Page 156 - Rainbow County and Other Stories
P. 156

144                                         Jack Fritscher

            magazine at home on that. They’d take these altar boys and, you
            know, sort of spay them, operate on them, you know, down there,
            so they’d keep their real high voices. Their families were happy.
            Even the kids were happy. A kid with a real high voice could make
            a fortune in those days.”
               “That a fact,” Lloyd said. “Maybe then that’s why they do it.
            Just so ‘Mr and Mrs America’ can sit at home in front of their ‘T
            and V’ and watch those black boys who can’t even see play the
            piano.” He reached for the talcum. “Dagos really did that stuff,
            huh?”
               “Lots of people do lots of things that sound cruel to us but
            not to them. Anybody who’s not an orphan knows that.” On the
            shelf, between Bach and Liszt, Robert spied a fresh half-eaten deli
            sandwich. He shifted nervously in the chair.
               “Hold still,” Lloyd said. He reached for the shaving cream.
            “I’m finishing up around your ears.”
               On the end-table next to the chromium-and-leatherette
            couch lay a second half-eaten sandwich. Blood sausage, the same
            color as the burgundy couch, hung bitten out of the white bread.
            In a Coke with no more than two swigs out of it, small bubbles
            fizzed noiselessly to the top.
               “One of your customers left his lunch.”
               “Some customers leave stuff. Some take it. There’s losers and
            there’s claimers. You want it?” He arced his razor in a smooth
            crescent above and behind Robert’s ear. The downstroke scrape
            flourished into a fast, thrilling swoop down his neck.
               “I feel like my life is in your hands,” Robert said.
               “It is,” Lloyd said.
               “I don’t know if I like that.” Robert hated the nervous laugh
            in his own voice. “I only started back to barbers about two months
            ago. Before that it was nearly five years, being a hippie and all I
            had hair down below my shoulders. Then something, nothing
            really, happened, and this guy, this judge, made me cut it. When
            I was a kid, barber shops always gave me a headache.
               “So. Just a little scrape with the law,” Lloyd, W. C. Fields,
            said. He swooped his razor over and around Robert’s other ear.
               “I never liked anybody fussing over me that much. Besides,
            this barber shop my old man took me to had pin-up pictures of

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