Page 129 - Sweet Embraceable You: Coffee-House Stories

The Barber of 18th and Castro 117

“What’s that?”
“Ways to keep me out of hell. Ways to get me into heaven.”
“What ways?”
“Ways you could sell like Salvation Coupons the night before
Judgment Day. Ways those men and boys down in the street prob-
ably know. Old ways. Ancient ways. Ways so secret only a few men,
and maybe a few women, know them. But there’s more of them out
here that know than back home, or anywhere else ever before in
one place on this whole earth, right here, I figure, in your Rainbow
County. They know the ways. I know they know the ways.”
“You mean sex,” Floyd said.
“Sex?” Robert said. “Sure, why not? Sex must be one of the
saving ways, but the way has to be right. Just right. Or else sex is
just like everyone says, the way to damnation.” He bored his stare
hard through Floyd’s thick glasses. “And guess what else?”
Floyd guessed what else was he had himself another one of
those religious sex nuts trying to break out of his shell. He wanted
to take a step back, but he was too proud to show Robert any fear;
he remembered Robert bragging that terror was the only thing most
people respected once it got their attention.
“Besides sex,” Robert said, “guess what else.”
“I can’t guess.”
“Damage.”
“Damage?”
“Just a little damage.”
“Why damage?” Floyd said. “What damage? What to? Who to?”
“To you,” Robert said. “To me. To everybody.”
“What kind of damage?”
“Big damages,” Robert said, “and little damages.”
“I could call the police.”
“By the time they got here, my razor blade could cut your face.
I could make you blind so you could go on TV. By the time they got
here, I could cut my throat. Slice right through my jugular. None
of it would make any difference to anybody but you. I don’t care.

©Jack Fritscher, Ph.D., All Rights Reserved
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