White Apples (26 page)

Nothing was. For the longest while there was only silence or an almost-silence because there was always some kind of noise in the background when chaos was on the phone.

"Is there anything you would like me to do?" To his surprise, the silence held. He didn't know whether to repeat his question or be still.

"You hate it here, don't you, Bruno?" "Yes sir, I hate it."

More silence and then, "What would you do to get out?"
"Anything,"
said the Mann who didn't want to be a man. "What happened today was very bad."

Bruno was paying full attention now. "Yes sir." "Demoralizing."

He waited. Maybe, just maybe—

"I want you to go see the King of the Park."

It was all he could do not to piss his pants. The command was so unexpected, the idea so overwhelming, that he tried to swallow but found he could not.

"Bruno, did you hear me?" "Ye-yes sir. But I thought—"

"Do you want to get out of here or not?" "Yes sir, but—"

"It's either that or another fifty million years of drinking tomato soup here."

Dropping his head back, Bruno squeezed his eyes as tight shut as they would go. He had just stepped into the biggest pile of shit in the universe and there was no way out of it now. "Yes sir, I'll go."

It was a barbershop. Bruno had often heard it described but like everyone else he knew, he had never gone anywhere near the place because of who worked there. Not even out of curiosity and there was no one on earth Bruno was more curious about than the King of the Park.

His first impression of the place was that there was nothing special about it. It had a black-and-white sign, a narrow facade, and an old-fashioned revolving barber pole in front. It was situated on a nondescript, lower-middle-class neighborhood street that faced a small park. The kind of park you see in any city—full of kids racing around on

well-worn patches of grass, climbing on monkey bars, and pumping swings while their mothers watched and chatted among themselves. A few would-be tough guys leaned against a graffiti-covered wall, smoking and sneering at whatever caught their atten•tion. Four giant old trees dwarfed the park and made it look even smaller than it was.

Bruno could imagine the place overflowing in the summer with people trying to catch some sun or a breeze, drinking cold beer from quart bottles wrapped in brown paper bags, listening to music, trying to make this little dumpy oasis into some kind of ersatz vacation spot five minutes from their apartments.

On one side of the shop was a shoe repair, on the other a dismal-looking pizza parlor. It was eight o'clock at night. The shoe repair was dark. A few dim lights were on in the pizza joint, making it look even more unappealing. The place was understandably empty. In contrast, the barber shop was brightly lit and appeared to be full of customers. Who went to the barber at eight p.m.? Normally Bruno would have been slightly interested to know why a barbershop in a blah part of town was jumping with people at that time of night. But not now. Given the chance, he would have run barefoot across twenty miles of flaming lava rather than do what he knew he had to do next.

Nervously licking his lips, he hitched up his trousers and started across the street. Halfway there he stopped because he was so damned frightened. He could see individual faces in there now. All men, they looked ordinary enough but this was one of the most un•ordinary places on earth for those in the know. It was home to the King of the Park. For the fourth time in a few hours, Bruno's bowels rumbled threateningly, telling him they were close to letting loose because he was forcing them to go into that building. Yet another thing he despised about being human—the way the body revolted against you when it didn't like being told to do something.

Summoning his courage, he continued walking, although nine-tenths of him was moaning no-no-no. This was not

part of the job description. Long ago when he had first heard about the King of the Park he had reacted like one who hears about yetis or the Komodo dragon—terrible frightening things, but nothing to worry about be•cause I have no intention for the rest of my life of going to either the Himalayas or Indonesia. But now here he was, through no de•cision of his own, about to face King Yeti himself. Bruno reached the barbershop and with only a slight hesitation opened the door.

Loud music was playing inside. Elvis was singing "Viva Las Ve•gas!" A few of the men in there looked up, registered his presence, and then went back to what they had been doing—chatting, reading magazines, catching a little catnap while they waited for their turn in the chair. There were three barber chairs, all of them occupied. Seven chairs against the wall for waiting customers, one of them empty. A barber who looked Turkish or Middle Eastern with a shoe-brush moustache and hands the size of pizza paddles gestured with his head for Bruno to sit in the empty chair. The barber working next to him looked over, smiled, and went back to buzz-cutting the head of his customer.

It was just a barbershop and that in itself was hard to digest. Brown and yellow shiny paint, some autographed photos on the wall of forgotten third-rate celebrities who'd once deigned to visit. A smiling black boxer with both fists up, a baseball player with a bat on his shoulder, a singer with a jelly-roll haircut and a 1950s mi•crophone held in one hand. The place smelled strongly of brewing coffee and hair cream.

A few minutes passed and the song ended. The man in the chair next to Bruno's stood up and went over to the door to look out at the dark street. Was that him, the one, the infamous King? He wore neatly pressed khakis, a denim shirt, and work boots. He had shiny black hair and long sideburns. He was not someone you would look at twice on the street.

But maybe that was the point: No one Bruno knew had ever seen the King of the Park. They just spoke of him with dread, fascination, and thirdhand stories you couldn't be sure were true.

The man at the door turned around and looked at the room. He smiled, rocking back and forth on his heels. Then to Bruno's very great surprise, the guy began to tap-dance.

"Uh-oh, here he goes again."

"Wuds dis, tonight's entertainment in the Boom Boom Room?" "Shut up! I like it when Gary dances."

And dance he did. Gary's work boots had thick rubber heels so instead of tap, they clunked as he moved around on the yellow and green checked linoleum floor.

The men in there all had something to say about the dancer.

Most of their comments were funny or complimentary and not one of them was mean. It was clear they were used to the performance and liked it. Tap-dancing Gary. Bruno was more taken aback by this sweet weird event than if a

two-headed Cyclops had appeared breathing fire. "Hey, buddy, you're up."

Realizing the barber was talking to him, Bruno looked at the other customers.

"Don't worry about them. They're just here for the floor show," the barber said and patted the headrest of his chair. "Come on. Let me cut your hair."

Bruno went over and sat down. The barber wrapped a stiff piece of paper around his neck and covered his front with a sheet.

"How do you want it?" He looked at Bruno in the mirror and snipped his scissors together a few times to show he was ready to begin.

"Uh, I guess trim it all around."

Gary kept dancing but slower now. Looking at his feet, he threw his hands out from his sides and dipped his knees now and then. Some of the men went back to their conversations and magazines. The barber with the moustache put in another CD. More Elvis came on—"Suspicious Minds."

"Fuckin' Elvis. A man cannot come into this shop without get•ting drowned in Elvis." "My shop, my music."

Hearing that, Bruno whipped eyes-left so he could better scope out Mr. Moustache.
This
guy was the King of the Park? Watching closely, he looked for some sign or indication that there was more there than just a barber with thick hands. He wore a black short-sleeved polo shirt and khakis. Khakis. The tap dancer wore them too. Did they mean something? Did all of the men in the room wear them? A quick check around told him no. No one else wore a black polo shirt either.

"So where's the donuts? I don't know about the rest of you, but I'm ready for my glazed." "Yeah, it's about time. Who got them tonight? Dean?"

"They're right here." Dean reached under his seat and pulled out a very large box emblazoned with the logo of Krispy Kreme donuts. He opened it and, with the look of a saint either expiring or achieving religious ecstasy, stared at the contents and inhaled deeply. "Fresh, boys. I saw them take these fresh out of the oven." He chose a shiny glazed donut for himself and passed the box to his right. Ooh's and aah's followed its progress around the room.

Bruno nervously watched this, the whole time thinking, "This is nuts. This whole thing is insane." His eyes ping-ponged between the traveling box and the barber with the moustache. Something had to happen. But nothing

happened. The men ate donuts and some got white powdered sugar on their chins and fingers. Even Bruno's barber stopped his haircut, slid the scissors into a breast pocket, and chose a cinnamon twist when the box reached him. Bruno looked sideways and caught the guy's eye.

"And what kind would you like, sir? A plain, a French cruller, and a chocolate-covered are left. Which one for you?" Bruno's hand rose beneath the sheet when he unconsciously •pointed a thumb at his chest. "Me?"

"Sure! That's the tradition here: Every night we have donuts. And whoever's here gets one." "Gotta have the donuts," someone added.

"That's right," the barber nodded.

Baffled, Bruno said, "Uh, plain. A plain would be great."

The almost-empty box came to him. The barber winked and took a big bite of the cinnamon twist. He gestured with his chin for Bruno to do the same. What else was there to do? He took a small bite and it was delicious. He loved donuts and had them almost every day for breakfast.

"Aren't they good? Nothing beats a Krispy Kreme."

If someone had happened to pass by outside at that moment and looked in, they would have seen a bunch of men contentedly eating donuts—every one of them. It was an odd picture but de•lightful too. They looked like a bunch of grown-up kindergartners at milk-and-cookie break. All of them looked like they were very happy.

When he was almost finished eating, Bruno looked in the mirror and froze. It was the first time he had actually looked at himself since the tap dancer began the evening's entertainment. What he saw was so shocking that he didn't realize the music had stopped and every man in the room was staring at him.

Slowly raising his hands to his face, Bruno touched it with ten•tative, frightened fingers. Because it was a face he had never seen before. But he could feel his fingers touching the skin on the cheeks.

"What is this?" he managed to ask himself, the barber standing nearby, and everyone there. None of them said anything. It was not a horrible face. It was not even very special but it was definitely not his. Yet he could see and feel his own fingers touching it. They felt the unfamiliar cheeks, eyes, and nose. They ran across the lips of the long, flat mouth and then a square chin that did not really fit the structure of the face.

"I'll be finished soon." The barber was at work again cutting his hair. But the hair was gray-blond now, not the dark brown it had been half an hour ago.

"What is this?" Bruno asked again, staring only at the barber now.

"You came here looking for the King of the Park, right?" The barber pointed at the mirror in front of them, toward the new Bruno Mann there. "Well, you found him."

"Me?"

"You. Whoever comes here looking for the King, we help them find him. See those guys?" He gestured toward the other donut eaters. "When I'm done with you here, then they'll do their work on you. Each guy's got a special talent. Mine is heads." He gently touched the scissors to Bruno's temple "And brains."

"I'm
the King of the Park? How can that be?"

The tap dancer said, "This time you are. Next time there will be somebody else. We make a king when we need one.

When he's finished with his job, he leaves."

Bruno Mann understood
that.
"You mean he goes back? He gets to go—"

"That's right. Life here is finished for him. We fix you up, you do your job, and then you go home." Now it was sinking in and it began to feel good. "So there's never been just one King of the Park?"

"Like one Big Bad Wolf? No, the job is too big for one person. There's been a bunch of them and that's why he's got such a scary reputation. One King does one job and then out. You're home free, Mr. Plain Donut. That's what you wanted, wasn't it?" "It sure as hell is. What am I supposed to do?" "First we'll fix you up. Then we'll tell you everything."

The man who walked out of the barbershop the next morning did not look anything like the blond Bruno saw in the mirror a few hours before. This fellow was short and fat enough so that he pen•guin'd slightly from side to side when he walked. His shoes were shiny black and unwrinkled. He had a big head but not enough ginger-colored hair to cover it. As a remedy, the hair was brushed from the back of the head over the top to the front. He could have passed for a member of the court of Julius Caesar. The hairdo looked ludicrous and generally speaking so did he. Both his blue suit and rigid white shirt had the reflective sheen of cheapness on them, not a natural fiber in either. His tie had a yellow and green paisley design that looked vaguely bacterial.

After leaving the barbershop, Bruno could not resist trying his new powers on the first person he encountered. It was an old man who had little left besides good posture, a meager pension, and happy memories of a successful long marriage that had ended six months before with the death of his beloved wife.

The new King of the Park recognized this. Even before the old man noticed him, Bruno blinked and turned all of this stranger's happy memories one degree to the left or right and made them either sad or bitter. Nothing major, because one or two degrees is usually enough to destroy a moment or a life. The kiss that goes on too long, the one word that wrecks everything, the choice of mean•ness instead of silence... With one flick of his new mind, the King of the Park poisoned most of what had mattered in this man's life.