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Bud Grossmann’s
Words of the Week
for the Week of
October 21, 2007
Previously unpublished fiction.
© 2007 by Bud Grossmann.
All Rights Reserved.
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Cuffs, 2004
© 2004 by Bud Grossmann
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A PUBLIC APPEARANCE
David C. Fischer, age 58, of Fjord, Wisconsin, provided a fashion report to his friend Kate.
Today, Wednesday, was an uncharacteristically warm Wisconsin day in mid-October. I cut my father’s hair this afternoon, about five weeks’ worth of shagginess. He usually goes only three weeks or four before asking for a shearing. He and Mom have had a house guest, and they’ve been busy. My own hair I buzz down to a quarter-inch each Thursday.
When I was about 90% done with Dad’s gray head, the Conair clippers I was using, purchased new thirteen months ago and functioning fine till now, ceased to cut. I got it to work again but with an ear-damaging clatter.
Before I tell you the rest of the story, Katie, I want you to know that no fewer than half a dozen women have voiced the same opinion as you, that I should let my hair grow. Even my friend Nadine, who wears her own hair about an inch long on top, so advised me. Nurse Maureen who says “No, Dave, no way, no chance” when I flirt with her, agrees with you. Did I request the counsel of any of the six? No, ma’am, I did not.
So, anyway, needing my weekly haircut tomorrow, disregarding the tonsorial guidance of women who find me unattractive, I drove to Ninian (with my mother) to look for a replacement clippers at Wal-Mart. Mom chose to nap in the car while I went into the store.
With my customary little-guy swagger I was approaching the store entrance when a husky, shaved-head fellow in a Harley-Davidson T-shirt nodded at me and growled, “Hey, how ya doin’?”
I jerked my head back to acknowledge his greeting, gave him less than half-a-smile, and then nodded “Hi.”
I didn’t know him, and I wondered, What the hell? Am I wearing my black-and-tan ACLU-Hawaii shirt?
Except in Fjord, strangers don’t say hello to me unless they see an out-of-state sports logo or the ACLU shirt. Some shirts I mean to wear only around the house, and I hadn’t planned to go to Ninian.
I looked down at myself, and, yes, Katie, I discovered I was impersonating a manly man. I was wearing beat-up brown work boots, and camo pants my brother Sam got me at a yard sale (the genuine article, government issue, small x-short, perfect in the inseam but about two inches shy across the belly, so the button fly fastens, but not the button at the waist). On my belt I had my Leatherman in its holster. My shirt, I saw, was one I don’t wear on purpose in public places, deep-black cotton with the wordy white typography of a Jack Daniel’s bottle emblazoned on the front. I think I understand what prompted the Harley guy’s greeting.
I don’t believe I care to have people judge me by my beverages or my motorcycles. They may, if they wish, comment on my haircut.
Stitched inside my camo pants, out of sight from all but the most attentive of would-be admirers, is a label more verbose than the one on a bottle of Jack Daniel’s Sour Mash Whiskey. “Small, x-short” is one of the representations thereon. I’m thinking of inviting some of my six critics to investigate its accuracy. ♦
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