A Million Versions of Right (16 page)

The paparazzi were out in force too. News had filtered out through gopher tunnels of information. The trash peddlers who ran those vacuous gossip rags would pay a mint for a good photo of a dishevelled barber.
Zoom in close. Make sure you capture their puffy, tear-stained cheeks in all of their pathetic glory, you fucking hogs!
As I walked I sensed the macro lens of their filthy cameras, tracking my movements, begging me for a tasty photo op. I remained as banal in my actions as possible. I kept my arms firmly planted by my sides, my head slightly down and my face frozen in deliberate ambiguity. Those bastards weren’t going to use me to drag the District down any further. I had to get out of their misery addicted path before I did something I was going to regret.

* * * * *

I decided the waiting game would be better played out in my apartment. The streets were too depressing. We were all feeding off each other’s melancholy. It just wasn’t healthy. Best brood in isolation so as not to infect others. I needed some time alone anyway. The gumshoe thing just wasn’t a natural fit and it took it out of me. I had to refuel the old engines if I was going to be of any use.

I was sprawled on my sweat stained bed, combing through my journal, looking for clues, something I’d missed. One thing I’ll say for myself, I’m a thorough documentarian. The sheer level of detail was sickening. There would have been a time, perhaps only a few days ago, where I’d soak up the detail like life-giving light. I  knew so much and yet here I was, confronted with the worst crisis the District had faced in my lifetime and I had nothing. I was dead weight. My journal amounted to no more than an elaborate fluff piece, a flight of fancy by someone with too much time on their hands. I flung the journal aside and buried my face in the pillows. Boy did the tears fly.

I’ll admit it off the bat, I’m a crying man. I can’t help myself. It turns me on like a switch. There’s a point you reach in the midst of a good cry where you lose yourself completely. You no longer control your body and it feels fantastic. My dirty bastard gets harder than an assassin and I pull on it like a bellringer. Imagine the sight: a full grown man, naked as the truth, crying his heart out, wanking his heart out. Needless to say, these are activities best pursued in the privacy of your own home.

My pent up frustration had essentially been cried out. It felt good. Goodbye weight of the world, hello weight of the District. I slept a bit afterward. It was a dreamless sleep and it was exactly what I needed.

I awoke into the same world as before. I was rested but it only ensured I saw things all the more clearly. This place, this District was dying and by association, I was too. I wondered what Billy was up to. He was a big name. A hotshot. I knew he’d have the know-how to get word out. I just hoped our bald man would notice. But, even if he did notice, what next? Sure, we lure him into the convention, get him all hot n’ heavy over the new comb jars. Then what? If there’s one thing this guy has proved over and over again, it’s that he can escape. This was probably a long way from being over.

I crawled pathetically toward my journal, which I’d tossed unlovingly like a bag of canker sores onto the carpet. Cradling my leather-bound purpose in nurturing arms I kissed it gently and apologised for the treatment. It felt heavier than usual – sadder somehow. I flicked to my first entry about the bald man. At this point the bald man was a footnote, a curiosity. Who knew? I was right there, getting lathered up like a decadent sucker, while the seed to our woe was planted right in front of my damn face! I could have grabbed the bastard; could have wrestled him to the ground shouting, “
You
sir, shall not proceed!
” But no, that wasn’t how it played out. I sat there like a slack-jawed fuck, watching. He hesitated too. I recall it well. If my wits had been up to snuff, I would have caught him easily.

I was feeling sorry for myself in an ugly way.

* * * * *

Billy finally rang at six that evening. He told me to watch Hair Me Now and then he hung up. I didn’t get a word in. Hair Me Now was the top rating barber related channel on television. I’d helped out in the formative years but left when my work was done. If you wanted to know about barber culture, Hair Me Now was the place to turn. There was always a never-ending roster of friendly faces to gently guide you. Seasoned pros and hobbyists alike were catered for. I had avoided the channel like the plague since the beginning of the bald man debacle. As I flicked the television on, I knew why my avoidance had been necessary. Current affairs reporter Chris McChris was on screen crying uncontrollably. I upped the volume.

Why does it keep happening folks? Why isn’t anyone looking out for us? Barber after barber shattered, destroyed, heartbroken. WHY??? Once again we implore our viewers, if you can provide ANY information about the bald man, PLEASE let us know. We will forward your information to law enforcement officials with your utmost privacy in mind.

The next 15 minutes of the program were occupied with Chris McChris’ gentle sobbing. It was a harrowing display. Mercifully, it was eventually interrupted by a special announcement. My ears pricked up, my eyes bulged. There he was on screen, Billy Backwash, looking and sounding as officious as ever.

Gentlefellows, for those not familiar, I would like to introduce myself. I am Billy Backwash of Backwash’s Comb Glassery and Barberal Ephemera. For many years I have made my name in the field of comb glassing. I work from my factory in Berlin where I’m afforded the opportunity to work with materials of the highest standard. Any artisan worth his salt must concede that the materials used play a role of tremendous enormity. I have been granted permission to work with a new set of materials. Materials of unheralded quality and property. Utilising these materials I have spent the last several years perfecting a new set of comb jars, which I can honestly say rate as my best work to date. I am terribly fond of these new jars and am personally excited about the prospect of my barber friends enjoying them too. This Thursday at the annual Hair District Barber’s Conference I will present these jars in person. You, my friends, will be the first people outside of my research team to lay their eyes upon my new generation of comb storage glassware. I sincerely look forward to seeing you there. These are troubling times. Let us look toward the light. Thank you.

The announcement was replayed several times over the course of the night. Billy Backwash was a wonderful, wonderful man. He transformed himself in front of the camera’s gaze. Whereas in person Billy often had a tendency toward smugness, in the public eye he was the consummate, empathic professional. No one could doubt the sincerity of his words. When he said these new comb jars were his best yet, he damn well meant it.

 I tried to materialise the possibility of the jars in my mind but I lacked the scope to formulate such wonder. The jars of my mind would always stall on the current design. Was it possible that Billy had truly outdone perfection? This was quite simply a remarkable possibility. Almost impossible to believe.

After several hours of jar contemplation it dawned on me that the bald man had vanished from my headspace. The true power of this wonderful barber culture was in its ability to transcend, cut through all the guff. It allowed us a way of seeing beyond the grisly present into a utopian ideal. We were religious in our fervour. That we allowed the disruptive malarkey of a nameless bald man to dampen our spirits was sacrilegious. How could we hope to reverse the situation if we ourselves refused to lift a finger? How could we achieve anything from behind our locked doors? Law enforcement could only go so far. They had nothing invested in the Hair District. For them it was mere routine – a by the book display of understandable apathy. No, it was us on the front lines that needed to rise up. I would stop this bald man. I would save this district. My resolve had inflated toward infinity.

* * * * *

The next morning I walked along the main strip, soaking up the environment in scientific detail. The mood wasn’t quite as dark as before. Some people were even smiling. Billy had certainly achieved his goal. Everyone here had seen the broadcast. It wasn’t even gossip. It was a promise from the mouth of Billy Backwash himself. Powerful energy permeated the air that we breathed. An industrious vendor was already selling t-shirts which bore the slogan ‘I’m looking forward to the new jars’. Excited district dwellers were buying them in a frenzy, throwing their cash down, slipping t-shirts over their proud heads and yelling, “Keep the change,” before skipping away.

I stood on the sidelines, arms folded, a content smile plastered on my face. I felt like a proud father watching his children flourish despite the devastation. Of course, the bald man was still out there, but right now, in this moment, it didn’t seem to matter. We humans are imbued with a remarkable resilience. Sometimes that’s easy to forget. I felt it in my bones. We would overcome.

I slipped into Peter’s Peatery for a bite to eat and a quick shave. Messy Phil was up in Peter’s face, making him feel pretty damn uncomfortable. Peter’s eyes jumped to mine. They had “save me” written all over them. I walked confidently and with purpose.

“What the hell are you doing, Phil?” I had force in my voice.

He turned around all jittery and gormless.

“I’m so glad you’re here, Jack! You’re not going to believe it!”

I stared him down, trying to assess the threat he posed to Peter. My reading was largely benign. What we had here was the town crank, making the norms feel antsy.

“I think perhaps you oughta buy something from the Peatery or get out, Phil.”

“Jeez, Jack! Don’t be like that. I was only trying to show Peter here what I got.”

“I’m not sure Peter’s interested in what you’ve got.”

Peter gave an emphatic nod behind Phil’s back, letting me know that my instincts were blazing.

“Screw it!” Phil yelled, “I’ll just damn well show you. Come ‘ere!”

Phil marched toward an unoccupied table and retrieved a twitching, writhing tea towel from his coat pocket. The grin he was shooting covered most of his face.

“You ain’t going to call me strange anymore, Jack. This town’ll see that my head is screwed on good and proper.”

He carefully unfolded the tea towel bit by bit. He was dragging the moment out. I stood outwardly unimpressed. Inside my gut was a whirl of shit and spice.
This bastard better not have what I think he has.

He had exactly what I thought he’d have. As the last flap of tea towel was moved away, there it was. No taller than a book of matches and skinny as a chicken leg. It was a wank fairy. My mouth fell open.

“You gotta be kidding me” It was all I could say.

“Yeah, you’d like that wouldn’t you, Jack? I told ya, didn’t I? The wank fairies are real! I caught this little lady last night. I revised the recipe for my ball paste. She couldn’t sense a thing. She flew right into my sac and BAM! She was stuck. I peeled her off all nice n’ gentle and gave her a wash. She’s mine!”

I got my eyeballs nice and close. It looked real as real can look. Its tiny chest breathed in and out, its eyelids flickered. It was covered in thick, unpleasant veins that pumped with an audible hiss. Fuck it was ugly but I had to admit, I was impressed.

“I have to admit, Phil, I’m impressed.”

“That means a lot coming from you, Jack.”

Phil stretched his arms out, imploring me for a hug.

“I’m not going to hug you, Phil.”

“Yessir!”

From behind us, Peter piped up.

“That thing really smells!”

It didn’t strike me at first but Peter was right. A particularly foul odour was wafting from the wank fairy. A flush of red hot embarrassment crawled about Messy Phil’s face.

“Yeah, I guess you could say that’s the only problem. She’s cute as a button n’ all but she’s always farting! I mean it too. I’m not saying she farts regularly, I’m saying that she’s involved in an endless drawn out fart. It’s not especially pleasant.”

“You can say that again. You know, I hate to tell you Phil, but I think this is going to be a deal breaker. It doesn’t matter that it exists. If it’s always shooting off down there then there ain’t nobody who’ll want anything to do with it.”

“Aww Jack, don’t say that!”

Phil looked genuinely hurt and I couldn’t allay his fears. That little thing was truly disgusting. He began to slouch and sniff back what I assume were the onset of tears.

“Look Phil, you’ve proved they exist, that’s something. Just don’t try forcing it on people. Perhaps you should take a couple of photos and then let it go.”

Phil looked enraged, as if I’d just taken a dump over his entire life up to this point – maybe I had. I wasn’t given the benefit of a reply. Phil just shut up and slowly walked out, being careful to wrap his fetid wank fairy back in the towel. I didn’t feel so hungry anymore. That thing had a smell that really lingered. It wasn’t good for the District.