Chris Bachelder - The Throwback Special

3:45: Adam

(Carl was worried that he was dying, though he was not. He stood in his room by the door. He could hear the men in the hallway — it must be nearly all of them, maybe more — but nobody knocked. He placed his clippers on top of the television. His hands were covered with graying hair and streaks of black marker. He walked to the window, and looked out at the parking lot. The sky had descended, and seemed now to rest upon the hotel, raining upon it. The day was growing dark, and Carl pulled the curtains together. The sign-up sheet was posted on the outside of the room’s door, and Carl did not know which men were waiting in line, or how many. He did not necessarily enjoy cutting hair anymore, if he ever did, but he continued out of a sense of obligation. He put three pills on his tongue, sprayed water into his mouth from the spray bottle. He lay on his bed and closed his eyes. He should not have attended his high school reunion last month. That had been a mistake. The best-case scenario was that Carl was halfway through his life. It was alternately a comfort and a terror to consider that you were halfway through your life, but at any rate it was not an accurate concept. You were never actually halfway through your life. Not really. Not in the sense that you were halfway though a cord of winter firewood, or a tank of gas, or a trip home from the beach, or the one cocktail you allowed yourself on a weeknight. Halfway through something, that is, whose wholeness is a given, preexistent. You were always, instant by instant, at the very edge of your life, at the end of it, in its entirety, and so never at any point, Carl considered, in the middle. Adam did not show up. Perhaps the rumor was true. It would certainly not be the first time that a man had been retrieved, though this time felt more grave, Carl thought. He imagined an automotive fleet in tight highway formation, steadily approaching the hotel. A wave of relations, each determined to find a man and bring him home.)

4:00: Randy

Randy sat in the chair between the beds. The chair was now encircled by a thick ring of cut hair. He felt as if he were in a nest. Carl sprayed Randy’s hair, and combed it straight forward. Water dripped from Randy’s nose. Carl leaned down in front of Randy to cut the bangs across Randy’s forehead. Randy confessed, as Carl knew he would. He told Carl the truth about the Jeff Bostic uniform. “It’s true that I sold it,” he said, telling the story from the beginning, or well before it. And in the six minutes he had remaining in his appointment, he had other things to tell Carl, as well. In forty-six years Randy had done any number of things of which he was ashamed. There was nothing interesting, nothing unusual. Carl had heard it all many times. Randy had lied, he had stolen, he had cheated, he had hurt people who loved him. He had once peed in a bottle of Mellow Yellow, knowing full well his older sister would ask him for a drink. . If he wanted, Randy, like everyone else, could tell his life story as an outright spree of wickedness and deceit.

4:15: Dennis

Dennis was a business traveler, staying alone on the second floor. He sat quietly for his trim. Out in the hallway, the men had dispersed, leaving behind some trash and a notable silence. Carl concentrated on the hair of Dennis, and he cut well, though it depleted him. Dennis’s cough drop gradually filled the room with its scent of medicine and childhood. The smell had not changed in decades. It must be the case that people did not actually want cough drops to taste like cherry, like lemon. In the absence of much ambient noise, the smell of the cough drop began nearly to drone. Suddenly, Dennis said something. He asked Carl if he would mind trimming his eyebrows. Carl could think of no reason to refuse, and he trimmed the eyebrows, holding his breath to steady his hands. When the appointment was over, Carl wiped Dennis’s neck and ears with a towel. He carefully removed the cape. “There you go,” he said, as barbers do. Dennis nodded, stood. For some time he stared at a watercolor of horses in a pasture, as if at a mirror. Carl sat on the bed. Dennis reached for his wallet, and Carl braced himself for more photographs of children. It was more than he could handle. Dennis removed fourteen dollars from his wallet, and placed the bills on the bedside table.

4:30: Michael

Fat Michael entered the room as Dennis left. He saw Carl sitting on the bed, shoulder against the headboard, eyes closed, mouth open, scissors dangling from his finger. He was either asleep or pretending to be asleep, and there was no real difference that Fat Michael could determine. The amount of cut hair on the floor was disconcerting, unseemly. The room was a scene of unpleasant fecundity, as one might discover beneath a rock or a rotting log. Fat Michael thought it distasteful that the men should have left so much of themselves here, as if they had molted. Slowly, Carl’s shoulder slid down the headboard. He lay on the bed on his back with his feet still on the floor. The scissors dropped to the carpet. Fat Michael’s hair really wasn’t that long, anyway. He didn’t need a cut, and he didn’t think much of Carl’s skills as a barber. He had just signed up to fill out the schedule, so that Carl wouldn’t feel bad. He picked up Carl’s scissors from the floor. They did not seem like good scissors. The blades rattled loosely, and small spots of rust dotted the handles. Fat Michael considered that the men should pitch in to buy Carl a new pair, or perhaps a whole new barber’s kit. When was Carl’s birthday? He glanced around for Carl’s wallet, but did not see it. Fat Michael’s birthday was today, but nobody knew it. He had never mentioned it, and he couldn’t very well mention it now, after so many years. He put the scissors on the chair, and left the room quietly. He knew the men would never buy Carl a new barber’s kit. It was enough to imagine the generosity.

THE YEAR Jeff brought his girlfriend; the year nobody brought a football; the year Trent slept in the lobby; the flu year; the food poisoning year; the year the conference room had just been painted; the year that George was Theismann; the year that George was commissioner; the year that George was Taylor; 2001; the year Myron forgot to make room reservations; the year Vince shocked himself with the toaster; the year the linebackers got stuck on the roof; the very first year; the year the smokers found that big box of fireworks by the dumpster; the year Wesley dropped his watch in the fountain; the year Steven got so drunk and stole a ladder; the year that Tommy disappeared for a good long while; the year of the flight attendants; the year that Adam called Gil in the middle of the night, pretending to be the real Theismann; the snow year; the lightning year; the year Charles lost his shit; the year Fat Michael lost his wedding ring; the year Randy broke his wrist; the year Nate dislocated his elbow; the year of Bald Michael’s toupee; the year Fancy Drum was vandalized; the year Derek’s car was vandalized; the years that guy Danny had to fill in as a substitute, and kept trying to sell the rest of the men those specialty candles; the year the newspaper reporter was supposed to come; the year the cops came and arrested the night desk clerk; the year of the hot wings contest; the year that Robert was not the first to arrive; the year Carl fumbled the snap; the year the hotel ran out of breakfast; the year the hotel ran out of hot water; the year Nate’s wife went into labor; the year of babies; the year Gary made his big announcement; the year of the carbon dioxide dragsters.

Myron, Gil, and Tommy sat on a couch in the lobby, waiting for others to come down for dinner. All three had heard birds flying smack into their glass patio doors. All three were just praying their kids would get scholarships. The fountain was half full, and gurgling unhealthily.