Hairdresser on Fire. Daniel LeVesque

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СКАЧАТЬ My parents got into their Impala and drove away.

      “Well, that didn’t go as well as I had hoped,” said Wilton. “I guess some folks just can’t be saved, huh, Moe?”

      “Father Moe,” said Father ’Mo.

      I was pretty lucky that I never had to come out. It was already done for me, evidenced by my wig box and assorted props: cheerleading pom-poms, juggling bags, eye shadow sponges, and yarn. Nobody had to tell anybody anything. Trust: when your nine-year-old’s “down time” fills itself with walking serpentinely through the house in a blonde bouffant wig and digging through your dresser for Maybelline eye pencils, you don’t need to do the math. Equation solved. Marty Pagan’s toy box lay in sharp contrast to mine. He had not an old wooden toy box but a new one in the shape of a giant NFL football, the smell of thick plastic surrounded it from a solid foot on each side. It had its own aura. This giant toxic football like an advertisement, stuffed with tennis balls, catcher’s mitts, and the hand-held sports games that bugged me with their constant squawking for touchdowns or more batteries. Above the sports slush and the electronic games screaming feed me hung every baseball card ever printed, screwed to the wall on display.

      Above my wig box — the wooden crate that was a tangle of synthetic hair — hung no such paraphernalia. Other than my KISS posters, I didn’t hang much. There was a personalized letter from Leo Buscaglia, whom I’d written to after reading his book, Love. A picture of me with The King at a Medieval Times in Florida — the King just looked like a dude from Orlando, not particularly enraged by his job. I looked by far more uncomfortable in my Vacation Costume posing with a character actor in a theme restaurant.

      Next to that was a picture of me posing with Willie Whistle, the local clown of my youth, at a senior citizens facility outside Boston. I have no idea how I even got there. Driving to Boston was always a hassle for my parents and we rarely did it. We barely even crossed into the Massachusetts border towns that surrounded us in fear of The Massholes, or as we called them, The Hillbillies. Rushing home from third grade to make sure I caught my stories — General Hospital was gearing up for the Ice Princess and big things were happening — I’d see the other kids planning their afternoons. Shooting hoops, skateboarding, and eventually, thank god, playing Atari. I sat myself in front of the full-length mirror in my mother’s room. She was ironing, singing a Mama’s and Papa’s tune as I patty-caked against the mirror.

      Having nobody to practice with, my stoned sister proving no help time after time, I depended upon myself to learn the hand-clapping routine. The order in which to clap, pat, cross your hands, or slap your knees was critical business in the schoolyard, at least among the circle of girls I watched at recess. I wanted in. As my only competition I got wicked fast real quick and before I knew it I was a blur of arms in front of the mirror.

      … old lady mac, mac, mac

      Marty Pagan was coming up the driveway, I could hear him dragging some piece of metal sports equipment. I knew he was going to bother me so I picked up the pace of my clapping, patting, and crossing, dropping the total hint. Ignorant, he came to my mom’s window.

      “Hey, do ya wanna come play baseball with us?”

       …all dressed in black black black

      “Shhhhhhh!” I said. Clearly, the rhyme wasn’t over. He was bothering me in the middle.

       …with silver buttons buttons buttons

      “Hey, Francis, you wanna come play baseball?” he repeated. They must have needed someone bad. My concentration was broken and I was getting flustered.

      “Can’t you see I’m busy? What’s wrong with you?” I said in the mirror, his stupid half-head in the window. I started my hand claps again, from the top.

       …old lady mac, mac mac

      “Why don’t you wanna play baseball?” Marty was incredulous, outside the window, standing on my baton with his stupid sneaker.

       …allll dressed in black, black, black

      I got louder. I wanted to take that bat to his head and really swing. He was bugging me now.

      “And why are you always practicing those girl games?” he said.

       …with silver buttons buttons buttons

      Before I could jump up and run outside, my mother slammed her iron down onto its board, mashing the steam on button, leaving spurts of hot water and tea-kettle clouds blasting behind her as she marched to the window. Her little body could really move when she was pissed, and she looked like she was going to rip Marty in two.

      “He’s good at it. That’s why he practices, Marty, because he’s good at it… now move your feet outta here… do what you’re good at and go play your baseball, you little shit.”

       …all down her back back back

      Marty looked at my mom and ran away, schooled.

      “He’s a little shit,” she said. “You’re good at it. Keep going, hon…” My mother was free and happy outside of the cult, ready to pick battles and say “shit” outside the house.

      She started singing again and my hands regained their speed, challenging their own reflection. My mom was right. I was good at it and I would patty-cake, satisfied, until I could move on to public transit and bigger towns.

      Once I discovered RIPTA — the Rhode Island Public Transit Authority — my preteen life started to blossom. Able to go to the mall on my own schedule, I’d run from the entrance straight to the Waldenbooks across from the Deb shop.

      Deb, with its bubble mirror façade, reflecting everything in front of it thousands of times. With headache lighting and belt racks, I couldn’t stand going in there with my sisters. Deb smelled like thin leather and carpeting, and gave me an instant headache.

      Waldenbooks soothed that headache with its folksy name and wooden shelves. The staff was lax, there was access to any kind of material, and it smelled like books. It still smelled like carpet, too, but not like Deb. Waldenbooks seemed so cozy back then, like a real smart person’s book place. Mall regulars called it simply Walden’s. Nobody had any ideas on Thoreau, preservationism, resistance, things like that, but they knew Walden was something literary. “Like Whit Walden or what’s-his-name up Walden Woods, up in Mass… on Golden Pond or whatever,” my dad told me when I asked.

      The copy of The Joy of Gay Sex was hidden there at Waldens in the Politics and Finance section, where nobody ever went, not even the staff. I didn’t hide it myself but I found it and kept it hid. There were probably six of us, all complete strangers, feeding off the secret of our communal hiding place. Looking at the book, I couldn’t believe what I was in for. So lame. The drawings were so shitty they weren’t even dirty. The sketch labeled “oral passive” was particularly boring, its curvy lines making me feel as if I had already done it before.

      Deflated, I would go to Spencer Gifts and flip through the dirty poster display in the back, skipping past all the Cheryl Tiegs and the Cheryl Ladds and all the Cheryls, swip, swip, swip, the blacklight Boston poster, swip, swip, the acid-head poster, swip, the pot-leaf poster, swip, swip, swip, until I got to the hairy fireman one, where you could see the top of his bush poking above his yellow rubber pants with red suspenders.

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