Shave and a Haircut

The red haze in my brain twists into a black tornado that could require a crystal-meth solution. My mother doesn’t like my piercings, my drugs, my suspension from UC Berkeley, my blue hair, and oh, especially the new bald patches on my scalp. I crawl out of the bathroom and slip into my room to toss a few things in a bag. 

I have to get out of here. I call my Grandpa Joe to ask him to wait up for me. He doesn’t bug me, except he won’t joke with me about drugs.

By the time I turn into Grandpa’s driveway, I’ve constructed a nest of my newly pulled hair, big enough for one quail’s egg. I leave the nest on the front seat of my VW, wishing I could shrink down to egg-size and curl up right there.  But I get out and knock our secret knock, the first five beats of “Shave and a Haircut.”

Grandpa adds the last two knock-notes, “Two Bits,” and opens the door, arms spread wide as in a big finish. I step into his hug, feel his thinning shoulders. He’s wearing his threadbare flannel pajamas. He points to the couch, the pillow and blanket. “Just like the old days, honey. Sleep tight.” His fuzzy-bald head shines as if he is alight from within although his forehead comb-over up could use a wash.

He pads to bed and lies down with a sigh. I curl my fingers away from my head to avoid more hair-pulling, clutching below the couch, its wooden frame and cheap undercloth. I give in, yank out one hair, and rub its root against my cheek. The feathery touch calms and soothes me, and examining the root up close, touching it, spreads invisible balm on the raw wounds inside me. Yes, I know it’s a disorder, trichotillomania. No, I don’t really care what the neighbors or Mommy’s bridge club members will say when they see me.

In the morning, gloomy June coastal fog creates a cocoon for Grandpa’s single-wide trailer on an island in San Diego’s harbor.  Chilled breezes blow steadily from the west.

The trailer sports graffiti across one side.  Grandpa says the gang tag means "Good people, don't shoot." He teases a lot.

By 3 p.m., we’re both still wearing our long-sleeved jammies, snuggling into crocheted lap blankets. We’re eating ice cream and M & M's, watching tapes of "The Three Stooges." When Grandpa fast forwards, the vcr's whir competes with the hum of his oxygen pump.

            "Should I get the mail, Grandpa?" I squeeze his cold hand.

            "That's okay, honey, my oxygen tubes reach that far.  It's good to get some exercise." Looping oxygen cords around his arm like he's winching up an anchor chain, he wobbles upward. "I get a little dizzy."

I follow him through sliding glass doors onto his narrow porch.  Grandpa pats the Buddha on his café table as he shuffles past.  "This here keeps all them Bible thumpers away." He chuckles and makes a hexing cross with his fingers. He reaches the mailbox, ten yards distant, in about three minutes. "Nothin'. Let's go in.”

He trembles back into his recliner. "We'll watch the news until the Senior Center’s gut wagon comes by.  I wonder what's for chow?" He flicks at a digital clock. "It ain't your grandma's cooking. That woman could cook."  He picks up the remote, but doesn't click it, seemingly lost in a reverie of Grandma’s chicken and dumplings.

I linger outside. Seagulls swoop over the bay, sandpipers probe the wet sand, dripping fog shrouds the trailers in a palpable gray. The sun shines so weakly, it looks like the moon.

I’m not the Great Disappointment or Susan here; I’m honey. Without my tongue stud and eyebrow ring, my face feels lighter, it's easier to smile. I walk back into the living room.

"I wish I could stay here forever, Grandpa." 

"Aw, honey.  Today's as important as forever.” His eyes water. He blows his nose, adjusts his nasal tube, tosses me a mini-Snickers bar. “Let’s play some cribbage.”  Reaching for the cribbage set, he bonks his head on the end table, yelping “ow!”

He rubs his head and looks at me. “Feel right here.” I touch the swelling bruise, hover my hand over his fuzzy scalp, avoid the oily comb-over.

“Your mom says I should keep this dang thing.”  He flips the comb-over back. Grandpa winks in collusion. “How ‘bout,” he knocks our secret knock, “we show ‘em who’s boss? Grab my razor, honey. You want to go first, or should I?”