Eggplant Alley (9781593731410) (27 page)

O
n the last Saturday before Thanksgiving, which was also Roy's twentieth birthday, Dad cornered Nicky in the kitchen. Dad announced they were going down to Barella's for holiday haircuts. Nicky tried to talk his way out of the trip. He complained of a brewing head cold, an awful lot of homework, a strange itch. Nicky promised to get a haircut first thing next week, no fooling, first thing.

“Grab your coat and hat,” Dad said. “Don't you start, Nicky. I mean, come on. Look at this.”

Dad clutched a handful of Nicky's bushy hair. “For crying out loud, if I had wanted a daughter, I would of had a girl. Don't you want to look well groomed for Thanksgiving?”

Nicky said, “Dad, come on. I don't wanna …”

“Enough,” Dad said. “What, are you going to give me a hard time about your hair? Didn't I have enough of that with your brother?”

So Nicky walked alongside Dad, block after block down Summit. They were on their way to Barella the Barber on Cherry Street, where Dad grew up, but Nicky felt like a boy on his way to the dentist.

Cherry Street was also known as “the corner” and “the old neighborhood,” and Nicky knew it was out of love and thrift that Dad did business there. Part of Dad's heart would always remain
on those narrow streets, walking hand-in-hand with Grandma Martini; under the elevated subway tracks, where he played stickball; in those alleys, where he smoked pilfered cigars at age ten; on those fire escapes, where he slept on hot summer nights with his mutt dog, Benito. Dad loved going back to his old haunts. Plus, they got free haircuts from his second cousin Barella.

Nicky and Dad walked, and it was not a pleasant walk. The skies were mean and gray. A brittle wind cut into them and that made Nicky's nose dribble. The air felt cold enough for snow. And proceeding southwest on Summit was to move deeper and deeper into what Nicky understood to be a sinister neighborhood.

Nicky relaxed when he saw Barella's red-and-white-striped barber's pole. The barber shop was a safe haven. The place never changed, year after crazy year. Everything was still the same in that tiny sliver of the Bronx.

Dad and Nicky entered the sanctuary of Barella's, and the small bell on the door tinkled. Nicky beheld the two huge barber chairs of red vinyl and chrome, the canisters of combs soaking in green fluid, the wide black razor straps, the scent of masculine lotions and cheap cigars. Same as ever, same as the good old days.

Seated near the back wall was the same old gaggle of Cherry Street goombahs. Nicky was sure these characters were seated there on the day he came in for his first haircut at age two. He knew some of their names—Dickie Dee and Fat Freddie and Junior, who was in his nineties. The goombahs grunted and hitched up their baggy pants and chewed green cigars and guffawed and whispered racy punch lines and cleared their throats with terrible growls and spat into handkerchiefs. Long ago, Dad told Nicky to
stay away from where the old guys sat, because “there are dirty magazines back there.” Nicky didn't understand why they didn't just wash the magazines if they were dirty.

Nicky climbed into the barber's chair. Barella cranked up the seat. He snapped open a clean white cloth and draped the cloth over Nicky. Barella, shiny bald on top, a basketball-sized gut flopped over his belt, was in a grouchy mood, which was also a permanent feature of the shop.

Barella started snipping and said to Dad, “So, Fragole, how you doing?”

Leaning back in his seat, legs crossed, Dad seemed to relax in this familiar place, in his old neighborhood, getting addressed by his boyhood nickname. He fluttered his hand in disgust. He told Barella that when he parked his truck to make a delivery the day before, he came out to find half a dozen boxes of Yum-E-Cakes scattered and smashed on the street. Nicky had not heard about this incident until now.

“Where was this?” Barella demanded, snipping faster.

“East Street,” Dad said.

“Sheesh, no wonder,” Barella said with disgust. He hacked at Nicky's hair and considered the outrage. “That neighborhood has gone to the dogs. The coloreds got that neighborhood by the throat. You know your truck ain't safe there.” He flailed his free hand toward the window, poking the scissors point into Nicky's scalp. He boomed, “For crying out loud, THIS neighborhood ain't even safe. Not no more.”

“E vero,” Dad said gravely. The only time Dad spoke Italian was on Cherry Street.

Barella muttered and told the same sad story he told the last time Nicky was there, and the three visits before that. So many black people were moving into the neighborhood and so many white people were moving out, he barely had enough customers to keep up business.

“I had to let go of Enzo,” he said, thrusting the scissors toward the unused barber's chair, narrowly missing Nicky's ear with the thrust. “I couldn't cut the coloreds hair even if I wanted to. I can't cut that hair. It's like wool.”

Barella snipped and muttered and exhaled and Nicky choked on the smells of coffee and salami on Barella's hot breath.

The door opened, the bell tinkled, and Frankie “The Pimento” Cabrone strutted into the shop.

“Hey, Frank-EE,” Barella said, perking up. He rested his hands on Nicky's shoulders. The Pimento was the neighborhood bookmaker, and he used the pay phone in the rear room of Barella's to call in his illegal bets.

“Cheechi,” the Pimento said to Barella. “I got some stuff you may be interested in. Watches.”

“Bring 'em by,” Barella grunted.

Barella poised his scissors and comb, ready to resume cutting. Emboldened by the pause, recalling the scent of green apples, Nicky said quietly, “Um, please leave it a little longer than usual on top.”

“What?” Barella said, leaning his ear closer to Nicky. “What did you say? I didn't hear you.”

“I was wondering if you could leave it a little longer than usual on top, so I could have a little something to, you know, comb.”

Barella rested his hands on Nicky's shoulders again.

“Hey, Salvatore,” he called to Dad. “What have we got here, another one who wants to wear the hair like a girl?”

“Eesh,” Dad said, disgusted. “Another one to give me agita. He didn't even wanna come down here today. I had to drag him.”

“What's the matter with you?” Barella barked in Nicky's ear. “Don't you want to look like a man? Why do you kids all want to have your hair looking like someone dropped a mop on your head?”

“I just thought …”

“You thought. Hey Salvatore, he thought. These kids. Muddun, these kids. Imagine if you told YOUR father you refused to get a haircut!” With each syllable, Barella slashed a piece out of Nicky's hair.

Dad sat back in his chair, rubbing his chin. Nicky wished Dad would spring to his defense. But Dad just sat, rubbing his chin. Nicky suspected Dad's mind was on something else. Nicky imagined Dad was thinking about this day, Roy's twentieth birthday, and remembering old days and the cake he brought home from Orzo's on Roy's first birthday; and the tin milk truck on Roy's fifth birthday; and the cowboy hat and cap gun on Roy's seventh birthday; and the Mercury Space Capsule model kit on Roy's eleventh birthday.

While Barella snipped with a vengeance, Nicky looked at the empty seat next to Dad, the one in which Roy would sit after his haircut. Roy always went first. Roy would fidget and watch Nicky's turn in the chair, making faces and blowing bubbles with the free gum Barella handed out to kid customers.

“Whatsamatta with these kids?” Barella muttered, swiveling Nicky's head forward and clipping with gusto. “No sense of responsibility.
They dress like girls and grow beards and run around like crazy people. Kids today. Hanno un atteggiamento ostile.”

“You bet,” Dad said.

From the rear seats, Junior pointed a bony finger toward Barella and piped up, “My grandson. The other day. He throws a banana at my son when he tells him to get a job.”

Barella started the electric clippers and went to work on the top of Nicky's head.

“Hey, tell me about it,” Barella said, speaking up over the buzzing clippers. “What a world, huh? That's what I took a Kraut bullet in the foot for. So the coloreds can take over, our kids can throw bananas in our face and wear their hair like Ish Kabibble.”

He threw up his hands, pinching Nicky's jawbone with the clippers.

“We slaved for them. What for? Huh? What for? What for? I'll tell you what for. So your kid can wear his hair like Ish Kabibble and my kid can buy a Japanese car. Did I tell you that? Anthony went out and bought one of them Jap cars. Like a Chevy ain't good enough for him.”

Barella resumed work, grinding the electric clipper into Nicky's head.

“This is good, Nicola. You're gonna get a good old-fashioned haircut. Like a man,” Barella said, calming down.

When Nicky and Dad got home, Mom examined Nicky's hair, which looked like it had been cut by a drunken monkey with garden shears.

“Heavens to Betsy, what did Barella do to you?” Mom gasped.

“He can wear a hat,” Dad said.

A
fter church on Sunday, Nicky lit a candle and prayed for miraculous hair growth. Record-breaking hair growth. Hair growth eligible for
Ripley's Believe It or Not
. He had only six days. Six days before his next visit to the Only House With Trees. Six days till the next afternoon with Margalo, the treasure of a girl who adored boys with long hair.

Like all bad haircuts, this haircut had staying power. Nicky read somewhere that hair grows faster while you sleep. So he went to bed directly from the supper table on Wednesday night. Mom suspected illness and awoke him to take his temperature.

On Thanksgiving, Nicky wondered if turkey promoted hair growth. He ate two helpings.

The Saturday after Thanksgiving arrived. It was the day of his visit with Margalo. That morning, Nicky ran straight from his bed to the bathroom mirror. His head was still a hacked-up mess. He hurried to the hall closet and dug out his wool winter cap. He would simply have to wear this wool cap with a snowflake pattern. Maybe Margalo would take it as some sort of hippie statement.

Wearing his hat, Nicky walked down Summit toward Mayflower.
He sweated hard. Temperatures in New York that day were shattering records. The man on the radio said highs should reach the low seventies.

Nicky knocked on the massive door to the Only House With Trees. He looked at the stone lions and the stone lions looked back with amused eyes. Margalo opened the door.

“Hey-lo,” she said. She studied Nicky's face. She smiled. “What's with the hat?”

Nicky shrugged.

“You're going to broil in that,” she said, as they walked through the big house, across the thin rugs, past the musty books, to the big kitchen.

“I just feel like wearing it,” Nicky said. It was the best he could come up with.

“That's cool,” Margalo said. She lifted her chin and assessed the hat. She nodded. “Let your free spirit fly.”

Nicky nodded dumbly.

“Let's do homework,” Margalo said.

Nicky tried to concentrate on algebra, but he was hot in the hat. The wool itched his scalp. He was also strongly distracted by the smell of green apples from across the kitchen table. Margalo was tip-tapping a political science term paper on an orange portable typewriter. Nicky secretly watched her. He could not keep his eyes on his workbook. She stopped typing and sucked on her lower lip, deep in thought. She chewed on a pencil. He watched her teeth press into the soft, yellow wood. She nodded at the paper in the typewriter carriage, and tip-tapped faster. Nicky felt empty, deep in his stomach.

He tried to say something. “You are a great typist,” he said. “You could be a professional secretary.”

“Ugh. Perish the thought,” Margalo said.

“Yes, perish it,” Nicky agreed.

Late in the afternoon, purple clouds rolled in and the temperature plummeted. Nicky's head no longer itched.

“I'm famished,” Margalo announced, tossing her pencil on the table. “What do you say we go pick up some hoagies?”

“I could eat a horse,” Nicky said. He felt hungry and festive.

“We'll need coats.”

From the breezeway, Margalo grabbed a man's corduroy jacket. She wore it over her blouse and flared blue jeans. For Nicky, she produced a worn army field jacket. The jacket was embroidered with a peace symbol; an upside-down American flag; another flag, with a yellow star, same as the flag tacked over Eugene's mattress; a button that recommended,
STOP THE WAR
NOW.

Nicky said, “Is this yours?”

“This is Eugene's,” Margalo said.

“I don't think it'll fit me.”

“Roll up the sleeves, it will fit.”

“I don't need a coat.”

“You wear a hat, but you don't need a coat. That makes sense. Put it on. There. It looks great on you.”

“Maybe Eugene will need it.”

“He's skiing in Vermont for the weekend. Let's go.”