JACK THE BARBER IS A DICK!!

In our last blog, Joey was trying desperately to find a job - with no results. Finally he is forced to turn to the one place he doesn’t want to go - Jack’s Barbershop!

“Hey Joey, don’t worry, me and the fellas are only joshing ya. Listen, I got a deal for you… I’ll give you a job, say one or two hours after school every day, and I’ll pay you two dollars an hour. Two dollars an hour, Joey. That’s more than the minimum wage! But you gotta do one thing for me, one thing to live up to your end of the bargain, OK?"

Uh-Oh.

You gotta let me give you a nice haircut, the kind you used to get. Make your father proud. You use some of that Vitalis, gives you that smart, clean look.”

A disenchanted frown crosses my face.

“After all, Joey, you’re gonna be representing my business. I got to have someone that looks respectable, right? Deal?”

He puts out his hand to shake.

I want the job. Actually, I need the job. Esperanza. Black clothes. I do want to make my father proud, at least on some level. But it feels wrong. I mean, I love my hair. My new look. It’s opening all these doors for me.

Shit, shit, shit… why does everything have to be so hard?

His hand is there right in my face.

“Um… no. I-I can’t do it, Jack.”

His face instantly alters from this victorious, almost condescending, expression, to one of complete puzzlement.

“Whataya mean, you can’t do it, Joey?”

“I-I just - can’t do that haircut thing, Jack, I- “

“I’m offering you a job here, Joey! Two dollars an hour. C’mon, don’t tell me you can’t use that?”

Now he’s really angry.

“Hey Harry, he yells over to Mr. Coogan. I’m offering Joey a job here for two dollars an hour, and he won’t take it because he doesn’t want to put a little Vitalis in his hair.”

Mr. Coogan looks up over his glasses, from his newspaper.

“Tsk,tsk,tsk…shameful, shameful.”

“Let him go hungry for a couple of days, Jack, like we did when we were kids, you’ll see how fast he changes his tune. Yup.” Mr. Krokowski adds.

“Look, Joey, don’t be so damn selfish! I know your old man is having a tough time right now, being out of work and all.” Jack snaps.

How the hell does Jack know that? My father is completely paranoid about letting anybody know. He hardly even leaves the house, because he doesn’t want the neighbors to be suspicious.

“Geez, you’d think you would want to help the old man out, for crissakes. All I’m asking you to do is get a respectable haircut.”

Tension. Pressure. I feel like my stomach’s going to explode.

“Hey Joey, Gustav interrupts the interminable silence, I know you for a long time, right? I’ve fixed your bike I don’t know how many times, we’re buddies, right? My advice to you, Joey? Just take Jack’s offer.”

“C'mon Joey, this is a no-brainer here! Take the job already.” Jack continues to pressure me relentlessly.

I’m just standing there, paralyzed with sickening conflict. All the faces are staring up at me reproachfully, waiting for me to make the right decision. I want to cry and kill them, all at the same time. Jack keeps pumping his hand, waiting for me to shake. I start to raise it, ready to succumb.

“I-I can’t- I can’t- I’m sorry, Jack.”

I turn, run out the door and down Amsterdam Avenue as quickly as I can, sucking in the air in deep, heavy breaths. The air of freedom.

THE CONFLICT OF JACK'S BARBER SHOP

So in our last blog, Joey is determined to find a job so that he can be ‘the man’ for Esperanza - or at least he hopes so. But it isn’t as easy as he would have thought!      

  Desperation finally wins out though, so I resignedly trudge into the shop. They’re all there - The Barbershop Quartet. Jack, Mr. Coogan, Gustav and Mr. Krokowski. Drinking Maxwell House coffee, smoking Pall Malls, and listening to Perry Como on the radio. As they read The Daily News, they pontificate on world and local events, the outcome of their debates surely deciding the fate of the free world. Nobody notices me.

“Hey, Jack.”

Finally, he looks up from the customer he’s working on, eyes me with a mixture of suspicion and disdain, and goes back to cutting. Silence.

  “You come for a haircut Joey?”

“ Um… not really… I came to ask if you had a job, like, y’know- um- sweeping up hair or something?”

Jack shakes his head slowly and sadly, as he continues his work.

“Joey… you know I know your father a while now, right?”

 I nod.

“He’s always been a good customer, a good man, and I would always tell him what a fine, respectful young man you were and all, but now… (his voice trails off, as he shakes his head slowly again.)

Look at ya - you look like some kind of beatnik or something”.

I knew it. I knew it. He’s mad that I haven’t been up for a haircut in a while. I bet he remembers the exact date of my last haircut, too.

  What happened to you - with that crazy hair and scraggly mustache, and all? You look like that goddamned Mooglie the Jungle Boy, for the love of Pete, like the riff-raff that’s been coming into town, lately.”

“Riff-raff”, grumbles Mr. Coogan, from behind his newspaper. 

Jack points over to one of the 1950s- style haircut posters he has plastered all over the barbershop.

“Now, that’s a haircut.”

I grimace.

“Well, Joey, if you don’t like that style why don’t you at least try this new stuff I got in – Vitalis. It’s the latest craze.”

New stuff? Vitalis has been around for, like, at least ten years. What is he talking about?

“I tell ya, Joey, it’s what all the hep cats are using these days. You use this, the girls’ll be chasing you all over the place! You’ll be the cat’s meow, the cat’s pajamas!”

The cat’s pajamas? Was Jack trying to be cool, or something? He must notice the look of horror on my face, because his demeanor suddenly changes.

“Hey, Joey, how many girls you given the old salami to?!”

He totally catches me off guard.

“Wh-aa-t?”

“You know, how many girls you slipped the old Ambassador, huh? He makes a pumping motion with his fist.

This is ridiculous. What is Jack asking me these questions for? I feel the heat turn up in my face.

“Um- I don’t know-two... three…

“Two or three, huh?” Jack smirks.

“C'mon, Joey, I bet you haven’t even got a peek at the ole’ weezer yet, huh? C’mon, I’m right. Right?”

“No- no, I’ve been with - y’know- a couple- “

“Aw, Joey, you don’t gotta lie to me, how old are you now, what, fifteen?”

“Fifteen and a half.”

“Geez, when I was fifteen I had more homeruns than Hank Aaron, for godsakes.”

They all broke up, the old-timers. It was like a room full of laughs from one of those old Ronald Reagan films.

I just stand there - red and stupid. And boiling.

I MUST SAVE ESPERANZA!!

                                        So after that last visit to the Tijeras de Oro - I know Esperanza is in some kind of trouble - I just don’t know exactly what. But I gotta do something.  I mean, I just can’t stand by and do nothing, right? I gotta get a job - I need money. Money is POWER. It’s the only way I can help, and the only way she is gonna take me seriously; not think I’m just some dorky kid or something. With that, I go on a massive job search all over Roselle!

     After a week of rejection and frustration though, I am ready to do the unthinkable. I really don’t want to go to Jack’s Barber Shop, to ask for a job. I mean, I’d been going there on Saturdays once a month with my father for like the last four years- and every time - he gives me the exact same Wild Root haircut! The same one he gives the corny Holden brothers. The same one he gives EVERYONE!

“Look at that, Joey! You could be in the movie pictures, you could be the next Cary Grant,” he'd say, as he held up a mirror to the back of your head.

Lastly, he’d always give you a piece of Bazooka Gum and say – 

       “See ya in the funny papers.”

And he and my father would always laugh. What was that supposed to mean anyway? See ya in the funny papers? Why would anybody laugh at that?! Especially, after Jack had repeated it like sixty-seven times already? I’m sure neither of them think it’s really even funny. But it’s, like, they feel they have to laugh. Like they’re supposed to laugh. It’s a fake laugh, too, because they don’t know what else to do.

Embarrassing.

WHAT IS GOING ON HERE?!

So, in our last blog, Joey goes up to the Tijeras de Oro on a Saturday morning with a gift for Esperanza, but is dismayed by both her faded, lackluster expression - and the enormous number of ladies there to get there hair done! I pass the time away sitting in the salon and listening to the fast paced chatter of the Puerto Rican beautician ladies and their customers.

What incredible drama! I become so fascinated and absorbed by the whole scene that I barely notice the hours ticking away. I feel like I am being exposed to some kind of secret society. An exotic ritual, that no man has ever been privileged to see before.

So, this is what Puerto Rican ladies do when they get together! Maybe all women do the same thing!

Finally, miraculously (after about six hours have passed by), Esperanza is down to her last customer. This is going to be my shot, my chance to have an audience with her, even if only for a minute! I steady myself, preparing for a unique and sophisticated opening line that will catch her attention. I hope. Maybe, I could feel her out to see if there was any possibility she would, perhaps - go out with me? Where could I take her? I don’t have any money! I can’t just take her to like, Jack N’ The Box for a taco, or something! She’s an older woman, a woman of the world, who’s used to the finer things in life! Ok, ok. Calm down, you jerk, just breath. At that precise moment, the phone rings, snapping me out of my panic attack. Whew. One of the other ladies answers it.

“Mira, Esperanza - telefono!”

She’s only on the phone a few seconds when that look comes back again. That dreaded look. Like she’s battling between falling asleep and crying.

“Si...si.” she keeps repeating, quietly.

She turns her back to everyone, and listens to the voice on the other end, then silently places the receiver down, dragging herself into the back room. A minute later, she emerges with her pocketbook, totally withdrawn and quietly whispers something to Lydia, the hairstylist next to her chair. She then walks right passed me, not even casting a glance. I don’t know what to do or say.

“What -Esperanza…what’s-what's the matter?”

No reaction.

“I can’t talk now,” she finally responds, emotionlessly, as she sleep-walks out the door.

I just sit there for like about five minutes, embarrassed and perplexed. I have just spent my whole Saturday here. Lydia comes over, puts her hand on my shoulder, and gives me a sympathetic smile.

 “You come back. Try next week, baby, ok?” she says, in heavily accented English.

I plop out the door despondently, moping all the way to the bus stop. What a hollow, helpless feeling. What could I do? I mean, how am I supposed to react to this kind of situation? Conflict storms through my brain waves, my gut. Who am I trying to fool? I’m in way over my head. I’m just some goofy kid. She’s so beautiful, she probably has, like, a hundred boyfriends. She can have anybody she wants. Any guy. I don’t even speak her language.

Yet, a part of me feels an excruciating sadness, a pained empathy for her. That look. That look on her face when I first came in today, then again after the phone call, it just skewers my heart. What was that phone call about? Is she in trouble? What the hell is going on?!