Adventures in the Screen Trade (39 page)

I opened the barbershop door. The overhead bell squawked. The new barher rose. We eyed each other. Mr. Bimbaum was a small man, aging and paunchy, with long beautiful fingers. I jumped into the chair. "Hurry it up," I said. I'm due back soon. I'm playing Little Pot with Porky McKee." He did not answer, but stared silently, intensely.. At my head. He bent down and looked up at it and stood on tiptoe and looked down at it and walked around it and placed his fingers on it and drew an imaginary replica of in the air. Finally, he nodded and said one word. "Spherical." "What?"

"Head shape spherical" he announced. Then he reached for a clean striped towel and tucked it around my neck. "Name?" he asked. "Willy," I said. He pumped the chair twice, adjusting my level. "Name?" I asked in my turn. "H. Bimbaum," he answered.

I broke out laughing. I whooped, kicking my feet, doubling up, screaming. When I was finished, he took his time and carefully swatted me on top of the head with the flat of his hand.

"Hey," I said. "That hurt." He nodded. "Was supposed to,"

I looked at him. He was still staring at my head, lilting his own head this way and that. muttering unintelligible sounds. "What's the 'H' stand for?" I asked.

"That nobody finds out," he answered. "Nobody." He stood up on tiptoe and sighted along the part in my hair, squinting, one eye closed. "Some butcher gave you your last cut," he muttered.

"Yeah?" I said, and I pointed to the other chair. "Well, my father gave it to me."

He nodded again and leaned close. "Then your father is a butcher," he announced. "Now shut up and sit still." With that he reached for his scissors. A small pair, silver, with short rounded blades. He blew on the blades and rubbed them against his pant legs. Then he held the scissors high in the air and the silver caught the light, showering it about the room. I stared, listening as he brought the handles together, hearing the first soft "snip," and then, quickly, another "snip," and then another. I closed my eyes. The sounds made rhythms and I hummed silently along with "Jingle Bells" and "Put on Your Old Gray Bonnet" and "America the Beautiful." The blades never stopped singing as he moved around me, taking a tuft of hair, stepping back nodding, moving forward, taking another. I relaxed. The snips began to take on theme in addition to rhythm, and I stopped my silent humming, being content just to listen. I sat deeper in the chair; the music swelled, rolling in, filling the tiny shop, harmony now in addition to theme. It was a beautiful moment in my life; I sensed it then, although I didn't know why. I have felt it only one time since, when I first saw the village of Toledo braced before the storm El Greco had unleashed. I can describe it only as a moment of total calm. of complete relaxation, but a relaxation that has nothing to do with sleep. Rather, it is a respite born of the knowledge that the sign is up, "The Master is at work," and, at least for awhile, nothing is going to go wrong; no one is going to slip, stumbling on the everpresent banana peel that is always lurking just ahead of us as we walk along. Not this time, anyway; not just now.

"Done," Mr. Bimbaum said, as he floated the towel away from my body with a single rapid motion. I stepped out of the chair and eyed myself in the mirror. I looked. I thought, quite well. "Thank you," I said. "You give a nice haircut."

"Nice!" and he snorted, picking up an old copy of Liberty, sitting down in the second chair. I waited. My father came in. "He gives a nice haircut," I said.

My father walked around me, inspecting, "A trifle close, maybe," he began. Again the snort from behind the magazine. "A trifle close," my father repeated. "But otherwise acceptable. Bimbaum." and the magazine lowered, "you got a job." "Can I go now?" I asked. "I've got to get back to Porky McKee." "Go," my father said. I went, I ran out the door and down the middle of the street, across the

railroad track, then up the hill to school. The marble crowd had dwindled but Porky was still there. He was playing Big Pot now, kneeling on the hard ground, concentrating on the half-dozen marbles left inside the chalked circle.

"Hurry up," I said. "Finish it off."

He did not answer. "Come on. Porky. Hurry. Let's go."

He stared straight at the marbles, and I knew then he was mad. "Don't tell me hurry," he mumbled. "I'm taking my time." "What's the matter with you?" I said. "I just got a haircut was all." "Yeah?" he said. "Well, you been gone almost two hours." I looked up at the school clock over the main door. He was right. It had taken two hours. "I'm sorry, Porky," I said. "I don't know what happened." He glanced at me and was about to say something, but instead he stopped and stared. "Willy." he said finally, "that's a beautiful haircut. A really beautiful haircut."

"New barber," I answered. "Named Bimbaum." We both started to laugh. . . .

The lure of Little Pot kept us more than occupied throughout the remain- der of the darkening afternoon. But finally, when the cold dusk winds began and we could no longer see the circle from the lagging line. Porky and I called it quits and wandered home. I waved good-by to him at his front door and ran past the intervening trio of houses to mine. Walking inside, I shouted greetings to one and all. My mother answered, as always, from the kitchen.

Even today, years after her thoughtless and more than abrupt departure, I still think of my mother as wailing for me in the kitchen. She inhabited it completely, leaving it only for such mandatory tasks as shopping or sleeping or playing casino on alternate Thursdays with the Weinsteins, who lived down the block. She was forever cooking, baking, ridying up, so that the room al- ways glistened, no matter how high the stack of pots and pans piled one atop the other in the sink. My mother believed in the curative power of food. Catch a cold? Have some chicken broth. Break your leg? Have a dumpling. And so it went. She was a good woman, kind and less obtuse than most of us. and I know that if they had ever given a Nobel Prize for kreplach, my mother would have won it every year.

"How's the new one?" she said to me, her eyes marking the progress of the rich brown stew bubbling on the stove. "Look," I said and I walked forward, intercepting her gaze. "Willy," she said. "My God, you're beautiful." "His name's Bimbaum," I told her,

My mother nodded. "Nice name." She paused, staring at me. "Turn around slow,"

I did. "Father's already hired him. I was there." "Of course," she replied. "The man is obviously a craftsman."

"You want to know what he said about Father? He said Father was a butcher."

My mother shrugged. "That's strong language. Your father ain't exactly a

butcher. But he ain't exactly a craftsman either. Why did he say such a thing?" ',

I was about to explain when the back door opened and my Father appeared, accompanied by Mr. Bimbaum. "Ho, ho, ho," my father said, embracing my mother. "Have I got a surprise. Bimbaum here is renting the spare room. For a small fee. Meals extra. Bimbaum. this is my wife, Emma. Emma, say hello." "Hello," my mother said. Mr. Bimbaum nodded.

"You gave my son Willy here a fine cut," she went on. "Of course," he answered. And then, "Where's my room?" "Up the back stairs," my mother said. "Where's your luggage?" "Luggage is here." and he held up a small, battered brown suitcase. "That's all you got?"

"What am I?" he snorted. "A princess in a fairy book? No, I ain't no princess. I'm a barber. A barber needs scissors. Inside here I got scissors. What more luggage?"

"Up the back stairs," my mother repeated, louder this time. "My son Willy here will show you,"

"I'm so blind I can't find it?" Mr. Bimbaum said, stopping me. He walked to the stairs. "If I shouldn't be able to locate it for myself, I'll yell for help." He went on muttering to himself a moment more, laughing and shrugging his shoulders. Then he stopped. "Food is when?" "Food is when I say so," my mother answered.

"Equitable," Bimbaum nodded. "Very equitable." He disappeared up the back stairs. We waited in the kitchen, listening as the door to the spare room opened and closed sharply. With that. my mother turned and faced my father. "Ho, ho, ho," she said. "Some surprise."

"Don't you like him?" my father asked, smiling very hard. "I thought sure you would like him. I said to myself, Emma is sure to like Mr. . . ." "Since when do we run a boarding house?" my mother interrupted. "Since when do you object to making a little money? Business ain't so good."

"Business is the same as always. And that man got the manners of a pig." "Well," my father shrugged. "Maybe he ain't sociable. And maybe he ain't refined. But Emma," and he came closer to her, taking her hands, "Emma, you should see him cut hair. This afternoon. I watched. This afternoon he did Mr. Dietrich, the postman, the one with a head that looks like a nose. In ninety minutes, Mr. Dietrich was beautiful. The man's an artist, Emma. A real artist, don't you sec? Where else should he live?" "I don't know," my mother said. "But he's here now." "Then you don't mind?"

In answer, she walked quickly to (he foot of the stairs and cupped her hands around her mouth. "Hey, you!" she hollered at the top of her voice. "Hey, Bimbaum! Food!" And so Mr. Bimbaum came to live with us.

Until his arrival, ours had always been a happy home. Nothing idyllic; just happy. We all got along well, kept our squabbling to a minimum, and man- aged to laugh a good deal. But right from the start, the addition of Mr. Bimbaum changed everything.

For the better. He and my father would leave together for the shop in the morning, each carrying a brown paper bag which held two thick meat sandwiches, a sprig of parsley (my mother was always a great believer in parsley), and some kind of fruit. Each night they returned and we had supper together, and then they would retire to the living room to talk about cutting hair. Sometimes my mother and I would join them, but more often we chose to remain in the kitchen, playing casino, but with the doors wide open so that the rhythms of Mr. Bimbaum's scissors could come through. What they did in the living room seemed to me to be nothing but an endless discussion of head shapes, scalp diseases, and scissors technique; but to my father, there was never enough of it. For always it was Bimbaum who terminated their talk, hurrying through the kitchen, nodding to us, then up the back stairs to bed, My father would join us soon after, singing some Polish folk song or other, his face contorted with rich emotion, always accompanying himself on an imaginary mandolin. Whenever my father sang, it was a good thing, showing inner contentment. But unfortunately he was tone deaf and the sounds, sincere as they were, were not particularly pleasant. "Better he should be a little sadder," my mother took to muttering. "If he sings those high notes again my ears will pop." But he sang the high notes, bravely, not flinching, his face a picture of passion or longing or joy. It was irresistible. We found ourselves laughing louder, longer, and life was nothing but peaches and heavy cream. For two weeks.

It was evening. Roast and dumplings simmering on the stove, my mother and I watching. Mr, Bimbaum appeared, nodded, and hurried up the stairs. A pause. One minute. Five minutes. Ten. My father walked in. No sound. No singing. Walking past us without a word, he went to the living room. We could hear the sounds of the evening paper. "No songs?" my mother called. No answer. "What is it?" I asked.

"Bad," my mother answered. "Something bad." She hurried out of the kitchen and I heard whispering, then silence, then more whispering. Then my mother was back.

"That Porky McKee," she sighed. "And I thought he was supposed to be your friend."

In a minute I was out of the house running. When I got to Porky's, I rang the bell. The door opened.

"I knew it would be you," Porky said. "I just knew it." "Porky," I said, "what happened? My father won't talk. My mother won't tell me. What did you do?" "It was your fault. Willy. Some of it was." "What did you do. Porky?" He paused, his voice getting softer. "I had Mr. Bimbaum give me a haircut

"What's so bad about that?"

"You don't understand, Willy. Your father. His chair was empty. Bim. baum's was busy," "No," I said. "You didn't do it."

He nodded, whispering now. "I did. I did. I waited for Bimbaum." "How could you do such a thing, Porky? Don't you know my father got feelings?"

"I had to, Willy. I just had to. You been talking so much about that Bimbaum. I had to find out for myself. And you know what? You were right. Look," and he turned around. "Some haircut, hub?" I nodded. "You never looked better. What kind of head shape you got?" "Semi-triangular."

I nodded again. "You're right," I said. "It was my fault. I got a big mouth," "I'm sorry, Willy. You know I didn't mean anything. It's just that I had to do it. You explain that to your father, will you?" "Sure," I muttered. "Sure." We waved good-by. I walked home. I did not sleep well that night, my eyes would not close, I stormed and tossed and stared out the window. I turned on the bed light and read half of a Hardy Boys book. I turned on the overhead light and played Big Pot by myself on the rug. I had wild thoughts. My stomach ached. Twice I raided the icebox, stuffing myself. It was a bad evening.

But the ones that followed were no better. I slept little. In school I misspelled "Illinois," and Porky kept clobbering me in Little Pot. Each day I grew more and more nervous. I confided in no one, not even Porky, which was silly; he would have understood,

Because haircut time was coming around again and I wanted Mr. Bimbaum to do it.

By the end of the fourth week, I was shaggy; the lops of my ears were disappearing behind the underbrush. I knew that I had to do something. I suggest- ed to my mother that she and my father take a trip some place, any place, for a day's vacation. She laughed at me. I watched my father closely, hoping he would catch a cold: he was as healthy as a cow. Finally, in desperation, on a Saturday afternoon, I spoke to my mother about it.

She handed me a cake of soap. "Go wash your mouth," she said. "But you don't understand," I began. "You . . ." "Stab your father in the back," she interrupted. "My own little Judas." "OK." I said. "OK."

"Go take a haircut," she commanded. "This minute. No haircut, no food. Now go."