A Million Versions of Right (18 page)

* * * * *

The whole day turned sour late into the afternoon. An intriguing colloquium on shaving techniques had entered into its third hour and I was doing my best to soak it all in while keeping my eyes on the jar table. I had survived two more recesses and my counterfeit crows had remained untouched. The bald man was still distressingly absent and my bladder was leaking embarrassingly. A foul smell began to waft in and around me, trapping itself within the claustrophobic confines of my costume.

My initial assumption was that I had defecated unknowingly and the smell was breaking free. As best as I could tell, my backside remained unsullied, except for the shameful patch of urine. The smell didn’t strike me as pissy in nature and it was attacking from the wrong direction. This was originating externally and burrowing internally. The smell couldn’t have been coming from me but it was damn familiar. I ran my olfactory memory around in circles trying to place it but collapsed before I arrived at a conclusion. Then I saw it. The answer to my dilemma. There it was, hovering right about my peek holes. A damn, stinking wank fairy.

In the light of the athenaeum I could actually make out the dull green odour trail. The wank fairy was the epitome of foul. Its many veins pumped thick and black. Its face was permanently contorted into a hellish, lockjawed scream and its dilated eyes darted frenetically. A voice accompanied the wank fairy in flight.

“What d’ya have there, girl?”

The voice was familiar and didn’t come as a surprise. It was Messy Phil, gatecrashing the convention and sneaking a feed from the food tables. I couldn’t blame the guy, the convention put on a hell of a feast and stale gourmet pastries were better than the guff he normally called a meal. Still, it stung to know he wasn’t here for love of hair. Phil’s shadow loomed and darkened my line of sight.

“You gotta be kidding me! It’s a basket of crows. That’s your favourite!”

I swore under my breath. That messy bastard had dragged his newfound wank fairy along and the little bitch had an appetite for crows.

“Which one d’ya want? I’ll pick it out for you. Maybe even feed it to you if ya want.”

The wank fairy vanished from my sight, probably landing somewhere on top of the costume. I pictured it skulking about up there, tainting everything it touched. I really needed a shower.

“You want that one, girl? Nice choice. It looks proper juicy.”

I could feel Phil’s hand picking at my costume, trying to force one of the crows off.

“The little bastard’s stuck! They must have congealed or somesuch.”

I was gritting my teeth, trying my best not to yell at him. My thoughts were deafening but I knew they couldn’t be heard. I knew it was a redundant exercise. That gormless putz was ruining everything.

“Something weird is happening, girl. I don’t think these crows are real.”

His voice was getting louder and I just knew he was attracting unwanted attention. I had to do something.

“Psssstt,” I whispered, “Phil, down here.”

He kept on picking at my costume, getting more forceful with every passing second. I raised my voice ever so slightly.

“Flaming heck Phil, it’s me, Jack Backtrack! Will you get your hands off?”

His grip loosened on my costume and through the peek holes I saw Phil take several steps back while stroking his stubbled chin quizzically.

“D’ya hear that, girl? I swear one of them crows just spoke.”

He looked around in every direction, attempting to deduce another possible source for the voice he believed he’d heard. Eventually he just chuckled with a shrug of the shoulders and reapproached me.

“Must be getting a touch of the ol’ crazies.”

Once more the tugging on my costume began, much more forceful this time. I could sense he was going to tear it apart. I couldn’t control myself.

“Fucking hell, Phil! Get your fucking hands off me!”

He squealed sharply and starting yelling repeatedly, “The crows are talking, the crows are talking! Come quick everyone, you ain’t gonna believe this.”

I gulped in despair. The jig was up. The sound of shuffling multitudes approached and although I couldn’t see it, all eyes were on me. The din had morphed into an elongated, questioning tone.

“Just listen,” Phil yelled.

The crowd obeyed and the din was replaced by a hush. Phil was yanking at my costume with vigour, rocking me back and fourth. I bit my bottom lip and braced myself for the inevitable collapse.

“Speak to me ya little buggers,” he pleaded as he continued to yank ever harder.

I felt myself topple forward with uncontrollable momentum. I let out a yell, which provoked a surprised murmur. “I’ve got ya boys, Phil said, as I came falling down like a cracked piñata, spilling out like liquid and colliding directly with the table of precious comb jars. The table rocked slightly before deciding to give up and collapse. The jars broke free of their delicate covering in exaggerated slow motion and bounced on the unforgiving ground before rolling erratically in a dazzling display of perfection. Billy Backwash’s unmistakable voice howled in horror as convention goers all caught unavoidable early glimpses of his pride and joy.

I remained still, praying for death to pluck me up and take me. I wasn’t capable of rolling over and staring my comrades in the eye. They knew it was me regardless and their eyes burned searing holes in me. Billy was unsympathetic. I couldn’t blame him. After all, I’d ruined the impact of his work. He strode over toward me and kicked the rest of my costume away until I was utterly exposed.

“You little fuck!” he yelled, “Look at me!!!”

Shunning commonsense, I obeyed and slowly rolled over like a dying animal. Their eyes were upon me, clouded with hatred, screaming for blood. I stammered and spluttered, excreting a pathetic I’m sorry.

Billy’s arms were folded in front, his compassion broken and wounded.

“Get the hell out,” he said coldly.

It wasn’t easy but I managed to stand on shaking, cramp-raped legs. I kept my head down, avoiding their rage as best I could. I stumbled toward the door, willing my legs to increase their speed. They didn’t. My passage was slow and hopeless. My tears were trite and meaningless. The crowd had begun muttering sour nothings toward my back. One chap was quite vocal in sarcastically thanking me for catching the bald man, before calling me a hack. His spit sprayed the back of my neck and I felt his passion.

* * * * *

I made the trek toward my apartment with nothing but my tears and emerging erection for company. I felt as if the District was trying to push me out like a constipated turd; waste that had overstayed its welcome. Barber’s poles had stopped spinning and the wind was mocking me.

I had to believe the District would find a way to forgive me aided by the passing of time. I was only trying to protect it. I had so much invested in this place, in these people. I needed them and I felt as if deep down, they needed me. The defeatist nature of my thoughts tried to convince me otherwise. I wasn’t a barber, so essentially I contributed nothing to the District. I was merely a chronicler of events in which I wasn’t a part:  a professional observer, an amateur sleuth, a hack. I could have just caught the next bus out of the District and I’d have been forgotten like a snap of the fingers. Perhaps if I were lucky, a few of them would remember me as the bastard who ruined Billy’s new jars.

My tears were flowing and my erection was painful. I’d have to get home fast and gratify myself before the tears subsided. My legs were a little more cooperative by now so I jogged the rest of the way home, allowing the District to pass me by in a melancholy blur. I kept my head down and my ears closed until my apartment complex loomed.

I was approaching my front door, contemplating the bottle of bourbon I’d stupidly decided not to throw out when I had embarked upon the dry life. It had my name on it in flashing neon and there wasn’t a damn thing stopping me from quenching that aching thirst. Besides, I’d earned it. It had been a true stinker of a day and I wanted to lose myself for a while. My key slid easily into the lock and the door clicked open. It was dark and nasty in there, as if my room had been adjusting to my emotional state and giving me that miserable company we all sometimes crave. I was about to remove my dick and give it a whack but a rustling sound broke my concentration. I zipped myself up and surveyed the darkened room. As my eyes adjusted, the fuzzy silhouette of an intruder began to reveal itself. A sickening, cold shiver ran up my entire body, killing my erection and quickening the beat of my heart. I was frozen in fear, wanting to reach for the light but finding myself incapable. I whispered, ‘Who’s there?’ but found my words vanishing into inaudibility. Suddenly the click of a cigarette lighter introduced dull light into my apartment, followed quickly by a glowing orange dot. Instinctively my hand, disobeying my mind, flicked at my light switch. My apartment was doused in dirty, piss-coloured light, revealing everything.

He was sitting awkwardly in my armchair, trying to hold the cigarette smoke in his lungs without coughing it up. He wore a trench coat that struck me as an affront to the real him lurking inside. His head was noticeably miniscule and his face was puffed up like a Botox nightmare. His eyes were beady, like they originally belonged to an old doll and his lips were pink leather. I didn’t have to strain the old noodle too hard to know who he was. There was no doubt about it. It was the bald man.

He ground his cigarette out on the arm of my chair before standing up with an outreached hand, imploring me for a shake. My fists wanted to smash his face but he spoke up before they were given the opportunity.

“Hello there, squire, I’m Max.”

Part 2: I Wish I'd Never Met Max

He remained standing there for a socially awkward amount of time, his hand reaching out like a child trying after his mother’s tit. I wasn’t giving any ground. I had too many questions sprinting around my head. The most pressing of which concerned his ability to get into my apartment. Besides, I couldn’t deny how cute he looked, reaching out for my hand, not giving up. He was inching toward me like time lapse photography. His movement was borderline imperceptible but he was definitely getting closer. He struck me as the sort of no talent kid who would have been forced to play a tree in school plays. I could picture the drama teacher calling out directions from backstage, telling him to shuffle this way and that but him never quite managing to find the right spot.

He was getting more awkward by the minute and hiding it poorly. I suddenly didn’t feel so threatened by this intruder. I would have placed a bet that his mother dropped him off if he didn’t look so damn old. I shrugged my shoulders and made my way to the kitchen. I still had a bottle of bourbon to suck down. The daffy bastard kept standing there with his outreached hand, even after I’d left his general vicinity. I plucked my bourbon from its hidey hole and slid right by him, reclaiming my armchair. I fell into it, noticing immediately the burn he’d left in the upholstery. I was agitated like a motherfucker.

“You’re a real fucking piece of work, you know that? You break into my home and burn the shit outta my chair and for what? That’s what I’d like to know.”

The bald man’s eyes lit up as if to thank me for breaking the silence. He finally put his arm down to his side and began brushing his hip nervously.

“I’m ever so sorry for the disruption and quite frankly I have no excuse for it, except for my needing urgently to speak with you.”

He spoke like an English fop, which riled me. I wanted to slap the accent right outta his mouth.

“You know I’ve been trying to track you down right?” I asked.

“Well, isn’t that a happy coincidence!”

“Yeah, well I get the feeling we’re after each other for different reasons. Speaking of which, what’s yours? How do you know who I am? How do you know where I live?”

The bald son of a bitch actually looked surprised, as if my line of questioning was somehow unexpected. He wasn’t giving me anything.

“You gonna say something, bald man? Or do I have to slap it out of you?”

He shook his head, momentarily developing jowls of impressive flaccidity.

“Please, call me Max. I want you to view me as a friend.”

The whole ‘friend’ line caught me right in the middle of my first burning swig of bourbon and I sprayed like an army of defensive skunks.

“You gotta be kidding me right? Friend? You ruined my fucking life and strangely enough, that doesn’t get me too jovial.”