Chapter 2
-Short Story by Clayton Booysen
His dad’s opposition was akin to dousing him with fuel and striking a match. Franco felt like a man on fire, possessed to prove Paul wrong and win him over. So, in that same week, he channelled all that fear, anxiety, and excitement into motivation for getting the job done.
He steadied himself atop the ladder and studied the space that would become his barbershop. He felt proud gazing upon the other three people he’d employed and the life he was building, beautiful even while broken.
After a short while, he felt dizzy from the strong fumes that filled the room as he peeled the dry skins of black paint that clung to his fingers.
While the newcomers were mopping the floor and chasing mice from the scullery, Uncle Adrian was testing the water pressure in the taps.
This corner store was the perfect size for everything he planned to do.
The room was well lit, as glass walls stared out over the cobblestone public square to let in the distant sounds of children playing and birds chirping.
In the corner of his eye, he noticed a scraggly homeless man waddle around one of the palm trees that ran along the rim of the pavilion, far in the distance. Old and grey and tired, he was.
Franco wondered what his story was…everyone has a story.
He turned back and focused on the room.
It had enough space for three barber chairs, a fridge in the corner and display cases for the vintage whiskeys.
He would give people an experience to remember, he reminded himself. He turned from the window. “Uncle, when did you say will our first customer be arriving?”
Adrian screwed the copper tap in place. As he wiped his hands on his apron, he dragged greasy fingers over his belly, leaving black trails over an old, crinkly white. “When he phoned to book an appointment… said he’d be in sometime today…just never said when.”
Franco sighed but kept his voice gentle. “We’re not really ready for customers, you know,” and shrugged his shoulders. “But we might as well get some clientele in.” He reached for the crate of whiskey near the counter and started unpacking the bottles, might as well keep himself busy in the mean-time, he figured.
“Taps are all tightened…” said his Uncle. “…pretty sure you owe me double-pay for this.”
Franco regarded him with a suspicious side-eye before continuing to unpack. “Pretty sure I don’t.”
“O yes, mi boi, weekend pay and all that.” Adrian grinned with a child-like look of mischief. “What would your landlord say of you underpaying your staff?”
“Mr Angelos?” Franco asked as he placed the bottles atop a shelf. “I think he’d just be too glad that you are in my employ…”
“And why would that be?!”
“It’s my own act of charity, you know…helping the sick and elderly, also giving them a chance in this cruel, unforgiving world.”
His Uncle lost his smile and frowned. “You calling me old, boy?”
“Yes.”
Even though it had been a joke, Franco knew he had been very intentional on hiring his uncle, especially after the divorce. He figured this to be the beauty of change, that they can be contagious to those around us. After all, what good is a new beginning, if it only stayed with him?
Adrian barked like an old bulldog. “You and your witty little come-backs! Why don’t you change the taps then, or are your baby hands allergic to hard work?”
“No, but my nose is allergic to you.”
“What does that mean?”
“You stink.”
Adrian sighed as a look of tiredness grew over his face. “Is that the best you can come up with?”
He had to concede. “It’s not the best quip, I know. Sometimes you just have to throw crap against the wall and see what sticks.”
They both laughed it off and continued with their work. Adrian finished working on the plumbing and electrical, while Franco mounted more of the racks and décor on the wall.
He was fixing an ornamented bull skull above the first mirror when he heard his uncle finally announce their first customer. Having just mounted the heavy hulk of horns to the wall, he allowed himself another second to admire the bright colors of red, blue and gold paint that swirled over the bony surface. So poetic, he thought, that God’s liveliest colors animated themselves strongest while decorating a symbol of death.
Instantly Franco’s thoughts returned to the present. The long awaited first customer, he remembered as he turned to greet them. Immediately, he clenched his teeth in disbelief, his voice a murmur. “How’s it going, Dad?”
He would not show any surprise, even though he knew that’s what his father wanted.
Paul sighed, his thick grey moustache puffed out as he pierced his lips. “Remember that colleague of mine that retired? He disappeared.” Paul shook his head and walked along the wet black walls, content with the ominous silence he’d just created.
“Sorry to hear it, Dad.”
“It’s not your problem.”
Franco snickered. Typical Paul. But why is he here? he wondered anxiously. His eyes followed Paul from atop the ladder as he made his voice loud and smiled. “Glad to have you as my first customer, Dad…if only you had even a hair on your head…”
“I’m not here for any of that,” his father answered abruptly.
“I know.”
His father’s presence filled Franco with anger but he refused to let Paul to dictate the tone. “It’s the moustache, isn’t it, Dad?” He slapped his hands together. “Let me get the razor, it’s about time we put that tired worm out of it’s misery-”
“I’m here to tell you you’re making a mistake and that you should bring an end to this…now”
“Dad!” Franco snapped, peering at the three employees who were listening in on them.
Paul nodded and raised a thick finger to focus Franco’s attention on the soft singing of the outside birds. “Cute,” his raspy voice remarked. “They have a talent for it and certainly seem to love what they do.” He carefully stroked his grey moustache. “It’s doesn’t change the fact that their petty pleas of passion are ultimately meaningless.”
He looked at the trainee chasing the mice out the shop door and spoke raspier than before, but almost with a sense of adoration. “Now compare it to the mouse. It has no colour, it has no appeal, it humours no pretences. It spends its day scavenging for food…because it’s smart enough to care only about survival.”
Franco forced a grin and slowly descended to meet him at the bottom of the ladder. He matched his father’s gaze, hoping Paul could see the defiance burn in his eyes. “Well thank God I’m not a mouse…”
Franco tried to hold it as long as he could, but if you stare into stone, would the stone not be last to blink?
He lowered his eyes to his father’s shoes and shook his head, smiling, not that his words would make a difference. “I will give my customers an experience to remember. And they’ll come back not because they have to but because they want to. Besides. I’m not doing this for money.”
Paul shook his head. “I don’t know what that teacher had said to you…being a police officer for 36 years, I made a difference.” His voice had a sound of bitterness to it. “And still it ultimately meant nothing to the ones I loved.”
Instantly, Franco knew that dark pit. He now shared his father’s grief, not that he could alleviate any of Paul’s sorrow, it was too strong. It could only plunge him down with it. “Dad, why did Uncle Christian do it?”
Paul squinted his eyes, shaking his head at Franco with a look of bitter surprise, as if, how dare he ask such a question.
He could feel his father’s contempt of this place and his work. It brought a stinging pain in his chest. Franco felt his throat stiffen and found it hard to swallow. He gulped dryly and made his voice loud, ignoring the overwhelming feeling of disappointment that hollowed his chest. “Thank you, Dad. Please leave me to prepare my shop.”
***
After the shop was finalized, Franco took a moment to appreciate the beauty he had put into this effort, but was it a fleeting beauty, he started to think. What if his dad was right?
Paul wasn’t right, he firmly and quickly decided. He would not tolerate such thoughts. Being just past thirty years, Franco was still young, all be it experienced. Besides, a lively, hard-working bachelor like himself could surely afford him some freedom to make mistakes. He was young enough to try his hand at a few adventures and even if they did fail, he could easily reinvent himself for anther try.
Nonetheless, his father’s doubts lingered somewhere in the back of his mind.
He curled up a handful of his beard, ignoring the sting as he slowly dragged his fingers through it. At the very least, he could still get the meaning he craved from this job, he was sure of it.
Finally, he put off the thought and forced himself to look around the shop, to focus on all the newness he’d created.
Long oak shelves boasted glimmering bottles of golden Scotch, Bourbon and Irish Whiskey which ran down the blackened walls of the shop, dimly reflecting a golden hue from the copper bulbs above. Three barber chairs lined the polished, oblong floor. They were bulky steel recliners, each mounted on a swivel, plated with a shiny gold coating, and padded with musky brown leather that creaked softly when one sunk into it, cool to the touch.
The shop had a rustic steampunk-feel to it, his favourite.
A few days had passed and slowly, newcomers would poke their heads into the store, looking for a quick trim or a relaxing shave.
The work had been tiring, Franco realised, but he was willing to overlook the drudgery of the repetitive cutting and snipping and styling all for the one redemptive quality of the job: the people.
Every customer he eased into his seats had something unique about them, a recent experience, an interesting story, a provoking thought perhaps. The exhilaration was found in trying to uncover that unique something of the individual in the half-hour he had with them.
What struck Franco as interesting was how freely most people opened up to him. Most times, he had hardly started the cut, and many would begin unpacking all their life’s burdens onto him from the chair. He’d usually simply listen to them and decided beforehand to not try and counsel them or bring them to any new insights or life-changing revelations.
Sometimes people just need encouragement and validation, not problem-solving. Sometimes people just need to feel heard, he reminded himself. Franco chuckled as he thought of the day before, when a young man had come in for a quick cut.
Jared was tall and skinny, with long frizzy hair that looked like a bird had plonked a sloppy nest atop his head and left. His dark curls twirled in all directions and lazily bounced up and down with the slightest movements. He wore golden earrings and a white, branded jersey that was way too hot for the time of year.
“I love this place,” he had said. “Life’s just so much simpler when you can slouch into a chair, have a drink and get a cut.”
“How so?” asked Franco with delight as he shaved the back of the neck.
“Women complicate life,” he replied.
Franco tilted his head sceptically. “And why is that?”
Jared jerked away from the razors. “Careful…only do the sides, I don’t want you to mess up the style.”
Franco raised his hands and pretended an apology. He then casually resumed the shave. “Anyways, why do you say women complicate life?”
“Ahh yes, because I think I might get killed by one.”
Franco raised a brow. “By whom?”
Jared took a sip of his whiskey and sank into his seat, peering to his sides. “My sister.”
He gulped as Franco shaved away more of his sideburns. “She asked me to pick her boyfriend up at the airport.” He shuffled around in his seat. “But we hate each other! Did you know the last time he stayed over, he used my toothbrush?! He uses all my stuff: my soap, my shampoo…we might as well share the same toilet paper squares!”
Franco slowly shook his head. “And what did your sister do about it?”
He jerked away from the razors again. “Careful so close to the top! I am nothing without the looks.”
Not sure that’s a compliment to yourself, Franco thought.
“Anyways,” Jared continued. “I told her I’d deal with him, the boyfriend. No need for her to get involved. I’d handle it like a grown-up.”
“Did it work?”
Jared smirked, like a mischievous little toddler that can’t hide his pride. “No, I secretly peed in his shampoo bottle.”
Franco felt at a loss for words and stopped snipping. He could only frown with a smile, trying to make sense of it. “But I thought you use the same shampoo?”
Jared lost his smile and stared blank into the mirror, as if it were an abyss about to suck him in. Only his right eye twitched as he seemed to consider the thought. He then slowly pinched one of his dark curls and strung it out before his eyes, squinting at it with a look of disgust. “Why don’t we just shave the whole thing, shall we?”
Franco sighed. “So, is that why your sister wants to ‘kill’ you?”
Jared wiggled upright in the stool, mumbling like a toddler caught red-handed. “No. She wanted me to pick the boyfriend up at the airport. And that didn’t work for me.”
“So, what did you do?”
The guy shrugged his shoulders. “I decided to first go for a cut…here at the barbershop.”
At this moment, Franco became aware of a woman peering into the shop from the window. He slowly turned back and kept his voice relaxed. “How long has he been waiting for you at the airport?”
“Not long. I first wanted to calm myself down…then I’ll pick him up.”
Franco glanced back at the window.
The woman’s face blazed red fury that even he felt slightly frightened.
He hardened his voice as he turned back, slowly. “How long has it been?”
Jared winced at himself in the mirror. “About 4 days…”
Franco chuckled at the audacity. Now it made sense. “Oh dear…”
“How mad do you think she’ll be?” A look of fear grew over his face.
Time to find out, Franco thought as he slowly swivelled him ‘round in the chair to face the window. “You tell me.”
Jared jerked straight in his chair, as if he had just sat on a traffic cone.
“Oh crap.”
Franco whipped off the apron and dusted the hair from the guy’s neck. “Well, there you go.”
Jared sat stiff as a cadaver, not taking his eyes off the woman in the window. “What? You can’t leave me now…look at her over there…she looks ready to devour my soul!”
“That’ll be R150.”
The man laughed in bitter disbelief, keeping his eyes fixed on the woman. “Oh, how kind of you…asking money from a dead man!”
Franco nodded, pointing to the next waiting customer. “I need the chair.”
Jared’s eyes darted all around him, like a cornered mouse fashioning a quick escape. “Stab me.”
“What?”
Jared nodded to the scissors on the counter before him. “Just take it and stab me in the leg. She wouldn’t hurt a cripple, would she?”
“You’re so dramatic.”
“Fine then,” Jared started abruptly, gulping down all his whiskey. “It’s been a good life.” He stiffly stood up and stretched a hand down to Franco. “It has been an honour, Sir. Thank you…for everything.”
Franco reluctantly shook his hand and wished him best of luck. Slowly, Jared paid for the cut and made his shameful walk from the shop to meet his sister.
It had been a sweet memory, Franco now realised at end of day, a comedic relief to the burdens of running a shop and trying to bring in revenue. He laughed every time he thought of it.
He really did hope that lad made it out alive.
But unfortunately for Franco, this moment of reprieve would prove itself to be one of the only sweet remembrances of a depressive time, as the following days brought it’s fare share of hardship.
To Be Continued…
