Vanity Insanity (23 page)

The woman I’d had a lifelong crush on was telling me I owed her something. Wow. Whatever I owed her, I was heading to the bank for a loan if I needed one. I tried to think about what I owed Faith Webber while most of the crowd moved back into the building. A favor? A haircut? Money? Maybe I really owed her money.

“I do?” I pulled out my wallet, attempting to look entertaining. “How much do I owe you?”

Faith put her hand on my shoulder, stood on her toes, and kissed me. I was rattled by the sneak attack, but it took me exactly a fifth of a second to kiss her back. We kissed for a long time—a really long time—even after the fire trucks pulled away.

Faith laughed as she came down from her tiptoes and pulled away to look at me. “Do you know why you owed me that kiss?”

“It doesn’t really matter. I believe you.”

“Spin the bottle? Under the branches of Satch on Maple Crest? Is it coming back to you?”

I shook my head and smiled. I hadn’t thought about the gigantic tree in years. I’m sure it was still protecting animals and lost toys from our childhood. I remembered the day under the tree when I’d been mesmerized by Faith. I couldn’t remember at the time who’d dared me to kiss her.

“I saved you, Ben. The look on your face told me that you weren’t ready to handle the dare that day.”

“I handled it pretty well tonight,” I defended myself.

Faith and I walked back into the reception, her hand holding mine. Not a date, but we hung out the rest of the evening. By the end of the night, everyone looked overheated and happy, dancing every dance, eating and drinking plenty. At one point, I remember seeing Tom Ducey talking to one of the band members and moments later taking a microphone out in front of the band. In 1985, Tom’s beer belly had made a debut, and though he still had plenty of hair, his hairline was starting to creep, slightly but noticeably, back onto his head. On the stage that night, he held the microphone and a cigarette in one hand and a plastic cup filled with beer in the other. Tom Ducey, sweat dripping from both sides of his face, shirt untucked, jacket and bow tie long gone, smiled the most awesome grin as the band stopped playing.

“Hey!” he said as he looked through the crowd, looking for his little vanilla-frosted cupcake. He spotted Lucy talking to a group of guests at a table. He nodded to the band, and they began music to a song that I’ve never heard until that night but have never forgotten since that day.

In a voice that swooned like the great ones, Tom Ducey belted out a spectacular rendition of Bobby Darin’s song “More.” The crowd took note of the singer on stage and started laughing when Lucy glanced up to see Tom point at her with his beer in hand.

This guy must have really loved this girl. He’d married her on a football Saturday during his final year of law school because that was what she wanted. He’d followed all of her plans and then, knowing exactly who Lucy was, topped her perfectly planned day with something that every woman in the hall that night secretly wished would happen to her. Little Miss Perfect Planner had had her hands on every decision that day except this one, and the surprise bought her hands to her cheeks and tears to her eyes. Tom had surpassed her plans and dreams of the perfect wedding.

The older guests liked the performance as they smiled at singing groom, and the crowd starting swaying at that moment. In between lyrics, Tom shouted out, “This is all about you, Lucy Ducey!” I looked around the faces in the room and found Marty, smiling with all her might. A.C. wasn’t far behind her, clapping with the group, a serene look on his face. For anyone enduring a broken heart, a wedding would have to be a huge bummer. I think the temptation would be to oscillate between wanting to cry out loud for your lost love and laugh out loud in mockery of what you doubted could ever be real. A.C. and Marty did their best, hanging on the edge of faith—faith in love, faith in believing that goodness prevails when you feel so rotten.

Theresa caught my eye as she leaned against Michael, the two watching Tom sing. She put her finger to her lips in the international sign for “remember the secret.” I could see that the night had temporarily allowed Theresa to forget about her friend Kathryn, who would probably never have an evening like Lucy was having.

I swear Tom held that last note for over a minute as the crowd cheered. He then quickly chugged his beer, watching Lucy come toward him from across the room. As Lucy Ducey hugged her husband, I felt Faith’s hand on my arm. I looked at Faith as she watched Lucy and Tom and wondered if tomorrow I would find this unusual connection had been only a dream.

Later that night, as I put my hands into my pocket for a bartender tip, I felt the rosary beads and Jenae’s note about Octavia’s request. I had taken everything out of my work pants and put it into my tux pockets before heading to the church. I needed to connect with Lucy about her flowers before she took off that October night in 1985.

In Omaha in 1985, my clients were talking about Enron, a result of Houston Natural Gas merging with InterNorth, which had brought many job opportunities for Omaha. In the same breath, Warren Buffett predicted that recent gains in the market would not be sustainable; he knew his stuff, as a stock-market crash was less than two years away. The Huskers finished the game that evening with a 34–24 win against Oklahoma State. We ended up being ranked 11
^th
after the bowl games. Sting released
The Dream of the Blue Turtles
, his first solo album only a year after the Police had unofficially broken up.

While the Huskers, Sting, and Buffett were busy, Lucy Mangiamelli of Omaha, Nebraska, became Lucy Ducey. Her bridesmaids’ dresses did not look like overly frosted cupcakes. Faith Webber promised to send me postcards through her world tour. A young and beautiful woman planned an imaginary wine-and-cheese party in a psych unit, and Ben Keller received his first rosary gift, bringing his rosary collection to a total of one.

The next Monday, some poor guy would have the send-off of all send-offs at Saint Patrick’s church with Lucy’s wedding roses all around.

Oh, and in 1985, author Bill Bryson received an invitation to Omaha on a beautiful fall day.

Anytime, buddy, anytime.

19

Mac: Just a Trim

Saturday, November 21

1987

W
hen Grandpa Mac stepped into my place in the Old Market that Saturday in 1987, he looked the entire room over with a smile, nodding his head the whole time. Mom had continued cutting his hair at home the past few years, where he claimed that he felt a little more comfortable. He would always ask me how the new place was, but he took his time making his way downtown for a haircut. I had just recently paid off my loan to him—surprising myself and everyone who knew how quickly I was able to do so—which must have prompted him to make a trip to the no-longer-new place and take a look at the business enterprise that I had made work.

The staff hustled around him setting up for the day as Mac walked in and placed his hand on the old Union Pacific desk. George Michael’s voice sang about “Faith” over the sound system. Mac ran his hand slowly along the side of the wood and said, “Ben, you did it. You really did it.”
More nodding as he walked to the pink chair that he recognized from Mom’s shop. Of course, Mac would be positive. That’s how he always was. I looked into his eyes as he looked at the high brick wall, hoping to grasp the heart of his response.

“You’re a real fine worker, Ben. Marcia told me the place looked great, but oh…you did a fine job.” Mac sat in the chair as I placed the apron around him and tried to make mirror direct eye contact with him.

What Mac thought of Vanity Insanity meant a lot to me. My whole life, I had gone to him for advice on problems and plans. His wisdom and patience had been my anchor. I remember as a kid going with my mother and sisters to his retirement luncheon down at the Union Pacific. I sat right next to him, and he introduced me to everyone as Ben. Just Ben. Not as grandson. I pretended that I was his son, that he was my father. I savored that whole afternoon.

I needed to know what Mac really thought of the place.

“But what?” I asked, not in defense but with curiosity.

“But what? I didn’t say ‘but.’” Mac looked at me in the mirror with his cool, blue eyes edged with deep, well-earned smile lines.

“No, but I know you, Mac. But what?”

Mac paused and then grinned and shook his head. “The name, Ben. I just don’t get it. What does Vanity Insanity mean? What’s wrong with Ben’s? That’s what a guy called a barbershop when I was growing up. I always knew what Frankie’s meant? I just…”

I started laughing before he could finish. Mac wasn’t judging me for being a man owning a salon. He wasn’t wondering why I’d opened up a business that focused on people’s looks every day. He just didn’t get the name. Vanity Insanity.

“Crazy, isn’t it? I guess because it’s not a barbershop. I have to give A.C. the credit or blame here. He came up with the name. I couldn’t think of anything catchy…and I guess that’s what works in this business. Something catchy. It’s A.C.’s fault.” I smiled at Mac in the mirror as I picked up a comb and sheers.

“A.C.’s fault. I could see that…” Mac grinned.

“Kind of a gimmick. A name just has to stand out when you’re competing with a town filled with a bunch of other places where you could run in and get a haircut. If you think about it, people spend an awful lot of the waking day thinking about their hair…It’s kind of crazy…Get it now?”

“Sounds like you have it figured out. It works for me if it works for you. I still like Ben’s better.” He winked. “So how are A.C. and the kids from the old neighborhood? You ever see any of them?”

I walked to the back room to turn on the Husker pregame program on the radio. “Mostly A.C., Lucy, Hope, and a few others who come in for appointments. You ready for the game, Mac? I don’t know why, but I think we’re gonna thump Oklahoma today.”

Oklahoma was not a rival to the Huskers in the eighties. Oklahoma was
the
rival. If a Husker Saturday felt like Christmas to me, then a victory against Oklahoma felt like the Christmas that you got the exact red bike you had asked for. We loved beating Oklahoma.

Lucy had a cousin—Sissy or Cici or something like that—who sometimes visited from Cincinnati. That Ohio girl would always say that she liked visiting us all here in Oklahoma. Four kids on Maple Crest would correct her at once.

“Nebraska! Not Oklahoma!”

“Omaha sounds like Oklahoma. What’s the difference? Your states all blend together to me.”

“Big difference! Those are fightin’ words, lady,” Stinky Morrow scolded her. “
They
are the Oklahoma Sooners.
We
are the Nebraska Huskers. You better write that down.”

“Nebraska Oscars? What’s an oscar?”

OK, Nebraskans don’t like to be compared to the state of Iowa, but we really hate to be confused with Oklahoma. No one ever really liked Cincinnati Cici.

In the world of sports, the Huskers were all we had, and thank God for that. We had no professional teams, so when our football team put Nebraska on the map in the seventies, we just assumed that the rest of the world was as impressed with us as we were with our state. All of those people
from the big-time states could at least comment on something besides corn when Nebraska came up in a conversation—at least, we hoped.

And as our fight song boasted “There is no place like Nebraska,” an entire state of fans could give you at least a hundred reasons why. We would tell you that we’ve had consecutive sellouts since 1962. We could tell you how many years we had without a losing season. We would mention the number of Academic All Conference players that came out of NU. Just ask us.

We don’t like to air our dirty laundry, but if people must know, we haven’t always been the most unified state. At one time, our state was extremely divided. Since most of the industry and population of Nebraska is in Omaha, the western part of the state held a great deal of resentment toward Omaha for the power in government and agendas throughout the early years of our statehood. Stories float around the state of how a group of officials in the late eighteen hundreds sneaked into Omaha and stole the capital, or the papers that went with the title, right out from under Omaha’s sleeping nose. Lincoln, known as Lancaster in its younger years, denied it but agrees that they fought for the title in the early years of the state since Omaha had the river and Union Pacific Railroad, and a few “you can’t have it alls” were thrown our way. At least Mrs. Foster, my fourth-grade history teacher, had told us this story during the Nebraska history unit. She said that the Republican Omaha said, “OK, have the capital, but you Democrats have to change your name to Lincoln.” The newly named Lincoln was so excited that the growing community ignored the fact that their now-capital town was named after the famous Republican president.

So when the Husker football team started to do well, the state came together, at least on game-day Saturdays with our common bond, and we really liked to talk about the Huskers. On a home-game Saturday, Memorial Stadium in Lincoln, Nebraska, is the third-largest city in the state.