The Truth in Starlight

By

Brad Wurm

Tatum, Mississippi

The door to White’s Restaurant was a portal into a time when cotton was still king in Tatum and men still wore suits to town and went to the barber for a close shave - a time when plowing a straight row was as much an art as it was hard labor. The place carried with it the legacy of the Feed and Seed, the train station, the cotton gin, the old courthouse, the old Baptist church, and people long since gone, in the pictures that adorned the walls - small remnants of when the world was still black and white. Flint still greeted the patrons with an unashamed "shoeshine man on duty" as he had for the last 42 years as they entered the place. White’s served as a sort of refuge for businessman and farmer alike- a place where time was not gauged in minutes or seconds but by worn old stories and exaggerated laughter. White’s made those that ate there think of old times and imagine that they were much better times.

Glenn anxiously fumbled through the pages of a book as he waited for the others to arrive. It had been the job of the "low-man-on-the-totem pole" to reserve seats for his coworkers at Shaw Recliners for years. Glenn had broken with tradition slightly by forfeiting the group's usual seating place in the front of the restaurant for a back corner booth - the kind that had seats that looked as if they had been salvaged from an old Buick. A picture in the book caught his attention and he tried to monitor the door out of the corner of his eye as he looked it over. Mr. Norris' loud voice alerted him to the presence of his coworkers before he saw them. Norris always greeted Old Man White as if they were life-long friends when he entered the place. Glenn quickly concealed the book by placing it between his leg and the wall and looked up at the other three men as if eagerly awaiting their arrival.

"What the hell are you sitting back here for, Walters?" was Norris' greeting for Glenn.

"Oh, I just thought that a little change of pace might be nice today," Glenn replied calmly.

"Well when you get to assistant floor manager I'll start paying you to think. But as long as you're office runner just do as you're told." The other two men exchanged glances and snickered at the boss' stern chiding. Glenn began to look at his menu, apparently indifferent to the situation. The other men sat down. Norris and Tom Johnson, his sidekick, sat across from Glenn and Eddie Reed, the floor manager, sat beside Glenn. Glenn nonchalantly handed the tattered menus to the other three without making eye contact. The men examined the menus as if Old Man White may have ended forty years of consistent culinary mediocrity by adding a new plate special. Shirl, the group's usual waitress, made her way to the booth.

"You guys have gone and switched seats on me," she exclaimed, chasing her words with a short cackle as she always did.

"That's because Einstein here decided he wanted a change of scenery," said Norris, motioning to Glenn with his head as he glanced at the day’s specials. "Say, you're not on the menu today, are you?" asked Mr. Norris of the mildly attractive waitress, as if intently pondering the menu, a ridiculous grin on his face. Norris got the usual 'afraid not, sugar' and the accompanying cackle. "Darn. That'll make choosin' between today's specials tough, then." Mr. Norris asked Shirl this same question every day and in the same juvenile manner, always looking at his companions as if to solicit some sort of manly amusement or approval from them. Norris was always careful to follow his question with a short chuckle so as to relinquish himself from any serious sexual innuendo. The other men always managed a meager laugh and smiles for the boss.

Shirl took the orders of the other three men and then asked Glenn in her usual manner: "What's it gonna be today, darlin' ?"

"What did you say today's specials were?" asked Glenn, his gaze awkwardly fixed on the lanky woman, mouth half open as if cut short in mid sentence.

"Well I didn't, sugar, but you can read right there for yourself," replied Shirl, shifting her weight to one side and poised to write.

"I know, but I like to hear you say it," said Glenn , a slight smile coming over his face, his gaze just as intense. Shirl was at a loss for words, overcome by the awkwardness of the situation. Tom and Eddie stared at Glenn, unsure how to react. Mr. Norris gave him a disapproving frown. Flirting with the waitress was a privilege reserved for Mr. Norris- and then only in the most childish of manners. In the brief silence Glenn leaned across the table towards Shirl, his eyes still fixed on her face, opening his mouth as if about to speak but being unable to come up with any words. In his effort to move closer to the waitress, Glenn lost consciousness of the fact that his leg was penning the book against the wall and it fell to the floor near Tom's feet. He quickly reached down to retrieve the book. Glenn tried to conceal his anxiety as he realized the book had slid to the other side of the table.

"What in the hell has gotten into you, boy?" roared Norris, his fat jaws flapping with indignation.

"Well look what we have here, boys," said Tom, a smile growing on his face as he brought the book from under the table. Glenn took a deep breath and struggled to keep his composure. " 'How to Drop Out of Sight and Other Covert Operations’," Tom mockingly read the title of the book. "Looks like genius here has been doing a little readin'." Tom's coworkers doubled over with laughter and Shirl chimed in with an unsure cackle.

"Say, let me take a look at that," said Norris, his chest bobbing up and down as he spoke. "We better be careful here. Walters might be some kind of top secret double naught spy." Glenn sat staring at the table while the three rolled with laughter.

"Nah, this is just one of those self-help books, Charlie," added Eddie. "Walters probably has some life-long dream of being a big time PI like he's seen on television."

"Well, have you decided what you're gonna have or are you gonna sit here and play Dick Tracy?" said Shirl, confident that she would have no more trouble from Glenn.

"I'll just have the usual chicken fried steak and mashed potatoes, please," was Glenn's response, still looking down at the table.

"The way he's been actin' you might want to put some salt peter in those mashed potatoes, Shirl," said Norris, knowing that the situation was too precious to let go quietly. Shirl took the menus, gave Norris a wink, and bustled off to the kitchen.

Glenn tried to regain control of the situation. "Mr. Norris, I'm gonna take the next week or two off. I've got some business to attend to in Atlanta," he said in a matter-of-fact tone.

"Why? What's goin' on in Atlanta? A spy convention?" The three men re-ignited with laughter. "Or are you going up there to open up a private I. business? I can see it now in the yellow pages: 'Glenn Walters: The Trailer Park Private I'." Laughter consumed Glenn's coworkers.

"No, I've just got a few matters to attend to," replied Glenn, folding his hands and nonchalantly leaning back against the spring-cushioned seat.

"Oh, is that so?" said Norris, the smile leaving his face. "Well, in case you've forgotten, you used up all your vacation time when you got stung by those damn bees. And I'm not gonna add an extra week for the low man on the totem pole just so he can go off and do God knows what in Atlanta." Norris' jaws began to flap again.

"Well, you see Mr. Norris, it's not a matter of whether or not you're gonna let me go to Atlanta," Glenn spoke in a calculated manner, leaning back even more in the seat, "the business I've got to attend to is most urgent and I'm going either with or without your approval." Mr. Norris' face looked like an over-ripe tomato, ready to burst.

"Look here, hotshot! If you go to Atlanta you might as well just stay there. At least don't think you'll have a job when you get back -'cause you won't!" Norris stared Glenn straight in the eyes, pointing at him as he spoke. There was silence for a few seconds, then Glenn slowly got up from his seat and motioned for Eddie to make way for him to leave the booth. He squeezed past Eddie's long legs and started for the door. The others sat in silence, stunned by Glenn's actions. "Aren't you forgettin' somethin'?" taunted Mr. Norris, holding the book over his head with both hands. Devoid of emotion, Glenn took the book from Mr. Norris. "Walters, you do me a favor and think of me when some wine-o's kicked the shit out of you for a few dollars and left you bleedin' on the MARTA, you hear?" were Norris' parting words as Glenn left the restaurant.

As Glenn stepped out onto the street, the clock above the old bank building chimed twelve times with a kind of warbling timbre that Glenn would have recognized as second-rate had he been from almost any other place on earth.

II

That clock always reminds me. Man has been keeping track of time pretty much since it began. The Bible doesn’t tell us, but I think it was some time shortly after Adam found out he was gonna die one day. If you keep a good account of time you can make the predictable, repeatable things better for yourself. It’s the things that don’t repeat that time swallows whole. One missed opportunity is all it takes and time can swallow something forever. We like to think that time flows forward constantly at the same pace because we monitor it, but the truth is it always speeds up when the unpredictable things happen.

III

Glenn brought two bags of groceries into the kitchen and placed them on the counter for his mother to put away. "My, you're home early." She greeted him from the adjacent room's couch in front of the rabbit-eared television.

"Mr. Norris let me off early today because production has been so good."

"Well, that was mighty nice of him," the obese, loving woman smiled.

"Matter of fact, I've got something important to tell y’all. Where's Pops?" Glenn smiled at his mother.

"He's out tendin' the bees. Let me go get him." Mrs. Walters wrung her hands and clasped her apron with excitement as she made her way through the cluttered house to the backyard, her quick, heavy, steps inducing a resonance between the floor and the windowpanes. "Alvin! Junior's got something important to tell us. Come quick!" she shouted out the back door. "Oh, I hope this is what I think it is! I hope it is!" The woman bounced with excitement. Glenn maintained a faint smile.

"Has Deddy got them bees tamed yet?" Glenn's smile widened.

"He must be gettin' pretty close- he's only had six stings today- and only in the arms and hands. They seem to like that flute." The back door swung open and Mr.Walters entered the room. His face was dripping with perspiration and was parched a dark, wrinkly brown. He donned a thick leather pilot's cap, an old bandanna around his neck, a greasy flannel shirt, heavy gardening gloves, and rawhide chaps over his pants.

"Well, what ya got for us today, businessman? A bull market or a bear market?" Eyes of a much younger man peered from the hardened exoskeleton of flesh as he spoke. The senior Walters squinted as he wiped the sweat from his face with the bandanna.

"You know that promotion I've been tellin' y’all about? Well, today Mr. Norris called me into his office and gave it to me. Just like that- assistant floor manager." Glenn smiled more as his mother embraced him, bouncing for joy.

"Honey, we're so proud of you. It's funny, though," Glenn’s mother dramatically stared into space, "all day long I've just had the feelin' that today would be the day. Somehow I just knew." Mrs. Walters' eyes began to tear up.

"Glenn, I'm damn proud of you. Now you won't have to worry with these damn bees to make your livin' the way I did- with them a pesterin' and a stingin' ya all the time. I always figured you'd use your business sense to make a livin'." Mr. Walters' eyes glowed as he spoke to his son.

"And that's not all, either. Monday I've got to take a business trip to Atlanta for a convention. Mr. Norris is takin' me along now that I'm part of the management team." Glenn proudly cocked his head back and took in his parents' joy.

"I declare! Just part of the management team a day and already takin' a trip to Hotlanta! They must really have you on the fast track!" Mr. Walters could not contain his exuberance.

"That's just wonderful, honey. I just knew today was the day!" Mrs. Walters clasped Glenn's cheeks with both hands.

"Speakin' of travelin' to Atlanta, have I got any more cards in the mail?" Glenn's tone became more serious.

"Looks like you got a couple more today. I put the mail on your desk," replied his mother, still unable to contain her bouncing.

"I'm gonna go take a look." Glenn's mother hugged him as he passed her on his way to his room.

He had resided in the same dingy room for each of his thirty-one years. A single naked bulb illuminated the small but tidy dwelling. The bed was made and a pile of shoeboxes was neatly stacked in one corner. A faded poster of John Wayne covered a baseball-sized hole in one wall. The wallpaper was an unnatural seventies tone and was badly peeling in some places. The desk was in the corner opposite the boxes with a neat pile of opened mail in the center. The unopened mail leaned against a fluorescent lamp, the only decidedly modern furnishing in the room. Glenn carefully opened the first envelope and began to read:

"Due to your lack of credit history, we were not able to offer you your requested Preferred Buyers card. However, Walthal bank is pleased to offer you a secured line of credit..."

Glenn cast the letter into the trash in disgust. He more anxiously opened the second letter:

"Cleveland Planters Bank is pleased to offer you a credit line of $500.00 and a special introductory rate of 7.9%..."

The tall, gangly, boyish -faced, thirty one-year-old smiled widely as he removed the card from the envelope. He opened the drawer of the small desk and removed a neatly bound stack of silver cards. Glenn's eyes glowed as he removed the rubber band from around the credit cards and began to count. Upon finishing the inventory, Glenn fatalistically addressed the poster: "Thirty one cards for thirty one years- and the same age as Jesus Christ."

IV

The Town Square that Glenn surveyed was more alive than usual with Saturday morning activity. Patton's Corner Drug store was the solitary remnant of the once-profitable square. The businesses that had survived the opening of the Metrocenter in Jackson twenty years before were later snuffed out by Tatum's own Super Walmart, with its wide assortment of foods, clothes, electronics, and seasonal oddities. The older town folk and those not blessed with the patience for the Super Walmart pharmacy kept Clyde Patton, the second-generation pharmacist, in business. Glenn had been casing the store for well over a half hour, waiting for Mrs. Chambers to leave. He rapidly made his way across the street toward the store as the old lady finally left with a small bag. A bell rang as Glenn entered the store.

"Hello there, Glenn. Come to get some liver pills for your mom?" said Clyde with a broad smile on his face.

"No...oh yeah, some liver pills and some other stuff." Glenn ambled to the back of the store, conscious of the storekeeper's gaze.

"The liver pills are up here by the chapstick like always, Glenn."

"Yeah, well there are some other items that I'll be purchasing today, thank you," Glenn replied calmly.

"You're not looking for some of that bee venom for your Dad again, are you? I told you they don't sell that stuff anymore. Besides, I thought he was immune to bees now anyways," Clyde spoke with a straight face.

"No, I don't want any of that stuff either."

Glenn's face grew red, feeling that his every move was under close scrutiny. He had seen the condoms near the back in their own little section dozens of times before and had often made frivolous purchases at the drug store just to catch a glimpse of the condom section. In his mind he had chosen the brand that he wanted over and over. The label read "ribbed for maximum pleasure" and was graced by the picture of a buxom vamp. Actually making the purchase would not be as easy as he had hoped.

"Can I help you find something then, Glenn?" Clyde said without suspicion.

"Uh, no...I mean, yeah. Where are those new microstrip razors like I've seen advertised on TV?" Glenn tried to amend the words as they flowed from his mouth, but was too late.

"They're over against the wall by the shampoo. We've got a special on 'em. You still want that cookie jar that you was looking at for your mom last week? We got a shipment in yesterday."

"Umm, no. I just want the razors today." Thwarted, Glenn glanced at the voluptuous woman on the package made his way to the section labeled "personal care products" and picked up the razors. He placed the razors on the counter and lamely said to Clyde: "I bet those microstrips will do some kind of job on my beard. I'll just get those liver pills another time." Clyde offered a weak smile as he packaged Glenn's purchase.

"You have a good one and tell your folks I said hi."

Glenn nodded and walked out into the square. Beyond the old fountain in the center of the square, Glenn could see the source of the crowd. People streamed in and out of the old Main Street theater. The once-grand theater's bottom floor had been partially restored and twice a year served as a showplace for traveling vendors, starving artists, and pretentious arty types from the area. Glenn's mom had even bought a hand-made hat there from a vendor from Missouri. He followed a crowd of older women into the makeshift gallery. Rows of tables covered with paintings, sculptures, and various novelties were crammed into the small area that once served as the theater's parlor. The collective reserved murmurs and lethargic movements appropriate for such an assembly reminded Glenn of the gentle lull of a properly sedated hive of bees.

A young woman sat Indian-style behind one of the tables. Glenn walked over to the table, his eyes purposely fixed on one of the paintings behind it. It was a painting of a ship tossed on a foaming, black sea with a lighthouse mostly obscured by a crashing wave. Glenn was careful to keep his eyes on the painting as he addressed the young woman: "I find this painting haunting, yet hopeful...Who did it?"

"Actually, my boyfriend. What do you like about it? I find it quite oblique."

"Yes, oblique. Quite oblique. Oblique and haunting." Glenn continued to stare at the painting.

"You seem very perceptive. Are you an artist?" The girl looked up at Glenn through a mass of unkempt hair.

"Not exactly an artist, though I have dabbled a bit...more of a connoisseur." Glenn glanced at the girl as he spoke.

"Oh, so are you going to buy Peter's painting?" The girl said hopefully.

"Well, actually, I am considering it, but there are many other worthy paintings here as well- and also some sculptures," Glenn put on a pompous air.

"Oh, I see," said the young woman, smiling and brushing the hair out of her face.

Glenn pretended to study the painting more as he contemplated what to say next. "Speaking of art, have you done any modeling before for either painting or sculpture. I must say you have a certain natural beauty." Glenn stoically glanced at the girl as he spoke.

"Well, not really. Peter has taken some pictures of me and stuff, but nothing really major," the girl placed her feet on the floor and sat up straight as she spoke.

"Interesting, quite interesting. Perhaps if you were a mermaid on that rock by the lighthouse I would buy this painting without hesitation."

Not sure if Glenn were serious or not, the girl gave a reserved laugh.

"Yes, in fact, this painting might even win a Pulitzer if you were in it as a mermaid." Sure of his new-found status, Glenn spoke to the girl in a more animated tone. "Yes, I understand the technique of airbrush is quite advanced these days. You might suggest to Peter that he should have you airbrushed onto that rock. It would add an extra dimension to this haunting, obtuse painting," Glenn now rocked and waved his hands as he spoke. "In fact the airbrush would go nicely with the textures and fabrics displayed-"

"-Look, if you don't want to buy it, then you don't have to, but I don't appreciate you making fun of it. Peter puts his soul into each of his paintings," the girl struck out at Glenn with a wildness in her eyes.

Unsure of what had elicited such a response from the young woman, Glenn tried to think of something clever to say to mend the situation. "Well, give my regards to Peter. Tell him my suggestion about the mermaid. The mermaid doesn't have to be you it could be-"

"-If you think I'm amused you are mistaken. Would you please just leave."

Too stunned by the sudden change in demeanor of the young woman to think of anything else to say, Glenn simply nodded to her and started off for the bank. Without conscious direction from his brain, he made his way through the maze of Santas made from flower pots and light bulbs, inhumanly contorted angels, popsickle stick wind mills, sad-faced vendors, and exuberant artisans- just happy to have an audience. The girl cursed Glenn with her eyes as he navigated through the buzzing crowd toward the door.

Central Planter's Bank was an unreasonably large and opulent building for such a small town. The brick and masonry structure covered a whole block and was the only three story building in Tatum. Steep, marble steps led up to giant double doors that extended to the top of the second story. A granite inscription over the doorway read "1911". Even the wheelchair lift was fitted with ornate, golden safety bars and operated using an advanced hydraulic lift. Glenn had always admired the structure and had even been convinced that it was one of the seven wonders of the ancient world by a junior high companion. He especially admired the lift. Walking over to it, he read the usage instructions printed on the side of the control panel. Seeing that business at the bank was light because of the craft show and that no one was watching him, Glenn decided to forego the walk up the stairs in favor of a ride on the lift. The gangly thirty-one year old mounted it and pressed the start button. A satisfied smile came over his face as the contraption jolted into action then slowed to a snail's pace. Glenn was savoring his slow ascent when out of the corner of his eye he saw the figure of a man rounding the side of the bank building and walking toward the doors. A small wave of panic came over him. The man was filling out a form of some sort and had not yet noticed him. Glenn thought of crouching down behind the waist-high swinging door of the lift, but quickly figured that such a movement would alert the man to his presence - just as a tiger is alerted to the presence of an antelope in the tall grass of the African plains by movement. Instead, he decided to look down and slowly turn his face away from the man in order to avoid identification. He then slowly hunched his back and crinkled up his left arm and hand in a palsied manner. Glenn heard the man as he walked up the steps beside him. The delicious fear that a child feels when playing hide-and-seek and secretly wanting to be found came over him and he gleefully peeked up at the man as he neared the doors. Almost simultaneously, the lift reached the top of the steps. The man held one of the doors open and motioned to Glenn to go ahead. Pretending not to notice, Glenn maintained his stance inside of the lift, his hand still crinkled and back hunched. "Come on ahead, sir," the man said, his voice loud and friendly. Looking down, Glenn slowly swung open the door of the lift with his right hand. Hunched over, he slowly approached the door, dragging his right leg and limping as he walked. The man continued to hold the door open and allowed Glenn to enter before him. Glenn exaggerated the arch in his neck as he passed the helpful stranger and entered the bank. Inside the bank a gauntlet of large pillars led to three small service windows. On either side of the gauntlet were glass-walled offices. The loan officers and bank executives could not resist taking a second look as the cripple methodically crept down the corridor, dragging his crooked right leg, his malformed left arm clinging closely to his side. Embarrassment mingled with a perverse sense of satisfaction came over Glenn as he approached the service windows. Accentuating the limp, he increased his pace through the gauntlet.

Glenn maintained the grotesque march down the length of the corridor until he reached the service window area. He then retrieved a deposit slip from the island desk in the middle of the lobby, careful to maintain his posture. The kindly gentleman walked up to one of the vacant windows. As Glenn had hoped, teller number three was Brandy Martin. Brandy had worked at the bank for a little over a year and always greeted Glenn, as she did everyone else, with a toothy, hospitable, smile. She also usually wore a low-cut blouse that exposed a portion of her ample breasts.

"I can help you over here, sir," the woman in the first window smiled at Glenn.

"That's O.K., I just need to fill this out." Glenn made inane markings on the deposit slip as he waited impatiently for the man at Brandy's window to leave. He tried burning a hole in the back of the man's head with his eyes like he used to do in grammar school. Just as the man's hair was about to start smoldering, the gentleman that had opened the door for him turned to exit the bank. Glenn leaned hard on the table and concentrated on his writing, careful not to make eye contact. As soon as the man had passed, Glenn finished his scribbling and made a beeline for Brandy's window.

"What can we do for you today, Mr. Walters?" the short, perky girl greeted Glenn.

"I'm gonna shut 'er down today, Brandy," Glenn replied in his smuggest business tone.

"You mean close out your account?"

"Yes indeed. I'm cashin' in my chips."

"Well, I hope you're not taking your business elsewhere," Brandy coyly smiled up at Glenn.

"Nope. I'm flyin' this chicken coop. Headin' for Atlanta," Glenn struggled to restrain a smile.

"What you got in Atlanta? A new job?" Brandy looked interested.

"What have I got in Atlanta? Well, a hell of a lot more than anyone's got around here. I can guarantee you that." Glenn leaned forward as he talked.

"Well, we're sure gonna miss you around here." The girl simultaneously punched keys at a frenetic pace and monitored a computer screen as she spoke. "You gonna close out both your checking and savings?"

"Shut 'em both out." Glenn spoke out of the side of his mouth.

"We can close your savings today, but we'll have to wait a couple of weeks before we can officially close your checking. It's bank policy," Brandy said in an apologetic tone.

"That's understandable. Big banks wanna tie up your money as long as they can. That's how they turn a profit." Glenn feigned an attitude of indignation.

"Honestly, your checking balance is only showing twenty-eight dollars anyway, if that's any consolation."

"Yeah, I didn't deposit my bonus check in there. I'm waitin until I get to Atlanta to unload that one- or I may just put it all into a good mutual fund. Retire early."

"Wouldn't that be nice." Brandy continued to monitor the screen as she spoke.

"I guess I'll just cash out my savings account then. How much do I have in it?

"It looks like $836.78, Mr. Walters. How do you want that?

"Eight hundreds and some change oughtta fit my wallet nicely," said Glenn, pleased with his sharp wit. He tried unsuccessfully to constrain his eyes as Brandy counted out the money with expert speed and precision. A peek at her breasts was the highlight of many of his paydays.

"There you are, Mr. Walters. Now you come back to see us small-town folk from time to time. O.K?" Brandy smiled as she spoke.

"I'm sure the wind'll blow me back through this old town one of these days." Glenn looked into the distance as he spoke and added, "when the time is right." He slowly folded the money and placed it in a clip shaped like a dollar sign.

"O.K. then. You have a good day." Brandy looked past Glenn to the man in line behind him, her smile fading a little. Glenn fixed his gaze on the teller as he put the money in his pocket, a crooked smile on his face. Slowly taking a couple of steps backward while still facing her, he gave a melodramatic salute with his left hand. The girl greeted the next customer with a broad smile. Glenn exited the building, no longer a cripple.

V

"You know what I'm talkin' about, Harry, - that bunch from South Carolina that travels around doin' little odd jobs for people part of the year and takin' advantage of old folks and whatnot."

"Yeah, Roy, I saw a piece on them on Sixty Minutes or one of them shows."

"Well, last spring a couple of 'em come around here lookin' for work. The old man that lives down the street from me, Jack Taylor, is laid up and can't do much for hisself and his family ain't worth a damn. Well, he needed a rail put on his back porch so he could get down the-"

"-that the same Jack Taylor that had the boy that got all messed up from sniffin' airplane glue?"

"Yeah, and he took care of that boy for as long as he was able- cooked for 'im, cleaned for 'im, even had to wipe his ass. Now he's got that boy over at Shady Oaks, just rottin' away with the old folks."

"That's a goddamn shame, you know? A young man like that. He used to run around with them Thurston boys before he got into all that. Next thing ya know, he was a vegetable."

"Tore his deddy up, too. He thought the world of that boy. And his mom was a goddamn tramp and run off and left 'em when he was just a little feller."

"Jack come in here one day and told me he'd never love again. And that's the only thing he ever said about it."

"Jack Taylor come in here to get his hair cut?"

"He used to when he was still gettin' around good. And when he wutn't havin' to do so much with that boy."

"Well, I'll be damned."

"What was you sayin' about that outfit from South Carolina?"

"They's the ones that built that rail for Jack on his back porch and charged him somethin' like five hundred dollas for it. And the damn thing was put up there with particle board and wood glue. He fell out that door and broke his goddamn hip. Ain't never been the same since."

"Is that why he cain't take care of that boy no more?"

"No, he was pretty bad off before that."

"I think they had to put pins in his hip after that. He can get around a little bit now with a walker."

"I didn't even know y’all knew Jack Taylor..."

"Yeah, he used to come in here pretty reg'ler. He used Jimmy."

"Goddamn. You mean somebody actually prefers Jimmy?" The two senior citizens waiting for their turn in the barber's chair laughed loudly. Harry Langston, the preferred barber, drew the razor away from the back of Eddie's neck as Eddie savored his own joke. Jimmy did his best to laugh along.

"The federal gov'ment ought not to put up with that shit. Oughtta lock those sombitches up."

"Yeah, but they hard to catch."

"Hard to catch? They can read your license plate on a satellite. How the hell can they be hard to catch?"

"They just is. Been doin' it a long time. And they teach their children and they teach their children. It's a family business."

"Family or not, you mean to tell me the federal gov'ment couldn't put a stop to it if they didn't want to? They don't want to is tha problem."

"Why would the federal government not want to put a stop to that, Gill?"

"Cause they're gettin' their cut off the top. That's why!"

"Cut off the top of what? Everybody you know is takin' a cut off the top of somethin'. Besides, the federal government is too busy takin care of retards like Henry Franks and that Taylor boy over at Shady Oaks to keep up with that bunch." Eddie sat quietly, careful not to enter the melee. Harry wiped the last traces of shaving cream from his neck with a warm rag.

"You mean we can shut down the whole Soviet Union and make ships disappear into thin air but we can't catch a bunch of thieves from South Carolina? The gov'ment's takin' somethin' off the top. That's all that is..."

"I haven't seen Henry in here much lately, Harry. Where's he been?" Eddie tried to change the subject.

"He quit on me about a week or two ago. Said they gave him more down at the A&P."

"Do they really pay him?"

"Hell no they don't really pay him. He just makes shit up," Roy chimed in.

"Did you pay him?"

"I gave him a coke every now and them. Sometimes set him up next door at White's."

"Henry... that sonofabitch can eat some fried chicken."

"Yeah, he gets mad at me or somebody in here every now and again and takes a notion that he's got a job somewhere else. It'll take him a few weeks probably. He can hold a pretty good grudge."

"Did Henry actually do anything?"

"Oh yeah...he would sweep the floor, pick up trash in the parking lot...little stuff like that." Harry removed the stole from Eddie's neck as he spoke.

"Next time that bunch from South Carolina comes around, we oughtta send 'em over to Henry's place. They'd have a hell of a lot of work to do around there. I heard Henry shits in a cat litter box-"

"-god damnit, Gill, you believe everything you hear. That's why you believe all that stuff about the federal government-"

"-It ain't just me! You ask anybody that knows. Ask somebody in the military if they couldn't get rid of that bunch from South Carolina. They'll tell ya in a heartbeat..."

Another man entered the barbershop just before Glenn. All the men and boys of Tatum got their hair cut at Harry's. The barbershop was somewhat of a masculine proving ground. Hunting stories abounded. The head of a ten point buck greeted all that entered, along with gaping-mouthed, bloated fish of all types. It was the only place that many of the young men and boys could curse in front of their fathers without fear of reprisal. Manly gossip and talk of politics were commonplace also. Much of the social hierarchy among the town's men was actually established in the barbershop. Good tales of hunting, drinking, womanizing, or just general mischief did much to increase one's status. An aptitude for sports or even an occasional stock pick would do as well. A hodgepodge of chairs lined a wall facing the three barber's seats and a long coffee table covered with out-of-date hunting, fishing, sports, and news magazines served as a barrier between the barbers and their waiting clients. Seeing that the man that had entered just before him went to Jimmy's station, Glenn chose a seat as close as possible to Harry's chair, without violating the space of Gill Harper to his left. Without speaking to anyone, Glenn fumbled through some of the old magazines in front of him. Harry and Jimmy both acknowledged Glenn with a nod of their heads. The older two men kept up their verbal joust as Harry cut Roy Miller's hair. Lacking in conversation material worthy of the barber shop and not being able to curse with the requisite fluency, Glenn started reading an article about Bear Bryant. He had always kept quiet in the barbershop.

"So, are you new in town?"

"About as new as they come- I've only been here a few hours. I need a hair cut before I start work tomorrow," said the young man in Jimmy's chair.

"Really? Where you working''?"

"WCH". The others grew quiet as Jimmy interrogated the man.

"Really? What are you gonna be doin' over there? You a doctor?"

"Yeah, I'm a doctor."

"You look mighty young for a doctor. How long you been out of school?"

"Med. School? Three years."

"Really? Where'd you go to med. school?

"UMC."

"Oh yeah? You know a guy named Jerome Tyler?"

"I'm not sure. That name sounds familiar."

"Well, you'd know him if you come across him...smaaaart...whoo-ouooo. We graduated high school together. I didn't have many classes with him, though. He was in all honors."

"Yeah, there are lots of smart people in med school."

"Well, if you graduated med. school three years ago, what have you been doin' since then?"

"I did my residency."

"Really? Where did you do that? UMC?"

"No, Rice University. Then I did a fellowship at UC-Irvine for one year."

"Now whatta ya do there? Learn a specialty?" Instead of cutting hair and talking simultaneously as Harry did, Jimmy paused with every question. Glenn was hoping that the conversation would drag on. That way, there was a slim possibility that Harry would finish cutting both Roy and Gill's hair before Jimmy finished with the young doctor's. Glenn tried to time his hair cuts so that he would get Harry, even going so far as walking past the barber shop over a period of hours and peering in to see when someone had just sat down in Jimmy's chair. Harry never hired a third barber after Lyle Stephens retired from barbering nearly eight years before. Since that time, the men of Tatum had to either turn Jimmy down and patiently wait for a turn in Harry's chair or suffer through a hair butchering at the hands of Jimmy. Glenn never had the heart to turn Jimmy down and had been called everything from rooster to buzzy because of it.

"Yeah. More or less."

"Rice University? Is that in Houston?"

"Yeah."

"One thing I do know- they got a sorry football team. No offense now."

"Yeah, football's not really that big a deal there."

"UC-Irvine? That must be a lil' ol' bitty school. They must play division two or somethin'."

"Actually, the life sciences research budget is about as big as State and Ole Miss' total research budget combined," the doctor said smugly, growing more impatient.

"Really? That big, huh? They got a football team?"

"You know, I'm not really sure."

"Well, I never heard of 'em..."

Harry had finished Roy's haircut and Gill was gingerly placing himself in the barber's seat, careful to hold the arm rest and placing one palm on his knee as he stepped up. Glenn wanted to jump up, grab the old man by the shoulders, spin him around, and firmly place him in the chair as he skimmed through another magazine. He often wanted to add something to the barber shop conversations and sat thinking of clever or insightful things to say as the other men continued to talk. He smiled to himself as he thought of a risqué joke that he had overheard Mr. Norris tell some of the boys at work. His face grew red just envisioning himself saying it to the group. The sound of Jimmy's clippers brought him back to the issue at hand. Clippers came just before the closing neck shave for Jimmy. He would have to suffer through another indiscriminate whacking at the hands of the lesser barber.

As the young doctor exited the building and Glenn reluctantly placed himself in Jimmy's chair, the others resumed talking. "You notice he didn't say anything about Southern Miss. That's cause Southern Miss has got that plastics science program. They number one in the country..."

Jimmy placed the stole tightly around Glenn's neck, making breathing a conscious effort. "How's things goin' today, Glenn?" Jimmy smiled.

"Oh, I can't complain. How 'bout yourself? Glenn's Southern drawl became more pronounced.

"Really? How's your mom and dad?

"Pretty good. Pretty good."

"Your dad still in the honey business?" Jimmy smiled widely.

"Oh, yeah. That and he's got a few other little things on the side." The men conversed with each other's reflection.

"Your mom doin' O.K.? She ain't had no more heart problems has she?"

"No. She's doin' a lot better. She don't work like she used to. That's about it."

"That's good to hear. How much you want off the top?"

Jimmy pulled Glenn's hair tightly as he chopped away. He wished for Harry's, soft, old, precise hands as the younger barber plowed into his scalp. "Say, guess who was in here a little-wal-ago?" said Jimmy, the pleasantries taken care of. "Eddie Reed." Glenn was stunned for only a second.

"Oh yeah? So what did he allow?"

"Well, he told us about Norris lettin' you go." The other men were quiet again.

"Oh, yeah, well what did he tell ya?" Glenn spun a tale in his brain as he spoke.

"He told about how you said you were goin' off to Atlanta and that you didn't need Norris or anybody else anyway and how you got up and walked out on them over at White's."

"Yeah, well I always said I was gonna leave on my own terms." Glenn raised his voice to ensure that the others did not have to strain to hear.

"I thought things was goin' good for you over at Shaw. What happened?"

"Things were just movin' a little too slow for my blood, Jimmy." Glenn was finally getting his say at the barbershop. Jimmy frowned a little as he started up the clippers and ran them through Glenn's hair like a bush hog. The shearing took less than a minute.

Conscious of the attention from the others, Jimmy lowered his voice as he lathered up Glenn's neck. "You know, Norris would have you back if you went in and apologized to him. Eddie said so himself."

Glenn mimicked Jimmy's tone. "When I walked out, I made a clean break. I'm movin' on to bigger and better things."

"What bigger and better things, Glenn?" Jimmy leaned over as he spoke, almost whispering in Glenn's ear.

"Oh, I've got bigger things, Jimmy. You can count on that."

"Look, Glenn, I don't know what you've got- or think you've got- but I've been cuttin' your hair for a long time and I think you're makin' a big mistake. You got a steady job at Shaw. There's boys around here that dream about retirin' from Shaw."

"That's just the chance you gotta take sometimes, Jimmy," Glenn tried to look like John Wayne as he spoke.

"Glenn, think about what you're doin' for God's sake. Think about your family. What are your folks gonna do? They gonna eat honey three meals a day?" Jimmy spoke with an intensity that Glenn had never witnessed from him before.

"My folks are gonna be well taken care of. Besides, we all ate before I had the job at Shaw. It's time I move on," Glenn said stoically.

"Well, I still think you should reconsider. Norris 'll take you back. Eddie said so himself."

Jimmy grasped Glenn's shoulder with his left hand and held the razor to the back of his neck with his right. In his usual maladroit fashion, he bore down on Glenn's neck as he shaved. The barbers always turned the chair so that the patron no longer faced the mirror to lather up the neck. The whole process had always made Glenn feel uneasy. Under the barber's blanket Glenn clenched his fists, ready to take action if necessary. He wondered how fast he could react. Each time he was having his neck shaved he primed himself for the worst. He imagined the barber reaching around to the front of his neck with the razor and attempting to cut his throat. Quickly and decisively, he would strike the barber square in the nose with his waiting hand. The impact would knock the barber clean off his feet. Old men would re-tell the story for years to come. In his old age, little boys would come up to him in the barbershop and ask to hear the tale straight from his lips. Sometimes the barber managed to slice just one of the vital arteries in his neck. Bleeding profusely, he would manage to spring to his feet before disarming the murderous barber and sending him to his own demise. With his dying breaths he would murmur "I forgive him, I forgive him..." As old men, the eyewitnesses would recount the tale of the brave young man with tears in their eyes.