by Jo Kellum
"I have a sore throat and I need a haircut," Charley announced with perfect diction. The old ladies cackled on and decided it was Mildred's turn to shuffle. Didn't they know he had once struck out Ty Cobb?
"I have a sore throat and I need Ty Cobb." His voice croaked in the middle as he overrode their conversation. The skinny one looked at him and mumbled something to herself. Haircut. Haircut. Women do age dreadfully. All of them. The fat ones sag and the skinny ones shrivel. He still had his hair, even. A regular rooster in the hen house.
"I have a shoar, a shoar, a shoooamm...." He gave up. They weren't listening, anyway. It hadn't been Mildred's turn to shuffle, now they were all out of order. The cackling rose to a flurry of squawks. I need Ty Cobb. Ty was a sumbitch but he knew when he'd been bettered.
Struggling up to the surface of his doze took considerable effort. The card covey struck a new note; a repeated shriek that ricocheted through the coils of Charley's hearing aid. He watched their excitement grow, accompanied by much flapping and elbowing. What could possibly be that stimulating about a card game they played from one o'clock to evening medication every blessed day?
Mildred clasped her pruney little face with her palms and conjured up symmetrical spots of pink, magnified by her bifocals. It had been a long time, way too long, since he'd seen a woman blush. What was so exciting? He craned his neck upright.
Children! From time to time they came, a school class or a herd of descendants; shy at first and then running, running to show them all what it still was, stamping their feet in the tiled hallway to hear the echo. This group was composed entirely of little girls in matching brown uniforms. Their leader, looking strangely overgrown in a big brown uniform, kept them corralled at the far end of the room, way down by the coffee pots. Children don't drink coffee. Better to let them run.
Mildred still held her face in her palms as though this was the most amazing thing that had ever happened in her whole life. He imagined her entire life in an instant, progressing from jump rope and jacks to gin rummy without so much as a thunderstorm to stir the monotony. He had struck out Ty Cobb before a crowd of thousands; a flock of brown-suited girls would pale so in comparison that the didn't let the two thoughts touch in his mind.
"I have a shoarrrr throat," he garbled, but no one was listening, not even the skinny one. He focused his attention elsewhere. Did the carpet have that same peculiar stain yesterday? He made out a lion's head and then a bum with a fishing pole. He could tell it was a bum by the way the stain slouched across the faded fleur-de-lis.
Were they ever going to make it over to this end of the room? The tyrannical leader finally released her charges. The little girls moved through the old people, their uniformed arms pressed tight against their sides. There were presents to be distributed. It seemed to take forever. One tiny squadron of girls couldn't possibly have made enough goodies for everyone.
Somewhere near the radiator, one of them chirped. And was answered by another from among the rocking chair brigade. A few peeps from the corner and the girls' shyness evaporated as their voices chased up and down, liquid notes in a rising tide of conversation.
Suddenly a blonde one appeared right before him. He blinked rapidly. She perched on the lion's ear and solemnly dropped a gift into his lap. Something made of pink and purple tissue-paper and tied with glittery gold string. He gazed at her, noting all the little details. Those pins and colorful badges on her sash must indicate an earned superiority. Hot dog. He had gotten the best of the bunch.
"I need a haircut," Charley growled effortlessly. She nodded, still solemn, as her eyes traveled across his forehead and swept across his scalp. Every hair stood and saluted her attention.
"I got a haircut yesterday," she offered. She had listened. She was answering! She would want to know all about Ty Cobb, how he had cussed and spat in the dry red dirt after that final fruitless swing. Charley roared to show her how the crowd had sounded. It provoked a spasm in his throat.
She watched him cough. "Shoar, shoar," he tried to explain. He had to close his eyes to swallow the cough. "Tiffany," the leader lady beckoned. "We're going to sing rounds in the sunroom."
Tiffany. Was that what they named little girls these days? Of course, the lamp shade sprang to his mind. Or a tiny-boned poodle with thin white fur and runny pink eyes, the kind of dog that peed all over when it was scared. He tried to imagine a grown-up Tiffany reporting for jury duty. Tiffany was turning, floating away from him towards the sunroom. He hadn't even gotten to tell her.
"Ty..., Ty...." His moan was weak.
She turned. "Bye-bye." She closed her fingers completely against the palm and opened them twice for a wave. She turned away again.
No one thought to take Charley to the sunroom for the singing. Those who were able pushed back their chairs and lurched after the children. It swelled within in him, an almost raging boil. He shook with effort.
"Like your haircut!" he finally bellowed.
Clearly and loudly, his proclamation hurled forward, startling all in its path. It hit Tiffany on one side of her face, circled her head, and went in the other ear. He saw her receive it and digest its message. She turned to him and grinned. He chuckled to himself and didn't even cough.
"Thank you," she called over the resumed shuffle of rubber-tipped chairs scuffing against the thin carpet. "My cousin cut it yesterday. It's called a beach wave."
A Tiffany with a beach wave. Would wonders never cease.
"Bye-bye," she said again.
"Ty-Ty," he said right back at her.
The double doors swung shut behind the children and the light seemed to dim. Some of the card players were still rooted in place, left behind as he was. Hard to believe those cronies shared something as identifying as gender with the children. They stared at him. He looked directly at the skinny one and mumbled to himself.
He whirled triumphantly from the women's view at exactly the right moment. A white-suited aide gripped the handles of his chair firmly. "Come on, Mister Charley. It's time for your haircut."