A Million Versions of Right (17 page)

* * * * *

In general, the mood leading up to the convention remained fairly positive. There were three more windows smashed, three more comb jars knocked over and although we certainly weren’t happy about it, we were growing used to it. Humans adjust to atrocity as a means of survival. Almost everyone I saw flaunted their ‘I’m looking forward to the new jars’ t-shirt with pride. The mood still retained that essential electricity. People really were looking forward to the jars. I was too of course, but I had a bald man to stop.

As much as I wanted to jump into the festivities I knew I couldn’t, not yet, business before pleasure. I had to weigh it up. I could forget about the bald man, enjoy the convention and watch as the District swirled further down the civic toilet or I could stand up and try to put a stop to this mess. Obviously I chose the latter.

The waiting game had given me time to formulate the rudiments of a plan. Billy provided information about where the jars would be placed before the dramatic unveiling. I had been granted early access to the Barber’s Grace Athenaeum where the convention was taking place. I was given permission to set up a food table near the future location of the jars. The jars were to be kept on a table toward the western wall of the athenaeum. My idea was to disguise myself as a basket of crows and sit atop the tactfully placed food table. I chose a basket of crows as my disguise because I assumed it wasn’t a food that most attendees would care to eat. If everything went to plan it would just be me and the bald man. Billy agreed to inform the attendees where the jars were being kept but would ask earnestly that they not be approached until the unveiling. It was a calculated risk. There was a great deal of respect within the barber culture and we were almost certain that Billy’s wishes would be steadfastly respected. It was also a calculated risk on our part that the bald man simply wouldn’t be able to resist. As far as we knew, he had no ties to the barber world. The code of ethics wouldn’t mean a great deal to him. It was an utterly brilliant plan.

* * * * *

My mother graciously agreed to help me with the disguise so I had her shipped express to my apartment. My mother was a real trooper. All of her husbands died during a confusing incident involving incorrect pronunciation. I was quite young at the time and couldn’t really comprehend the situation. All my mother would tell me is that they were ‘ill-prepared’ and left it at that. She looked after me and three of my four sisters with endless love and compassion. There wasn’t a single thing she wouldn’t do for us. This was as true today as it was back then.

As we sat, sewing together my basket of crows, I filled her in on recent events. She appeared deeply hurt, full of empathy. Barber culture only mattered to her via proxy. On a personal level she wasn’t terribly interested in the world I had become entrenched within, but through her unwavering love of me, she was able to feel what I was feeling. At random intervals she would throw her soft, flabby arms around me, trying to hug all the sadness away. It sure felt comforting. One grows so damn used to going it alone that it’s easy to forget what real support feels like. I bathed in the feeling, I lovingly wallowed in it.

As the final stiches were sewn on my disguise I took several steps backward. It didn’t matter which angle or from what distance I viewed it, it looked amazing. The level of detail was exquisite. My role throughout the construction consisted of little more than passing needles and thread to my skilfully endowed mother. After much playful goading I agreed to try it on. It had to be done. No use spending all of this time on the disguise if it wasn’t going to fit. I shuffled off into my bedroom, costume in hand. It fit immaculately. My arms and legs slid right into it, my face was wonderfully obscured. For all intents and purposes, I was a basket of crows. My mother agreed adamantly. Her face was glowing with a smile that could guide ships away from jagged shores. She put her arms around me one last time before I helped package her up and send her back home. We agreed to meet up more regularly. This made my heart smile.

* * * * *

The morning of a barber’s conference excites like little else. Gammy knees are imbued with previously forgotten stamina. Weak appetites are strengthened ten fold and laughter becomes the chosen language. A magical mood hung about the air like decorations. My mood, however, was somewhat dampened by my impending endeavour. The bald man was still out there and until I had him under control I was always going to be a little edgy. I didn’t sleep the previous night. I spent every waking hour frozen in thought but I believed intuitively that the odds were good. The situation had been orchestrated with collective expertise and I wasn’t going to let the community down. The basket of crows disguise was carefully laid out on the kitchen counter. The morning light shining through the window was kind to every loving detail. I’d have to store it in my barber’s satchel until I was ready to use it. I couldn’t have anyone seeing it before the fact. The only people privy to my activities were my mother, Billy, myself and a few key people at the athenaeum.

I had arranged to arrive several hours before the convention was due to start. I had to situate myself while ensuring I wasn’t witnessed by the eager beaver, early arrival types. I met Arvo Williams at the back entrance. Arvo was an extraordinary advocate of barber’s culture. The debut convention was put together by him alone way back when, before most people even knew what a temple fade was. He supported my activities entirely and was more than happy to help out in any way he could. All I really needed from Arvo was early access to the athenaeum and for him to keep his mouth shut. I trusted him.

Billy was already inside. He had his new jars set up already, tantalisingly draped with a silk sheet. Just knowing I was so close to the jars gave me goosebumps upon goosebumps. I had to suppress my impatience. I’d see them in due course. It was better to lay eyes upon them as part of the community anyway. It would strengthen the glue that bound us as a culture. Billy shot me a knowing glance.

“Morning, you!” he said with calm excitement.

“If it ain’t the man of the moment,” I replied with false cool.

“Sorry I can’t give you a peek at the jars, Jack. You know how it is – ethics and all that.”

“Think nothing of it. If you tried to give me a peek, I’d give you a peek of the back of my hand.”

“So noble aren’t we?”

“Lay off it, Billy. It’s going to be a hell of a day.”

“So, you’re all ready to catch your bald man?”

“I’m about as ready as I’ll ever be. Here’s hoping my bald man plays along.”

“The odds are good, Jack.”

“I’d rather it wasn’t a matter of odds. Right now I’m in the mood for certainty.”

“I’ll keep my fingers crossed for you. How’s the costume?”

“I’d be lying if I told you it wasn’t brilliant. My mother knows her way around a needle and thread.”

“I have a pretty strong set of eyebrows that’ll attest to that! If you’ll excuse me, I have to get some things prepared. We’ll meet up later ok?”

“Sure thing, Billy, knock em dead.”

Billy headed toward the podium on the athenaeum stage. I headed toward my mock food table. It was a perfect location, a mere two feet from the jars. I removed my disguise from the satchel and laid it out on the table. It wouldn’t be long before we had arrivals on our hands. I began to carefully slip into my basket of crows. It was perfectly designed. I had a clear line of sight through some borderline invisible peek-holes. As I settled into my final position I could see the table of jars perfectly. It would be impossible for the bald man to know he was being watched.

* * * * *

I don’t know how long I’d been situated but eventually I heard the sound of patrons shuffling inside. The electric mood managed to seep into my body despite the disguise. Not being a part of the group stung me somewhat but I bit my bottom lip and reaffirmed the importance of my current situation. I kept my eyes planted firmly toward the table of jars. I could barely afford to blink. My ears couldn’t help but seek out conversation, which unfortunately came across as muffled and incomprehensible. The room was really filling up now. Unfortunately there was still no sign of the bald man.

The amplified voice of Martin Stinkwater assailed the air in search of attention. Martin was a longstanding master of ceremonies for the conference and a wonderful moustache sculptor. The athenaeum ebbed into a barely contained hush as Martin began his introductory speech:

“Gentlefellow of the industry; guests from rotund locales, I would cordially like to extend my yam-like arm in welcoming you to the 35th annual Hair District Barber’s Conference.”

-90 minutes of uninterrupted applause-

“We currently face uncertain times. In such times it is remarkably easy to lose your bearings. Life loses its essential vim. The turn out I see before me however, proves one thing that I believe to be full of certainty. We as a group, as a culture, are strong. If someone knocks us on our backsides, we proudly proclaim ‘oh yes, on my backside is it? I shan’t be beaten whether on my feet or on my backside. I can live a perfectly acceptable life right down here. I shan’t rest. I shall open up a chain of restaurants bearing the slogan ‘I’m still here’. Perhaps I’ll marry an abstract notion such as the colour green and invite my friends and family to bless the union. Dearly beloved, we are gathered here today to fart at convention and suck on society’s hairy man tits…”

Martin Stinkwater’s increasingly tangential rant was mercifully cut off at this point, which triggered a further 30 minutes of applause. I couldn’t help but chuckle. Stinkwater’s rants were as much a part of the convention as the procession of ‘slight forelocks’. I yearned to escape my disguise all the more and no doubt, news of my absence was already spreading throughout the crowd. I was usually situated at the registration table, greeting the guests with a warm smile as they retrieved their name badges and complimentary packets of roller fringe. The name badges were, by and large, a formality as everyone knew everyone, but it added a little something to the day. It would be naïve to assume that the bald man would brazenly waltz up to the registration table. That isn’t the way life works. Solutions aren’t handed to you wrapped in a bow. Solutions require a painstaking process, which my cramped muscles could adamantly attest to. I wanted to pop my head out of the disguise and exclaim to my comrades, “
It’s alright, your friend Jack is here!
”  But I knew it wasn’t an option. I knew it wouldn’t bag me a bald man.

My first real test arrived about 20 minutes after the aborted opening address by Stinkwater. A brief recess was declared after the physical exertion caused by excessive applause was deemed too much for some of the older attendees. As one would expect, they made a bee line toward the food tables, only briefly finding themselves waylaid by the hidden bounty on the jar table. I was on one of nine dozen food tables and was situated in the outer quadrant. Most attendees seemed happy enough to gorge on the delectable pastries, lovingly crafted at the hairline bakery on the main strip. Other, more weight conscious attendees begrudgingly ate standard, supermarket grade fruit, lovingly crafted by no one. Although my crow costume dulled most auditory signals, I could still hear the groans of pleasure as mouth after mouth savoured the flavours. Several people wandered toward my table but only made disparaging remarks about the culinary merits of crow. This was exactly what I wanted to hear. It was evidence that my costume was a resounding success. A potential issue did emerge during the recess however. The desirable nature of the comb jar table ensured that many attendees were magnetically drawn toward it, obscuring my view to a rather unfortunate degree. I had to hope that our bald man wasn’t the kind to mull about in crowds. If he was going to approach the jars, it was my hunch he’d do it when the crowds weren’t looking.

A bell rang throughout the athenaeum, which signalled the end of the recess. If history was a guide, I would have placed a bet on many last minute pastries being stuffed into hair-filled pockets. The separation anxiety I was feeling only intensified as the mystical voice of Old Man Muttonchop filled the room. As far as the genre of Barber Pop music was concerned, Old Man Muttonchop was it. After the gory demise of traditional barbershop music of the 50s, Old Man Muttonchop was a torchbearer of sorts. The violent backlash toward barbershop music started when mercenary barber enthusiasts proclaimed the absence of barber-related material within the style as blasphemous. Many promising musicians were lynched in what will go down as one of the darkest days in the history of barber culture. However the solemn weight of history never deterred from the grandeur that was Old Man Muttonchop’s vocoder-drenched voice. It sat in the middle of the room in a rousing monotony, even affecting me within the confines of my costume. The compressed kick drums resounded in a dependable four to the floor loop. Stabs of synthesiser accentuated the musical meal like capers. Old Man Muttonchop wooed the crowd with a bumpy version of his hit, ‘I Hair You’. The crowd sang along with every word, which managed to conceal the passages that Old Man Muttonchop forgot. I was thankful for the ear bursting applause that heralded the end of the performance, as it successfully masked the wolf whistles I couldn’t help but make.