Rob Thurman: Blackout

“Free? Why?” I regarded him with even more suspicion, the same level I’d given the deserted beach last night. That seemed to be a current theme for me.

“Because hair is my life, and I don’t want to live with you walking around looking like that,” he replied, straightening and opening the door to his shop. “You look like something’s been gnawing on your head.”

It wasn’t like I could say for certain that he wasn’t right about that. I had the bite on my neck. Who was to say one of those things hadn’t tried to swallow my head whole? And if I looked so bad that a guy was willing to give me a free cut, then that meant I would stick out even more than I already did in this four-way-stop, churchgoing, roll-the-sidewalks-up-on-Sunday town. I hesitated for another second before going on into the shop. I’d wanted to find out if anyone knew me anyway. If anyone had seen me come into town before the beach. If I’d said anything to anyone. This wasn’t home; I’d known that before … not from memory, but from the fact that it wasn’t a good place to hide. Hiding was important. Always. That was a “sky is blue” fact. The memory of why was gone, but the tendencies it caused weren’t. It was an instinct as basic as you’re hungry, you eat; you’re tired, you sleep; you’re out in the open, you run. You hide.

But I was also thinking about ghost white crocodiles. I reminded myself to take it all with a big grain of salt to go with the little bit of crazy.

It was in my best interest to accept the offer, I reminded myself, and I cautiously followed him into the shop. I sat in the one chair he had. There was a tile floor gleaming and empty of a single hair and one big-ass utilitarian rectangular mirror on the wall. I avoided its clear-water shimmer and waited while the smock was shaken over me and tied around my neck. I needed a good question to ask. So … you know me? wasn’t the most subtle. You know you have, okay, had a monster epidemic on your beach? wasn’t any better, and I already knew the answer to that.

He didn’t know. I knew, yeah, but I knew it in a way you knew a secret—one that was dark and wrong. When that kind of secret lived in you, then you could just look at someone and know if they were part of the club or not. This guy wasn’t. His nights were just nights. The glitter of lights outside his window were only fireflies in the dark, not the greedy eyes of a predator. He’d never know how lucky he was. Hopefully. I wouldn’t tell him. He was giving me a free haircut. I wasn’t going to ruin his life with the truth. That was no kind of tip.

“Um … ,” I started. Shockingly articulate, but still without a viable question, I was prepared to wing it. It turned out I didn’t have to.

“I’m Llewellyn.” Fingers tunneled ruthlessly through my hair. “Jumped-up Jesus, look at this mess. Sorry, Lord, but take a look down this way and you’ll forgive the blasphemy.” A squirt bottle was snagged and it was as if a cloud dumped its contents on my hair, soaking it in five efficient pumps. “I know, Llewellyn. It’s Welsh. Do I look Welsh to you? Black Irish maybe.” He grinned as scissors began flashing past my ears with startling speed, making it a damn good thing on my part I’d left my weapons back in the room or instinct would’ve left me with more uneven hair and a dead barber on the floor.

Unaware of my inner defensive instinct, he kept talking. “Most people around here call me Lew. But you’re not from around here. We don’t get much in the way of tourists in the off-season. It’s as cold and miserable here as most places in February. We ain’t Miami. But as pasty as you are—and sorry, man, but you’re like Cool Whip—you’re no sun lover. So I guess any time on the beach is a good time for you. And, like our tourist bureau would tell you, cold water, wet sand, and all the sweaters you can fit in a suitcase. Nevah’s Landing’s got it all. Live it up.”

The scissors kept snipping and I kept trying not to flinch when he laid his first question on me. “So, what’s your name? Where you from? Besides someplace where people don’t give a shit about their hair.”

Since he had answered my one unspoken question, Do you know me, have you seen me around before? I owed him … nothing—not a damn thing. This was my life. I couldn’t afford a misstep. But it didn’t matter, because what I gave him was nothing anyway. “Cal … ,” I said, glumly starting to supply one of my fake names, but I became stuck on which was the least offensive, the least god-awful. And I was stumped. Calvin, Calvert, Calhoun—what a trifecta of bad choices.

It didn’t come to that. Lew, the friendly barber, made the choice for me. “Good to meet you, Cal.” A hand shoved my head forward and there was more metallic clicking. “What brings you to the Landing?”

Cal was better than the full version of any of my fake names and it might not have been a coincidence that they all began with Cal. If you were going to choose fake names, how much better would it be if you could genuinely answer to a fake name because part of it was true?

“Just roaming around,” I answered easily. “I was taking care of my grandma, but she died last month. She raised me.” I shifted my shoulders in the most minute of shrugs. I didn’t want those scissors spearing me in the scalp or neck. “She always told me I should travel when she went. Find who I was besides her, hell, nurse, I guess. See where I fit in. Not that she dragged me down. She never did. She took me in when I had no one else and made the best damn double-chocolate-chip cookies in the world. But she wanted me to travel, and I’m traveling, looking for that place I fit in. It would’ve made her happy.”

It was the biggest load of bullshit ever, and I had no problem spinning it as naturally—more naturally than if it were true. And so much talking at one time almost made my throat sore, but not only was it a massive amount of bullshit I’d so easily shoveled up, it was absolutely perfect bullshit. Dead granny, all alone in the world, I was practically a lost puppy. It covered a number of sins, such as looking ratty and homeless or being a smart-ass. Poor widdle guy lost all the family he had in the world. He’s hurt, wounded, sad. Pat pat. Give him a Milk-Bone. Monster killer, liar—I was beefing up my resume fast. I wondered if it was wrong to be proud of talents like those.

Probably.

“And you think the Landing might be where you fit in?” Lew asked dubiously. “That wouldn’t have been my first guess.”

“Why?” I shot back. “Am I not good enough for your sweater-loving town?”

He snorted. “Seriously, Cal, my friend, are you kidding? There’s a shitload of crazy in little towns. Big cities can’t hold a candle to us. And that’s what I’d have pegged you for—big city all the way.” Lew and I agreed there. “Dressing all in black. And your hair, again, Lord, I’m sorry, but Jesus Christ himself lived two thousand some years ago and he had a better conditioner than you. With hair that bad, you probably come from someplace where no one knows your name or cares enough to tell you to get thine ass to a barber. That smells like big city to me.”

He didn’t give me a chance to reply, to say I’d cut it myself, or to ask what the hell conditioner was. He towel-dried my hair vigorously, combed it again, and said, “There you go. Minimum fuss. I figure you’re a minimum-fuss guy. Wash it, comb it, and you’re done.”

This time I risked the mirror to see hair that was now an inch above my jaw. No more ponytails for me. I dropped my gaze. Mirrors—I was never going to like them. As I moved my head, my hair flopped in my face like a frigging Labradoodle. No, they were curly, weren’t they? Like a sheepdog, then. A pissed-off sheepdog. Damn annoying either way. “I’m glad you don’t want money for this,” I bitched.