Page 113 - Sweet Embraceable You: Coffee-House Stories

The Barber of 18th and Castro 101

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,” Floyd 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,” Floyd 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,” Floyd 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,” Floyd, 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

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