’s oil money rich, right, dead parents, so don’t worry about anything—trust me, he does weirder shit than this and he won’t even remember it, he’s got so much going on.”

  Finn climbed an old wooden ladder and shelved a copy of Deadly Scares and Their Meaning.

  A woman with a long braid and a body like a gourd looked up at him and said, “Excuse me, where’s the restroom?”