Walkaway

This was the day the barber came to Lake Vista to give the old men haircuts, but Gunther wasn't there to take advantage of it. If he'd been thinking about it he would have stayed around another day; as it was, he had become so preoccupied by the missed haircut that he decided he had no other choice but to part with the three-fifty or four dollars or whatever it was up to by now. Wincing at the thought, he touched his right hand to the back of his neck and pinched a lock between his thumb and forefinger to get a sense of its length. No, a haircut was the first order of business. Another week and it'd start to curl. Walking west up the street, his sleeves rolled up to his elbows and his clothes damp and heavy with sweat, he saw very little that was familiar to him; most of the buildings he knew had either been torn down entirely or taken over by new businesses, and he was slightly cheered to see Ray and Cal's battered old barber pole rotating placidly on the rough orange brick wall next to what had always been Simmons's watch repair shop, occupied now by a forlorn and unhygienic-looking frozen yogurt store. He watched it turn for a minute, its red and blue stripes faded to pink and baby blue, then yanked open the door and stuck his head through it into the yogurt shop for a moment, startling the morose teen manning the counter. The boy regarded him with mute wonder, as though the arrival of a potential customer was the most puzzling development of his day so far. Gunther looked the place over disapprovingly, the sweat on his face and neck and in his hair going cold in the breeze from the ancient box air conditioner buzzing and rattling in the window behind the counter. The yogurt store couldn't have been there long, but with its bare walls and the worn-smooth Formica countertop left over from the watch repair shop, the air inside it was already thick with failure. He knew there would be no point in asking the kid what had become of old Simmons, so without a word he slammed the door shut and descended the half flight of concrete steps to the barber shop. Inside it was way too bright. Half a story underground, Ray and Cal's had always been gloomy, even by barbershop standards. Now the dark wood paneling had been pulled down, the walls painted a pastel yellow, and the dim incandescent lighting overhead had been replaced with fluorescent tubes, which were also mounted around the frames of the mirrors. Two women and one young man were stationed behind the chairs, and all three of the customers were women, their clothes protected by shiny plastic sheets of dark gray. Gunther had never seen a woman in Ray and Cal's before. All six of them looked at him expectantly, and the young man's eyes narrowed. "You're going to have to leave now, okay, sir? I'm very sorry," he said, stepping out from behind his chair and, for the benefit of the women, making a show of taking charge of the situation. "What the hell are you talking about?" "I'm very sorry." He was young, thirty or less, and when he put his hand on Gunther's shoulder Gunther removed it calmly and deliberately, his eyes locked on the young man's, gauging his resolve. The young man took a step away from him without making another attempt. "Where's Ray and Cal? I need a haircut." "I don't know who you're talking about, sir. Now as I said, you're going to have to go." The young man's voice was artificially low and soothing like a goddamn orderly's, and the tone made Gunther want to smash him one right in the snotlocker. "Wait a sec, Curt." The older of the two lady barbers spoke up. Her face was pretty and her ePhillips, Scott is the author of 'Walkaway', published 2003 under ISBN 9780345440211 and ISBN 0345440218.