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With
Matthew Levin
Two men, STEVE and HAROLD, both in their early
twenties, and with exceptionally long hair
styles,
are standing outside a small hair cutting salon
on
a sweltering August afternoon. The salon is
closed. STEVE, after offering a cigarette to
HAROLD— who waves it off—lights one himself
and
begins to pace.
STEVE: [Checking his watch.] I hate fucking
Brooklyn.
HAROLD: Brooklyn? I don’t know about Brooklyn.
Brooklyn may not be that terrible. It’s hard
to
form an opinion when you’re rapidly losing
consciousness and about to puke your guts out.
STEVE: Brooklyn’s where you have to wait for
this
jerkoff.
HAROLD: [Rolls his neck.] This isn't what you
meant when you said he always keeps you waiting,
is it? He doesn’t pull this every time you
come
here? [Feels his wrist.] Shit, Dawg, now my
pulse
is gone! [Holds his head with both hands.] And
my
memory—the whole last year—it's gone too!
STEVE: Then you can still remember the last time
you got laid. [Peers down the block.] He’s
never
been this late before. He’s gotten much better
at
it. Shit, he ought to think about turning pro.
[Looks at his watch again.] Jesus, even my watch
is sweating.
HAROLD: [Pulls out a handkerchief. Wipes his
face.] I think they said last night that,
factoring in the wind-chill index with the
temperature-humidity thing, today would be the
hottest day in the history of the world.
STEVE: [Distracted.] If they did they finally
got
it right. [Looks up and down the block.] It’s
a
goddamn hour. Where IS this asshole?
HAROLD: I mean, don’t quote me on that. I
could be
way off.
STEVE: I probably should have mentioned
something
else: He can also fuckup sometimes. In fact, he
can also fuckup sometimes in a major way. There
was one fuckup that was actually beyond major,
really spectacular—worthy of its own wing in
the
Hall of Fuckups.
HAROLD: Yeah?
STEVE: He loved what he did. He was proud of
himself. He even took a Polaroid.
HAROLD: Yeah? I don’t remember...
STEVE: You don’t remember because you didn’t
see
me for a month. I canceled all my public
appearances.
HAROLD: Wait. That was...? It was that bad?
STEVE: Put it this way: I would definitely have
gotten mucho blowjobs—if it’d been 1964 and
I had
a cockney accent.
HAROLD: You looked like a Beatle?
STEVE: Early Ringo Starr.
HAROLD: Okay. I’ve got a statement and then a
question. The statement is: Yeah, when you were
insisting that I give him a shot and finally
getting me to make this trip—which I never
wanted
to do because nothing I've seen of his work for
you has blown my skirts up past my ankles—YOU
FUCKING PROBABLY SHOULD HAVE MENTIONED THAT! The
question is—and I’m anxious to have your
wisdom on
this before it’s too late, while your brain
scans
are still registering occasional blips. Do you
figure I can find my way back to the city by
myself. The “3” train, right? What is
it—four
blocks this way, then hang a left?
STEVE: Let’s give him a little while longer.
HAROLD: I was expecting an acceptable level of
mediocrity. I thought the worst thing I had to
worry about was getting wasted in a crossfire.
STEVE: Listen, speaking of “getting it
right...”
HAROLD: You’re sure you didn’t screw up the
time?
You’re sure he’s even supposed to be open
today?—
STEVE: Man, I made the appointment yesterday.
HAROLD: —Because the barber shop in the 86th
Street subway station—it’s beginning to loom
as a
viable option.
STEVE: We’ll give him another fifteen minutes.
Okay? [Looks at his watch.] Fifteen minutes.
Exactly fifteen minutes. You can handle fifteen
minutes, can’t you?
HAROLD: [Hugs himself and pretends to shiver.]
My
sweat just turned very cold. You ever hear of
anyone freezing to death in their own sweat?
STEVE: Listen. Let me tell you this. There was a
haircut before that one—and it was weird
because I
asked him for just a simple trim and, at first,
that’s all that I thought I got, you know?
There
was nothing noticeably out of the ordinary. If
anything, it seemed a little on the flat side.
HAROLD: Right. But after you washed it—and
probably factoring in certain favorable
atmospheric conditions...
STEVE: No. Yeah—maybe something like that. I
don’t
know what the fuck it was, what he did, and
whenever I bring it up he draws a blank.
HAROLD: When was this?
STEVE: 1998.
HAROLD: 1998? That’s four years back in the
dank
and murky past—that’s back when you were
with
Beth, the love of your wretched, woebegone life.
STEVE: Actually it was the day before I met
Beth.
HAROLD: [Startled.] He gave you a haircut the
day
before you met Beth?
STEVE: [Looks away.] When I came here for the
haircut after that one Beth came with me. It was
a
perfect fall afternoon—cool and clear. You
could
smell apples in the air.
HAROLD: [Stands back and stares at STEVE long
and
hard. Then abruptly turns away from him; walks a
few steps off; stops; comes back.] Let me have
one
of those.
[STEVE gives HAROLD a cigarette, takes another
one
himself; lights them both.]
HAROLD: If he’s not here yet he’s not
coming—we
know that, don’t we?
STEVE: Yeah—I guess.
HAROLD: [Turns away again. Turns back.]
Actually...
STEVE: What?
HAROLD: No, I was just thinking that he COULD be
coming. I mean there’s a chance that he
stumbled
into a serious crisis situation on his way here,
you know? It’s possible that he was called
upon to
administer multiple emergency mullets and buzz
cuts and shit, and he could have every intention
of showing up when he’s done.
STEVE: This is uncanny. I was just thinking the
very same thing myself.
HAROLD: [Motions toward STEVE’s watch.] How
much
time did you...?
STEVE: [Looks at his watch.] Twelve minutes now.
HAROLD: Considering that the disaster he may be
dealing with could have a heartbreaking size and
scale, he’ll likely need more than just
another
twelve minutes.
STEVE: A disaster of the magnitude we’re
talking
about...Yeah, I’d say he...
HAROLD: —What I think is that, under the
conceivable circumstances, we should go another
round—give him another full hour.
STEVE: [Emits a quick laugh. Beholds HAROLD
approvingly. Nods his head.] Looks like we're on
the same page now.
HAROLD: Hey, another hour’s not unreasonable,
man—not under the conceivable circumstances.
STEVE: [Smiles.] No, that's true. Absolutely.
Another hour’s more than reasonable.
HAROLD: And, if you think about it, man, under
the
conceivable circumstances we owe him that much,
don’t we? Under the conceivable circumstances
it
BEHOOVES us to give him another hour.
STEVE: [Grins at HAROLD.] That’s very good.
Damn,
I could learn a lot about living from you.
HAROLD: You know, it’s not like we even have
any
respectable options here.
STEVE: I can’t think of any.
HAROLD: [Anxiously.] Then we’re doing
it—we’re
doing another hour?
STEVE: Hey, not only are we bright and
sophisticated, we’re also men of character.
Right?
Could we live with ourselves if we didn’t?
[Looks
at his watch.] Make that sixty minutes. [Squints
down the block. Looks at his watch again. Purses
his lips. Grimaces.] Exactly sixty minutes.
HAROLD: [Sits on his haunches. Wipes his face
with
his handkerchief. Thinks aloud.] Yeah, another
hour. Who knows? That might do it. That might be
just what the prick needs us to give him.
BLACK |
