The Barber (flash fiction)

photo by Phillip Pessar

It’s been three days since I’ve been sleeping on the floor of my barbershop. Laid out a sleeping bag and my pillow from home over the rubber mat I used to stand on all day. Never fucking thought I’d ever use it like a mattress. Or that I’d see the sun rise from my shop.

Janet kicked me out. Told me she doesn’t feel safe around me ‘cause of my boozing. All I’m doin’ is drinking and watching more TV than I probably should. It’s not like I’m getting tanked and goin’ out for a spin. Where the fuck could I even go? Everything’s closed up. Think she got tired of betting on me and seeing I’m not gonna pay out. Figured it’s time to cut her losses.

Few years back, the shop was doing good. I was raking in three hundred bucks whenever I opened. Got a nice leather armchair for the lobby and new checkerboard flooring to give it a vintage feel. In 2018, the local paper voted me the best barbershop in town. Almost all my clients were repeat customers. Everything was smooth going, but then my back gave out. Sciatica. All those years of working construction, going all out ‘cause I could back then. Now sometimes I can hardly walk or stand without pain shooting up my leg. Had to close up my shop until I got better. That’s when I lost a lot of customers.

Shit was starting to pick back up and then this coronavirus came. The county told me I had to close up, said nail salons and barbershops were public health hazards or some cockamamie bullshit like that. Meanwhile, the fucking Wienerschnitzel down the street and restaurants in downtown could keep their doors open because they’re essential businesses. The bookstore around the block can open but I can’t? Like people don’t need to get their hair cut.

Across the street every morning I see a bunch of johns sneak into the sex shop before they head into work. I covered up the windows with butcher paper and keep the lights off so no one can see me sitting on a chair looking out. Most of them drive nice cars: Beamers, Escalades, Teslas. It pisses me off. They got a home to go back to. A steady income. The governor isn’t shutting their businesses down and I’m supposed to be grateful that the city put a moratorium on evictions for business owners like me?

Yesterday I picked up some rum at the liquor store over on the corner. Been going there ever since I opened the shop seven years ago. The owners are from Pakistan, an old couple named Yazan and Azari. He looked at me and asked if I was all right. I hadn’t showered in two days. Been sleeping like shit. He’s never asked me that before, so I ain’t goin’ back there. Not if he looks at me like that again.

I haven’t paid the rent in months but the landlord hasn’t cut off the water or electricity so at least I can take a deuce like a decent person and splash some water on my face and wash my pits. I stocked up on canned food so I’m just nuking everything in the microwave. The cable got cut off so I can’t watch TV but I’m using the Wi-Fi from my upstairs neighbor, Claire. I’ve seen her taking Rusty out for a walk after she gets back from work. She doesn’t know I’m in here. I’ve seen her walk past the shop like it’s a blank wall. Like it doesn’t exist.

I’m too old and rundown to pick up another trade. Janet told me I should shut down the shop. Said I can just cut hair outside at my clients’ houses, but I’m not gonna show up like some fucking pizza delivery boy. Then she told me I should apply for disability so I can live out my days like some gimp. The thing is, I was starting to get out of the hole. Went two straight months paying more than the minimum on my credit cards. I just needed to keep right and bring my customers back. Cutting hair’s the only thing I’ve ever been good at. I was a craftsman. Any man could walk into my shop and step out looking and feeling better about himself. They could tell me shit they’d never say in front of their kids or their old lady. There was no bullshitting here. She doesn’t understand that my shop was a place we could let it hang, but now we can’t. ‘Cause of this coronavirus.

I look out the door past my barber pole and see a few cars pass by. Some stragglers too, but not like before. I don’t know when this shit’s gonna end, or if I’m gonna make it. It’s like a ghost town. We’re all tourists of the lives we used to have.