Travelin' Man (15 page)

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

He's going to the Hair Show just as he'd planned. Frankie Gagliano, proprietor of Gagliano Cuts and Color, Family Owned Since 1928, always goes to the Hair Show. People would notice his absence. But now that he's sitting in the parking lot, he's wavering, questioning the wisdom of his decision and lacking the stamina to engage in the usual banter about how quickly time seems to fly and that it's hard to believe it's been a year since the last Hair Show. And, of course, he no sooner picks up his badge when he finds himself face-to-face with Beppe Lopato, his nemesis back at South Philadelphia Beauty Academy, who's wearing a pair of snug, crotch-grabbing jeans and looking like he subsists on steroids and nutritional supplements. Beppe strikes a pose, giving Frankie a dramatic once-over. Frankie feels the perspiration dripping from his armpits, fearing guilt is written all over his face. Even a Neanderthal like Beppe Lopato can see it.

“I hope the other guy looks worse.”

The swelling has subsided and the bruises are fading, more yellow than purple and green. The cut on Frankie's lip hasn't completely healed. He'd considered covering the damage with make-up, a little foundation, something subtle of course. But in the end he decided to show himself to the world and resort to the tale of an errant taxi running a red light if anyone asked.

“It's very butch. I like it!”

Frankie doubts his sincerity. Beppe, one of those unfortunate Sicilians who resembles the Missing Link in a Time-Life series on the History of Man, has always been envious of Frankie's blue eyes and fine features. He'd mocked Frankie in beauty school, calling him Fabian after the baby-faced erstwhile teen idol from South Philadelphia.

“Are you doing Paul Mitchell? I'm headed over to the booth. Walk with me, Frankie, and let's catch up,” he says, obviously curious about who's been using Frankie as a punching bag.

An internationally renowned expert on color application is lecturing in ten minutes and Beppe wants to get a good seat. Frankie begs off, saying he's signed up for the extensions demonstration at the Matrix exhibit. They part ways, air-kissing, swearing to have lunch or cocktails soon, a promise made and broken every year. Frankie wanders from booth to booth over two acres of concrete floor, from Healing Haircare to Naturceuticals to Satin Smooth Full Body Waxing. His mind is distracted. Nothing registers. He needs to sit for a few minutes, and the
Be a Color Artist, Not a Color Chartist
presentation is as good a place as any.

It's still 1983 here at the Valley Forge Convention Center Hair Show and Michael Jackson has never gone out of fashion. Over the years, Frankie's seen thousands of stylists choreograph their presentations to “Beat It” and “Rock with You.” The kid on stage is shimmying and shaking to “Wanna Be Startin' Somethin',” brandishing a pair of shears and a can of hairspray like he's headed for a high noon showdown. The boy wasn't even born when
Thriller
topped the charts and wouldn't recognize the King of Pop in a picture taken when he still had his own nose. It's exhausting watching him multitask up there, demonstrating a revolutionary new color system while auditioning for
Dancing with the Stars.
Frankie's seen enough and trudges back onto the exhibit floor
.

He's restless, living on caffeine. He's barely slept since he flushed the Ambien down the toilet, a terrible mistake. Those pills were his opportunity to take the easy way out. It was a rash decision he deeply regrets, leaving him to choose one of the more grisly, and likely more painful, alternatives, any of which is still less terrifying than the possibility of being confined behind bars for the rest of his life, spending the next two or three decades as a caged animal.

An army of bitter and burnt-out old stylists flocks to him, sensing fresh prey. They harangue him with brochures and order forms and discount coupons for the products they're hawking. He'd had the good sense to hide the color-coded ID badge identifying him as a PROPRIETOR in his pocket, but they're still circling him like vultures descending on fresh carrion, their instincts sensing he's a salon owner with a shop to stock and inventory to replenish.

“Francis Rocco Gagliano. You get more gorgeous every year. And that black eye is
sooo
sexy!”

He's staring into a blank slate of chemically-induced preternatural youthfulness. He loves her cut though, a no-nonsense
Klute
-era Jane Fonda shag that looks shockingly hip and contemporary
.

“It's me, Estelle Prince!”

“Oh my God. What's the matter with me?” he apologizes, though she's been remodeled beyond recognition. “You look incredible.”

She assumes he means it as a compliment. Parts of her face, the moving ones, seem to be made of putty. She seems perpetually startled, a talking wax doll who's been zapped by a stun gun. She babbles on, much ado about nothing, and he shakes his head in agreement though his mind is elsewhere and he doesn't hear a word she says. He knows now it was a mistake coming here. They'll all agree in hindsight he was acting strange at the Hair Show. Most people will say they didn't know he had it in him. A few will claim the news came as no surprise.
He wouldn't look me in the eye now that I think about it. It's a damn shame, but what can you expect if you get mixed up with those kinds of people?
But he foolishly agrees to join Estelle for a glass of wine after the
Beyond Basic Foiling
presentation. They embrace, promising to meet in forty-five minutes. He waits until she disappears into the crowd and turns towards the exit, attempting a quick getaway, and nearly collides with the young woman who steps in front of him, blocking his way.

“You cannot say no. I'm going to make you an offer you can't refuse.”

She's the very model of scientific efficiency, dressed in a crisp, white lab coat, cradling a clipboard in the crook of her elbow. She's wearing
I-mean-business
eyeglasses, the tortoise frames suggesting the serious dignity of a wise owl; her hair is pulled back in a ponytail with a few tendrils liberated to flatter the strong cheekbones of her lovely face.

“You get a fifty dollar honorarium and a sample selection of our top-of-the-line hair products. And you'll leave the show today a new man with a brand new look. Satisfaction guaranteed.”

He's about to politely decline her generous offer when she introduces him to the stylist, licensed as both a barber
and
a cosmetologist, an expert, she assures him, in both professions. Vince is his name and his Clubman Classic aftershave, crisp, antiseptic, is vintage 1967, the year Frankie's Papa put his seven-year-old son to work sweeping clippings from the barbershop floor and emptying ashtrays heaped with smoldering cigarette butts. His younger brother Michael had resented being conscripted into Papa's labor force as soon as he was tall enough to push a broom, but Frankie never minded. He would linger in the shop after his chores were done, too young yet to understand why he was drawn to the longshoremen and refinery workers who sat flipping through ancient issues of
Sports Illustrated
and
Car and Driver
, crossing and uncrossing their legs with casual grace as they waited their turn in the barber chair. Their loud, deep voices would rumble through the shop as they argued about sports and politics. They called him Little Pitcher, a reminder that certain language wasn't meant to be overheard by Big Ears, and teased him about his long eyelashes and wavy blonde hair, saying it was a shame Frankie hadn't been born a girl, all those good looks going to waste on a boy. Forty years later, he's still aroused by the memory of their unfiltered Pall Malls, the Chock Full o'Nuts on their breath, and the Brylcreem they used to landscape their hair.

“You game, my friend?” Vince asks. “Feeling brave today?”

He's neither short nor tall, broad through the shoulders and barrel-chested. He's thick around the waist, not quite potbellied, certainly not sloppy but carrying a few extra pounds; his loose Hawaiian shirt, a relatively sedate design of bright green palm leafs on a navy background, is a generous fit. His forearms are sturdy, built for heavier labor than barbering, and dusted with a fine spray of sun-bleached hair. The visible tattoos are Navy port-of-call vintage, clearly not the handiwork of a punk rock skin art boutique. He's wearing Levi 505s, full cut, and Sketchers, probably with inserts for extra support. He's a man who's clearly comfortable in his own skin. His blunt, still handsome face is branded with a raised flaming red scar from his right ear lobe to the corner of his mouth, a warning he's a man with a past: mysterious, dark, dangerous, the survivor of a bar fight or a prison term in the Big House or a tour of duty in the first Gulf War.

For all his foreboding appearance, Vince is a friendly enough guy, approachable. He tells Frankie he has fifteen years' experience cutting hair and owns a small shop in Johnstown, Pennsylvania, where he makes a good living doing volume in ten dollar haircuts. He recently moved in with a “special lady” he met in his motorcycle club and he's paying to put her through beauty school. He suggests a much shorter cut for Frankie, to give him a more masculine look. He'll try a fade on his neck and up the sides, something that won't need any upkeep or grooming. He'd like to bring a little color back, nothing terribly dramatic. He suggests they try a Number Two solution for a natural looking blend.

“Get ready to rock and roll!” Vince says as he leads Frankie to the chair.

His gruff but soothing voice preaches the gospel of men's styling as a life raft in tough economic times to a rapt audience gathered for the demonstration on his willing guinea pig.
Do the math: more potential bookings per week, none longer than twenty minutes and most of them in and out in ten, more visits per year, every two weeks for most men, none less frequent than monthly. Pay close attention now,
he cautions, demonstrating the most effective way to use a number one guard on his clippers while eulogizing the dying art of scissors-over-comb. He promises his skeptical audience the product he's about to demonstrate will break the final barrier of a guy's reluctance to color his hair.
It's a simple shampoo, leave it in five minutes, a quick wash and they're out the door. The construction workers or long-distance haulers who come into my shop wouldn't be caught dead under the dryer.

Frankie surrenders to the strong hands massaging his scalp. Vince lowers the chair to rinse his hair with warm water and briskly dries it with a barber towel.

“So there you have it. A fresh new look in nineteen minutes.”

The audience approves of the results, nodding and throwing a thumb's up.

“So whaddaya think?” Vince asks, spinning the styling chair so Frankie can face himself in the mirror.

He's showing more skin than he expected, especially in the close-cropped area above his ears. He likes the cut; it's a clean look, almost military. And the color is soft and natural, even to his critical professional eye.

“Happy?” Vince asks.

“Very.”

“Thank you, brother. Don't forget to pick up your free sample bag,” he says as he shakes his hand and quickly dismisses him, turning to introduce himself to his next challenge, a faux-skateboarder/ bike messenger with spiky extensions who's about to be transformed into G.I. Joe. Frankie tosses the bag into the nearest trashcan as he walks to the exit. What difference does it make if his earthly remains look ten, maybe fifteen, years younger than his forty-eight years? No one's ever going to see them. It's not as if he's going to leave a pretty corpse suitable for display in an open casket.

There are ways to do it that would be less traumatic for his brother Michael than needing to identify whatever gruesome pieces are left on the railroad tracks. An overdose would have been calm and peaceful, but his internist won't refill the Ambien and the Ativan. She suspects he's abusing since she called in a month's worth just last week. Swallowing a bottle of an over-the-counter drug wouldn't be lethal and he could end up in the ED having his stomach pumped. He doesn't own a gun and his hands would shake too badly to attempt slitting his wrists. Drowning would be painless but those few moments before he lost consciousness would feel like an eternity, enough time to regret what he's powerless to reverse as his lungs filled with water. Same problem with jumping off a building: He doesn't want his life passing before his eyes as he falls twenty stories. He'd considered hanging himself until he realized he would strangle to death, gasping for breath, if the rope didn't break his neck.

He's considered all the alternatives and the swiftest, most efficient way to do this is to step into the path of an approaching train. He'll leave the car in the wasteland of cargo terminals and storage units surrounding the airport and walk to the railroad tracks with his iPod set at maximum volume, Stevie's magical voice singing “Rhiannon” and “Gold Dust Woman” the last sounds he wants to hear as he leaves this earth. In a few hours he'll know whether there's a heaven waiting to welcome him or a hell to which he'll be condemned for taking his own life or if it's all just a black nothing. He's collected all of the official documents Michael will need to put his affairs in order – his will, the deed to the building, the insurance policies, the numbers of his various bank accounts. They'll find his wallet with all his I.D. on the driver's seat of the abandoned car. This morning he locked the doors of the home he's lived in his entire life for the very last time. He didn't leave a note. His reason will be obvious. Not immediately, but soon enough.