A Million Versions of Right (14 page)

At this stage, I didn’t know Max by name, but his bald visage humped my brain. Why in the hell was he skulking around Dean’s Hairporium? To what gain of his? Why hadn’t I seen him earlier? It’s possible that I was so totally caught up in my intricate shave that I simply blocked out the stimulus around me. If that was the case, what kind of chronicler was I? Certainly it was my job to stay utterly tuned in to my surrounding environment as far as barber shops were concerned. I took a sloppy bite of my welt burger. Several strands of hair caught in my teeth. This was the kind of place where finding no hair in your food was cause for complaint.

* * * * *

The clock had just hit three pm when I heard the sound of more shattering glass – this time from Hairtastic Hair for Men. Glen, the owner of this establishment was standing by the store’s shattered front window, gesticulating even more violently than Dean had earlier. My eyes scanned the main strip, searching for the culprit. My eyes failed me. I ran over to Glen with my journal carefully tucked under my arm. He looked especially distraught, as if the window were a living, breathing member of his family. Asking Glen to explain what had occurred was rather useless, such was the sheer level of his distress. Glen did mutter something which struck as potentially significant. Through the whining and the tears, he clearly made reference to a bald man and a toppled jar of sanitised combs. I thanked Glen with a bow, drew a rough sketch of the shattered window and gave him my sincerest condolences before leaving the scene.

News reports later that evening indicated a string of window breakages at several key locales around the District. This was growing as interesting as it was unsettling. In each instance a jar of combs was inadvertently toppled by a bald man fleeing the scene on foot. A wave of confusion laced with anxiety spread throughout the Hair District. It was my job as chronicler to remain on the scene and make note of any future developments for the sake of posterity.

My mind kept replaying grainy liminal footage of the bald man. What was his motive? My initial theory leaned toward the possibility that he was a man jealous of hair and as such, was initiating an act of terror against the local barber population. Such a situation was something I had feared since my interest in barber culture began. It was only a matter of time until jealousy erupted into destruction. This theory of mine didn’t sit comfortably. There was something almost accidental about each occurrence. The reports I had read backed up my own experience. The windows weren’t broken until the bald man inadvertently toppled a comb jar. The comb jars had all displayed remarkable resilience by refusing to break.

I knew the man who made these comb jars, he went by the name Billy Backwash. I had interviewed Billy several years ago when news of his comb jars filtered through from Berlin. Billy had moved to Berlin some twenty years ago to pursue his love of comb holding devices. Word on the street was that Berlin allowed particular ingredients in the making of its glassware that most other civilised countries wouldn’t touch. Initial experiments in his home country with industrial grade hardened plastics were largely successful, yet aesthetically unrewarding. Glass was where it was at and Billy knew it. Billy had fortuitously arrived in the Hair District several days earlier to attend a barber’s conference as a keynote speaker. If I wanted to get inside the head of the bald man, I needed to find out about these comb jars. Billy was my man and I knew just where to find him.

* * * * *

I swung the saloon style doors open and strode confidently into Ben’s Barbers Bar. This was
the
drinking hole for any barber of note. Billy used to work here before moving to Berlin. If Billy was anywhere he’d be here.

My eyes scanned the darkness. I could make out several recognisable, smokey silhouettes; none of them Billy. I approached the bar with purpose, my eyes boring into Smith, the Barbers’ Barman. He was delicately sprinkling beard shavings over an overindulgent cocktail. I knew this cocktail well, they called it the ‘Hairy Nonsense’, a popular drink around these parts.

“What’s new, Smith?” I inquired politely.

Smith stared up at me, smiling warmly and blowing me kisses.

“Jack Backtrack! So good to see you within these hallowed walls. It’s been a while.”

“Yeah, I’m sorry about that. I’ve been busy with my work.” I held up my journal. The smile widened over Smith’s glowing face.

“I’m sure I’m not the only one who’d kill to get a peek inside that journal.”

“Sorry, Smith, it’s all a work in progress. You know it ain’t gonna happen.”

“You throbbing tease! What can I do for you, Jack?”

“I need to find Billy. I know he’s here for the barber’s conference. I also know that if he’s in the District, he’s here in this bar.”

“Why of course he’s here, Jack! He’s sitting right beside you!”

I was taken aback. Smith was right. Sitting beside me, enjoying the recently made Hairy Nonsense was Billy himself. He was grinning at me intensely, in a disconcerting way.

“You going blind, Jack?” he inquired, with undertones of mock.

“This dive is darker than death, Billy.”

Billy waved his hand as if to erase the dissatisfaction of our reunion.

“So tell me, Jack, why were you looking for me? I can’t help but be intrigued.”

“I need to know about the jars, Billy. We have some strange shit happening at the moment. I need to get to the bottom of it… fast!”

“Ahh, you’re referring to the mysterious window breaker running amok around your precious Hair District?”

“Don’t speak ill of the District, Billy. How do you know about the windows?”

“Are you kidding me? I can’t walk two steps without hearing some bummed out barber regaling me with their tales of woe. Most of these guys haven’t even been hit personally but they feel the fear. I’m guessing that by the time I get back, news will have reached Berlin. You guys sure know how to party.”

“This is a party that I don’t want an invite to. I need your help, Billy.”

“Me? I only arrived in the country a few days ago! What can I do to help?”

“It’s those comb jars of yours, Billy. I was there at Dean’s when the bald man first hit. The window didn’t cop a smashing until your comb jar was accidentally knocked down. It spooked the bald bastard pretty good. He made a flying leap for the window. He reached his target admirably. Turns out that one of your jars was responsible in each incident.”

“Don’t speak ill of the jars, Jack! The only thing those jars are guilty of is being perfect in an imperfect world.”

“You know I love the jars, Billy. I’m just saying that your jars were a starting point.”

Billy was shifting uncomfortably in his seat. He knocked back the cocktail before gesturing toward Smith for another. He looked somewhat guilty.

“Can I get you anything to drink? I feel kinda uneven talking to you like this.”

I hadn’t touched an alcoholic drink in three months. The events leading up to today were enough to make a man return to old ways. After a mild inner struggle I refused with a firm shake of the head.

“Sorry, Billy. I’m trying this whole ‘dry’ thing on for size. I did some things I’m not proud of but that’s by the by. I need your help.”

“I won’t pretend I’m not disappointed but I know when to lie down. Ok, shoot. What do you want to know?”

I struggled for the right words. I was trying to knit them together into coherence. My false starts were beginning to annoy me. Eventually I had to admit I didn’t know.

“Well that’s just great, Jack! You come on all hot n’ heavy and then go limp on me!”

Billy looked genuinely hurt.

“I’m sorry, I just don’t know. The right questions aren’t bubbling to the surface. All I know is that your comb jars are a part of this mess. It can’t be a coincidence.”

“Ok then, some fruitcake has a hard on for my glassware. It wouldn’t be first time it’s happened. My guff has attracted some real pieces of work. This bald man’s in love with my work. He knows that I specialise in comb jars and figures he’ll go to the one place where my comb jars are everywhere. There ain’t no town with a Hair District like this one, Jack.”

“If what you’re saying is right, and I will admit it’s a possibility, why doesn’t he just steal one? If it’s your work he’s after, why doesn’t he just slip one in his bag, take it home and idolise it in privacy?”

“I won’t pretend I know how these whackos work. However, what better place to admire something you love than in the place it was made for? You could set one of my comb jars up on your mantle but it wasn’t made for some rickety mantle. It was made for the pristine environs of the barber’s shop. If you take it away from the barber’s shop, you essentially remove its soul.”

I was stroking my chin hard. Billy’s words made sense, almost too much sense. The problem was they were still flailing about in the world of theory. I needed to catch the bald man in the act and I had no idea how to do it. I had to pin this bastard to the wall and force him to talk, maybe slap him about for good measure.

If you mess with the District, you mess with my heart.

The situation was rolling by my headspace like a low budget film noir. My introspective silence was filling Billy with discomfort. He was shifting about in his chair like a horny teen waiting for an opportunity to grope the class hussy.

“Talk to me, Jack, what are you thinking?” He clearly couldn’t stand the silence.

“I’m thinking that you may be right, Billy, but I need to know for sure. I need to catch him in the act. I need to talk to this guy.”

“You do, huh? And how exactly are you going to do that?”

“Therein lies the rub. There are hundreds of barbers in this district and I’d say all of them use your jars. I could just waltz from barber to barber and hope I get lucky but that ain’t a real plan. I need to think.”

Billy nodded in agreement while he ordered his third Hairy Nonsense. I rummaged through the pocket on my apron until I found my card. I handed it over.

“Look, Billy, it’s been a blast and you’ve been helpful. Thanks a bunch. I gotta go and wrap my head around this. If you think of anything, give me a call.”

“You know it, Jack. Will I see you at the conference?”

“We’ll see.”

My slow, deliberate stride toward the exit morphed into a dash of desperation when I heard the shouting coming from outside. There goes another window.

* * * * *

A distressed babble of barbers were clustered outside the shattered storefront of Ricardo’s Fringe Akimbo. This brazen cad was targeting the deluxe establishments now. I shook Ricardo until he snapped out of his stupor. I needed to know which way the bald bastard had headed. He pointed toward the south end of the main strip and I started running, cursing the fullness of my uncooperative bladder.

A smidge of luck finally fell my way when I noticed a trail of artistically shaped blood drops leading off into the distance. Ricardo’s window had given the bald man a nasty bite. The drops may well have spelled out the words, ‘follow me’. Such was the majesty of the discovery. I ran maniacally, keeping my eyes firmly planted on the ground-bound trail, which veered sharply up a side street. The lighting outside the main strip was poor and I had to strain to make out the dark blotches of blood.

The Hair District was complicated; a lymphatic system, spidering out in every direction from the main strip. It’s not the sort of place that lends itself to the notion of ‘getting lucky’. If you’re following someone you had better damn well make sure you can see them otherwise they’ll shake you with ease. Each side street leads to other, smaller side streets, which in turn branch out to even more. If you’re not familiar with the area you’ll get lost in minutes. It takes several years to traverse this place with confidence. It takes several more to traverse this place with certainty.

The trail of blood was becoming erratic. Rather than a steady, straight line, it was beginning to skew left and right. Occasionally it would form a mini ring of gory distress before emerging as a straight line once more. I was becoming disoriented as my bladder pushed hard against my internal workings. I was torn between losing the trail or losing my dignity. I decided on an awkward mixture of both. I was going to have to relieve myself right here in the side street. I’d keep my eye glued to the trail and hope no one saw me breaking a cardinal rule of the District. You don’t piss in the streets here. It shows disrespect.