Dead silence. I wondered if he understood what per capita meant? Should I have said, ‘per person’? He seemed offended. They all seemed offended. But they couldn’t be offended by a crime statistic, could they? I mean it was just a fact. Not to mention my experiences in Masons Bay sort of proved my point.
Honestly, I had no clue what men talked about when they were alone. Straight men, I mean. I couldn’t remember the last time I was in an all-male, all-straight place. Not that the barbershop was all-straight at that particular moment—I was there. And the tweaker I was there to meet probably—
The door opened and in walked a guy in his twenties wearing a camouflage cap and a confederate flag T-shirt. He smiled at my barber, a sweet-natured smile.
“Have a seat, Tim. Denny will be with you in a minute.”
“Thanks, Joe.”
So, Old George Clooney’s name was Joe. And the tweaker’s name was Denny. I guess if you just wait long enough information comes to you. I wondered if there was a Bob somewhere who’d named the place after himself.
Joe was chopping away at my hair. Directly above Tim’s head was a pennant for the Michigan State Spartans. I debatedfor a moment whether that was a football or a baseball team. I guessed football. Football fans seemed to be a whole lot prouder of themselves than baseball fans.
I wondered, though, if Joe knew much about the ancient Spartans. Homosexual warriors. Probably wouldn’t believe me if I told him. Though I had no plans to tell him. ‘Did you know that the ancient Spartans fought as gay couples? Do your Spartans do that too?’ No, that would guarantee my haircut took a wrong turn and I was not about to risk my hair.
“Done,” Denny said. His client got up and crushed his Ford hat onto his head without even looking at his haircut.
Denny took his money and put it into the cash register. As the guy waked out, he told Tim, “Come on. You’re up.”
Tim walked over to the chair, saying, “What’s up, Denny? How you been?”
“Okay,” Denny said. There was a bit of diffidence in his voice that made me think there was something between them. A not-very-good something. Like, maybe Tim had bullied Denny in grade school. Or maybe Denny didn’t like confederate flags. Or hunters.
Tim began chatting happily about people they knew in common. I decided I was right that they’d gone to school together. They looked around the same age.
Abruptly, Joe told me I was finished and handed me a mirror so I could check out what he’d done. Immediately, I saw that he hadn’t given me a faux hawk at all. He’d given me a Caesar—just like his own, just like George Clooney’s. I wasn’t happy—I mean, what? He thought this was 1993? Still, I said, “Thanks. What do I owe you?”
“Ten dollars.”
Ten dollars? Ten dollars was a tip in L.A. And not a very good one. It did ease the pain of getting a haircut I didn’t exactly ask for. I took out some cash, tipping him two dollars.
On my way out the door, I looked over my shoulder and gave Denny my best L.A.-dance-club-follow-me-out-to-the-smoking-area look.
Damn, if he wasn’t waiting for it, too.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
There are so many differences between L.A. and Masons Bay, and a lot of them don’t make much sense. As I mentioned, everyone knows your business in Masons Bay. In L.A. no one knows who you are. You could tell them you’re an alien just arrived from Area 51 and a certain portion would believe you; another portion would try to turn you into a TV show.
Because everyone knows who you are in Masons Bay, stalking is basically impossible. It was almost time for the barbershop to close, so I wanted to wait around and see if Denny might talk to me. I had the feeling he would.
Problem was there were only three cars on the street besides mine. I mean, how much more obvious could I get? As a cover, I took out my cellphone, flipped it open, pretended to dial, and held it up to my ear. After a moment, I began moving my lips and occasionally gesturing.
I would have placed an actual call, but the only person I could think of to call was my friend and former roommate Vinnie. Unfortunately, since he’d begun boning his new roommate he didn’t have a whole lot of time for me. Plus, I owed him twenty-five dollars and I didn’t want him bringing that up.
As I faked my phone call, Tim came out of the shop with basically the same haircut I’d been given. Like father like son apparently. He tossed his camo cap into a Chevy truck through an open window. The truck was light blue with rust around its wheel wells and a collection of bumper stickers on its tailgate. Bush/Cheney 2000, 9/11 Never Forget, Sportsmen for Bush, Rush is Right, ‘Self-control beats birth control,’ and ‘Warning: In case of rapture this car will be unmanned.’
As he opened the door, he saw me sitting there faking my phone call. He waved at me like I was an old friend and then got into the car. I wondered what it might be like walking around and feeling like everybody liked you just because you were a decent looking white guy who believed all the right things.
I mean, yeah, I sometimes felt like that walking around a Santa Monica Boulevard gay bar, but that wasn’t the whole world. In fact, it was a very small part of the world. Guys like Tim got to feel that way wherever they went.
A minute or two later he was gone, so I stopped thinking about him. Instead, I got very involved in my fake conversation. Actually, it was becoming a little intense. I was telling Vinnie how angry I was that he’d sort of, kind of dumped me. Which after he’d jumped the gun and called an ambulance on me was hard to take. Seriously, I’d been forgiving so why couldn’t he be?
Joe came out of the barbershop alone. I decided it was a good time for me to listen to Vinnie make his excuses, so I said, “Mmmm-hmmm, mmmm-hmmm,” until Joe got into his decade-old, brown Subaru. I waited until he drove off and then I hung up on Vinnie.
Serves him right.
Denny was the only one left in the shop. I thought about making another fake call, but what was the point? IwantedDenny to know I was waiting for him.
