Doug Allyn - The Best American Mystery Stories 2003

He jumps and spins toward the sound. When he sees me, the expression of fear on his face is very nearly palpable. The reasons for his fear are quite understandable, in fact, even logical, given three significant factors inherent in the situation: 1) there is someone in his kitchen who, for all intents and purposes, has no legal right to be there; 2) the particular someone standing in his kitchen is indeed quite intimidating, due not only to the aforementioned size and bulk, [7] See note 6, above. but also to the fact that the particular someone is, save for his eyelashes, completely bald (I suffer from a relatively rare disorder — alopecia areata — that causes, in more extreme cases such as mine, a complete ceasing of hair growth that may or may not be permanent), [8] For more information on alopecia areata, visit the National Alopecia Areata Foundation’s Web site at www.alopeciaeareata.com . and 3) he knows precisely who the particular someone is and precisely why he is there. “Hello, Bobby,” I say, smiling, friendly, pleasant. It’s important to me to make the effort, whenever and wherever possible, to be as polite and courteous as the situation allows. This, I think, has more than a little to do with my particularly imposing physicality. It is an attempt, on both the conscious and, I suspect, subconscious levels, to allay, insomuch as it is possible, people’s reactions to my appearance. [9] As a closely related corollary to my previously mentioned interest in the manner in which our actions function as determinants in our conception of selfhood, I am also actively seeking some personal understanding of the manner in which our appearances affect our actions and how these dual factors, acting both separately and in concert with one another, influence our conception of self.

“Jesus Fucking Christ!” Bobby yells. “I almost pissed myself, you fucking bald-headed freak!” (Italics mine.)

Of the many deprecatory references he might have uttered, he lit upon the single possibility that would undoubtedly cause me, at least momentarily, to lose my composure. [10] The reference to my alopecia is the single insult that, from the time I first lost my hair in the eighth grade, I have been completely unable to tolerate. I do, however, consider myself somewhat fortunate in one regard — I have, almost exclusively through both implicit and explicit threats of physical violence, been able to silence the vast majority of those who sought to injure me in this fashion. Those who were not intimidated enough to think better of their actions were moderately to severely injured. I think often of people who suffer from alopecia and other similar disorders which render them, to varying degrees, different in appearance from those in the majority, and wonder how they make it through the day. I like to think I am doing some small service in educating those who would mock and belittle others simply on the basis of their physical appearance. I slap him in the face, and as he raises his hands in defense I deliver a forceful uppercut to his solar plexus. The power of the blow lifts him an inch off the floor, and as the wind explodes out of his lungs he collapses like a deboned salmon onto the floor.

I watch him writhe there awhile, gasping for breath, trying to fill his lungs with air. I know I have a few moments before he’ll be capable of processing any rational thoughts, so I let him go and take a seat at the kitchen table. It’s a nice butcher-block set, very Pottery Barn. The accoutrements of the American bottled-water demographics’ consumerism were rampant — a two-door stainless restaurant refrigerator, an oversized gourmet stove with industrial-grade grates, a triple oven with convection, microwave, and broiler in one brushed chrome unit, all surrounding a granite-topped island over a rust-colored, antiqued tile floor.

Bobby’s desperate writhing begins to slow, and I look down at him. His belted black leather coat is bunched up under his armpits, tufts of his carefully gelled and expensively trimmed yellow hair now jut from his head at odd angles, and he writhes in a semifetal position on the tile. The short gasps of air he is able to take into his lungs grow longer and he looks up at me. I smile affably.

“I’m sorry, Bobby,” I say. “That was rather unprofessional of me.”

Bobby has a puzzled look in his soft-contacted, artificially blue eyes.

“But, of course, I am more than a little sensitive in regard to my baldness.” [11] At an alopecia support group meeting recently, one of the members proposed we coin the phrase “follicle-challenged” to describe ourselves. That suggestion was almost comic in its political correctness. The only factor that mitigated my impulse to laugh audibly was the fact that I so clearly understood the pain from which the suggestion arose. I pause for emphasis. “So I’ll say this only once — do not ever mention it again.”

Bobby’s breathing approaches normalcy and he sits up.

“Are we clear on that point?”

He tries to answer, but isn’t quite able yet. He nods instead.

“Good.” I give him a moment to reflect on his situation, watching as he brushes a stiffened lock of hair off his forehead. I wonder if he will stay seated on the floor, or get up and perhaps attempt to join me at the table.

“You, of course, know why I’m here,” I say. He stays on the floor and nods again. Good. [12] Had he risen, it would have signified either a conscious or unconscious desire on his part to challenge my superior position. I pause here, to allow him the option of the next move. He stares dumbly at me for a solid ten seconds. “Where’s the money, Bobby?”

He reaches into his inside breast pocket and pulls out a roll of bills. Without even counting, I know it will be short. I take it from his outstretched hand and thumb through the bundle of twenties and fifties.

“You’re light, Bobby.”

He lowers his eyes to the tile.

“This won’t even cover the vig.” [13] Vig or vigorish: the exorbitant interest charged by a loan shark (aka shylock; despite the pejorative connotations of this particular term to those of Jewish ancestry, it is still by far the more commonly used). This interest is, in fact, specifically designed to be impossible for the mark to pay. This in turn forces the forfeiture by said mark of any real properties s/he might possess.

“I know.”

“You know?”

“Yes.”

“Then why even offer it up?”

“I don’t know.” Bobby looks up at me. Plastic blue eyes pleading. “You seem like a reasonable guy.”

“I am a reasonable guy, Bobby.”

He looks relieved for a moment. Doesn’t realize there’s a “but” coming.

“But I’m also an honest guy, Bobby.”

Now he looks puzzled.

“What did I tell you last week?”

He hunches his shoulders and spreads his hands.

“You know,” I say.

He looks at the tile again. I begin to think he finds it more interesting than our conversation.

“Tell me, Bobby.”

Silence.

I reach down and lift his chin, turning his face toward mine. I wonder if this is what mothers of uncooperative children feel. “Tell me what I said would happen if you came up light again this week.” More silence.

I grab him by the lapels and stand, raising him to his feet. Letting go of his collar, I palm his face like a basketball and give him a shove. His body slams against the wall, his head bouncing slightly off the ecru-painted drywall. [14] I cannot state unequivocally that the color of the wall is ecru; it might very well be eggshell, or possibly even Navajo white. I close the distance between us and look down into his face. I rest my hand gently on his shoulder and whisper. “What did I say, Bobby?”