yeah, i worked in a barbershop. but i never considered myself a barber. i stumbled into it--well, married into it more precisely. i wasn't my establishment. like the fella says, i only work here. the dump was 200 feet square, with five chairs, or stations as we call 'em, even though there were only two of us working. frank raffo, my brother-in-law, was the principal barber. and man, could he talk. now maybe if you're eleven or twelve years old, frank's got an interesting point of view, but sometimes it got on my nerves. not that i'd complain, mind you. like i said, he was the principal barber. frank's father august--they called him guzzi--had worked the heads up in santa rosa for thirty-five years until his ticker stopped in the middle of a junior flat top. he left the shop to frankie free and clear. and that seemed to satisfy all of frank's ambitions: cutting the hair and chewing the fat. me, i don't talk much. i just cut the hair. uh-huh. huh? yeah. now, being a barber is a lot like being a barman or a soda-jerk; there's not much to it once you've learned the basic moves. for the kids there's the butch, or the heinie. the flat top, the ivy, the crew, the vanguard, the junior contour and, occasionally, the executive contour. adults get variations on the same, along with the duck butt, the timberline. and something we call the alpine rope toss. i lived in a little bungalow on napa street. the place was ok, i guess; it had an electric ice box, gas hearth, and a garbage grinder build into the sink. you might say i had it made. oh yeah. there was one other thing. doris kept the books at nirdlinger's, a small department store on main street. unlike me, doris liked the work, accounting; she liked knowing where everything stood. and she got a ten per cent employee discount on whatever she wanted--nylon stockings. make-up, and perfume. she wore a lot of perfume. doris's boss, big dave brewster, was married to ann nirdlinger, the department store heiress. tonight they were coming over for dinner--as doris said, we were 'entertaining'. me, i don't like entertaining. ok. take your coat, ann? no, dave, i wasn't. yeah. i guess doris liked all that he-man stuff. sometimes i had the feeling that she and big dave were a lot closer than they let on. the signs were all there plain enough--not that i was gonna prance about it, mind you. it's a free country. mm. how's business, dave? all right, i guess. specialty store down in sacramento. doris and i went to church once a week. usually tuesday night. doris wasn't big on divine worship. and i doubt if she believed in life everlasting; she'd most likely tell you that our reward is on this earth and bingo is probably the extent of it. i wasn't crazy about the game, but, i don't know, it made her happy, and i found the setting peaceful. uh-huh. uh-huh. yeah. i'll take care of him, go ahead, frank. have a seat, mister. yeah, yeah--go home. uh-huh. ed crane. what brings you to santa rosa? uh-- that right. huh. dry cleaning. was i crazy to be thinking about it? was he a huckster, or opportunity, the real mccoy? my first instinct was, no, no, the whole idea was nuts. but maybe that was the instinct that kept me locked up in the barbershop, nose against the exit, afraid to try turning the knob. what if i could get the money? mm. it was clean. no water. chemicals. i'm, uh, ed. ed crane. remember? today? i'm, uh, i'm--the barber. no. i might be interested in that, uh, business proposition-- i can get it, yeah. no. i--tell me-- what's involved, aside from putting up the money? what're you looking for the partner to do? and how do we share-- i'll have it in a week. ed. was that a pass? you're out of line, mister. way out of line. yeah. i sent it to dave the next morning. and i waited. frank. this hair. you ever wonder about it? i don't know. how it keeps on coming. it just keeps growing. no, i mean it's growing, it's part of us. and we cut it off. and throw it away. ok, bud, you're through. i'm gonna take his hair and throw it out in the dirt. i'm gonna mingle it with common house dirt. i don't know. skip it. where you going? yeah, right. nah, go ahead. i'm not big on parties. huh? i don't work here. my wife does. yeah. uh-huh. what is it, dave? uh-huh. uh-huh. i guess it would be pretty awkward. uh-huh. how much to they want, dave? you know. who *who* is? would he. it sounds pretty obvious. mm. how, uh. how did he know that-- why don't you just pay him, dave? mm. in a way i felt bad for big dave. i knew the ten grand was going to pinch him where it hurt. but doris was two-timing me and i guess, somewhere, that pinched a little too. that was pretty. did you make that up? that was quite something. that was something. i'm ed crane. sorry, i just didn't remember. you don't like the music out there? who? how's that? so? mm. big dave did it, though. i sent a note telling him where to drop the money. and he did. he came across. cash. sure. yeah. it's ok. that'll be fine. uh-huh. look, uh. creighton. you're not gonna screw me on this? all right. the next day was saturday. we were going to a reception for doris' cousin gina, who'd just married a wop vintner out near modesto. doris didn't much feel like going, and i didn't either, but, like she said, we had a commitment. i didn't say a word. that was when she started drinking. ed. congratulations, gina. honey. honey. i'd met doris blind on a double-date with a loudmouthed buddy of mine who was seeing a friend of hers from work. we went to a movie; doris had a flask; we killed it. she could put it away. at the end of the night she said she liked it i didn't talk much. a couple weeks later she suggested-- yeah. what--now? but it's. your place? honey. honey. dave? what's the problem, big dave? so you paid the guy? huh? big dave-- i, uh. it was only a couple of weeks after we met that doris suggested getting married. i said, don't you wanna get to know me more? she said, why, does it get better? she looked at me like i was a dope, which i've never really minded from her. and she had a point, i guess. we knew each other as well then as now. anyway, well enough. nah. right. sure. that's right. we goin'? huh? my *wife*? i don't understand. hello, walter. thanks. thanks for seeing me, at home. no thanks. i'm fine. yeah. what do i, uh. he a good man? so-- so, who should i-- hello, rachel. yeah. thanks. i'm fine. thanks. so, uh, who should i-- uh-huh. is he the best then, for, uh. uh-huh. he's the, uh. honey. i brought your make-up. how are you? what happened to you? you don't have to-- you don't have to tell them anything. we're getting you a lawyer. don't tell 'em anything. we're getting you freddy riedenschneider. you don't have to tell me anything. honey. yeah. frank, uh, you know i'll try to contribute, but, uh--freddy riedenschneider-- that's very generous. uh-huh. uh-huh. crane. ed crane. the barbershop. doris and frank's father had worked thirty years to own it free and clear. now it got signed over to the bank, and the bank signed some money over to frank, and frank signed the money over. to freddy riedenschneider, who got into town two days later. and told me to meet him at davinci's for lunch. yeah-- no thanks, i-- no. of course not. she didn't do it. all going about their business. it seemed like i knew a secret--a bigger one even then what had really happened to big dave, something none of them knew. like i had made it to the outside, somehow, and they were all still struggling, way down below. ann. ann. will you come in? i'm so sorry about your loss. of course, you know, doris had nothing to do with it. nothing at all. yes, ann? yes? yes? ann-- ann-- ann, will you come in, sit down, maybe have a drink? i knew about it. big dave told me about it, and the spot he was putting himself in by getting the money. it was big dave's. *i* was with her. i killed him. he and doris. were having an affair. i. just knew. a husband knows. i don't know. i don't think so. i took doris's keys. i don't think so. of course, there was *one* person who could confirm doris's story, or plenty of it: the dry-cleaning pansy. but he'd left the hotel, skipped out on his bill. he'd also disappeared from the residence he gave me. owing two month's rent. how could i have been so stupid. handing over $10,000. for a piece of paper. and the man gone. like a ghost. disappeared into thin air, vaporized, like the nips at nagasaki. gone now. all gone. the money gone. big dave gone. doris going. how could i have been so stupid? sooner or later everyone needs a haircut. we were working for the bank now. we kept cutting the hair, trying to stay afloat, make the payments, tread water, day by day, day by day. most people think someone's accused of a crime, they haul 'em in and bring 'em to trial, but it's not like that, it's not that fast. the wheels of justice turn slow. they have an arraignment, and then the indictment, and they entertain motions to dismiss, and postpone, and change the venue, and alter this and that and the other. they empanel a jury, which brings more motions, and they set a trial date and then change the date, and then often as not they'll change it again. and through all of it we cut the hair. meanwhile, freddy riedenschneider slept at the metropole. and shoveled it in at davinci's. he'd brought in a private investigator from sacramento. to nose around into big dave's past. i found myself more and more going over to the abundas's. it was a routine we fell into, most every evening. i even went when walter was away on his research trips. he was a genealogist, had traced back his side of the family seven generations, his late wife's, eight. it seemed like a screwy hobby. but then maybe all hobbies are. maybe walter found something there, in the old county courthouses, hospital file rooms, city archives, property rolls, registries, something maybe like what i found listening to birdy play. some kind of escape. some kind of peace. 'lo, honey. so? i don't get it. yeah. so. who. who actually-- honey? honey? who? so maybe riedenschneider could get doris off. maybe it would all work out. and i thought--i hoped--that maybe there was a way out for me as well. the girl had talent, anyone could see that. and *she* wasn't some fly- by-nighter, she was just a good clean kid. if she was going to have a career she'd need a responsible adult looking out for her. some kind of. manager. she'd have contracts to look at, be going on tours, playing on the radio maybe. i could help her sort through all of that, without charging her an arm and a leg, just enough to get by. i could afford to charge less than the usual manager, not having to put up a big front like a lot of these phonies. and i could be with her, enough to keep myself feeling why couldn't that work?. why not?. hello, birdy. i thought that was very good. hello, tony. well, congratulations. i guess i'll be getting home. anyway, that's what i was thinking about in the days leading up to the trial. it seemed like once that was over, i'd be ready for a new start. freddy riedenschneider was very optimistic. he was busy preparing. and finally it came. the first day of the trial. what riedenschneider called the big show. she'd hanged herself. i'd brought her a dress to wear to court and she'd used the belt. i didn't understand it either. at first i thought maybe it had something to do with me, that she'd figured out somehow how i fit into it and couldn't stand it, couldn't stand knowing. that wasn't it, i would find out later. for now, everything just seemed ruined. freddy riedenschneider went back to sacramento still shaking his head, saying it was the biggest disappointment of his professional career. frankie fell to pieces. i suspect he was drinking; anyway, he stopped coming to work. that left me to keep the place going, or the bank would've taken it. *i* was the principal barber now. i hired a new man for the second chair. i'd hired the guy who did the least gabbing when he came in for an interview. but i guess the new man had only kept quiet because he was nervous; once he had the job, he talked from the minute i opened the shop in the morning. until i locked up at night. for all i know, he talked to himself on the way home. when *i* walked home, it seemed like everyone avoided looking at me. as if i'd caught some disease. this thing with doris, nobody wanted to talk about it; it was like i was a ghost walking down the street. and when i got home now, the place felt empty. i sat in the house, but there was nobody there. i was a ghost; i didn't see anyone; no one saw me. i was the barber. i'm crane. yeah? dwight, you ok here for a few minutes? just coffee. told what? my wife and i had not. performed the sex act in many years. doris and i had never really talked much. i don't think that's a bad thing, necessarily. but it was funny: now i wanted to talk--now, with everyone gone. i was alone, with secrets i didn't want and no one to tell them to anyway. i visited a woman who was supposed to have powers in communicating with those who had passed across, as she called it. she said that people who passed across were picky about who they'd communicate with, not like most people you run into on this side. so you needed a guide who they didn't mind talking to, someone with a gift for talking to souls. well, first she told me that my wife was in a peaceful place, that our souls were still connected by some spiritual bond, that she had never stopped loving me even though she'd done some things she wasn't proud of. she was reading me like a book. and then she started talking about 'dolores' this and 'dolores' that and was there anything i wanted to tell 'dolores,' and i knew i'd just be telling it to the old bat. and even if somehow doris could hear, it wouldn't be on account of this so- called medium. she was a phony. just another gabber. i was turning into ann nirdlinger, big dave's wife. i had to turn my back on the old lady, on the veils, on the ghosts, on the dead, before they all sucked me in. i'm ok, walter, thanks. yeah. sure, walter. thanks. hello, birdy. yeah. birdy, i've been doing a lot of thinking. there are a lot of things that haven't worked out for me. life has dealt me some bum cards. or maybe i just haven't played 'em right, i don't know. but you're-- oh. sorry. sure. sure, it's his house. anyway, uh. my point is you're young. a kid really, your whole life ahead of you. but it's not too soon to start thinking. to start making opportunities for yourself. before it all washes away. that's swell. however, the music, if you want to pursue it, well, the lessons from mrs swan, they'll only take you so far. there's this guy in san francisco, i've made inquiries, everybody says he's the best. trained lots of people who've gone on to have big concert careers, symphony orchestras, the works. his name is jacques carcanogues. i'm not sure i'm pronouncing it right. anyway, he's a frenchman. you've got talent, anyone could see that. and he's the best. if he thinks a student has talent, he'll take 'em on for next to nothing. you're a cinch to be accepted, i could cover the cost of the lessons, like i said, it's pretty modest-- i have to do it. i can't stand by and watch more things go down the drain. you're young, you don't understand. i know you haven't. look, just go meet him as a favor to me. i talked to this guy. hope i pronounced his name right. he sounded very busy, but he's not a bad egg; he loosened up a little when i told him how talented you are. he agreed to see you this saturday. he said maybe you were a diamond in the rough. his words. just see him, as a favor to me. no. uh. family friend. uh-huh. well, i don't pretend to be an expert. well? how'd she do? i don't understand. did she make mistakes? i don't understand, no mistakes, she's just a kid--i thought you taught the, uh, the-- well, look, i don't claim to be an expert-- he didn't say that. look, i'm no expert, but-- i'm sure there's a dozen teachers better than this clown. more qualified. goddamn phony. uh-huh. ah. it's nothing. huh. huh. yeah. maybe. i guess i've been all wet. birdy-- birdy! no, please. time slows down right before an accident, and i had time to think about things. i thought about what an undertaker had told me once--that your hair keeps growing, for a while anyway, after you die. and then it stops. i thought, what keeps it growing? is it like a plant in soil? what goes out of the soil? the soul? and when does the hair realize that it's gone? hello. doesn't bother me. doris-- birdy. i didn't mean to-- birdy. big dave. the pansy. a kid diving at a waterhole outside of town had found his car. they'd winched it out. and found he'd been beaten, just like big dave said--beaten to death. inside the briefcase were the partnership papers i'd signed. showing that i'd given him ten grand. for the district attorney. that made it fall into place: i'd gotten doris to steal the money, the pansy had gotten wise somehow, and i'd had to kill him to cover my tracks. i was in a spot. i called in freddy riedenschneider. and signed the house over to him. he said he didn't ordinarily work that cheap, but he figured he owed me something since the last one hadn't played out. i tried to tell him the whole story, but riedenschneider stopped me. he said the story made his head hurt, and anyway he didn't see any way of using it without putting me on the hot seat for the murder of big dave. he told me not to worry, though, said he'd think of something, freddy riedenschneider wouldn't let me down. they put me on twenty-four-hour deathwatch. so that i couldn't cheat justice like they said my wife had done. but in front of the jury they had it that doris was a saint; the whole plan had been mine, i was a svengali who'd forced doris to join my criminal enterprise. on and on it went, how i'd used doris and then let her take the fall. that stuff smarted because some of it was close to being true. and then it was freddy riedenschneider's turn. i gotta hand it to him, he tossed a lot of sand in their eyes. he talked about how i'd lost my place in the universe. how i was too ordinary to be the criminal mastermind the d.a. made me out to be, how there was some greater scheme at work that the state had yet to unravel, and he threw in some of the old truth stuff he hadn't had a chance to trot out for doris. he told them to look at me--look at me close. that the closer they looked the less sense it would all make, that i wasn't the kind of guy to kill a guy, that i was the barber, for christ's sake. i was just like them, an ordinary man, guilty of living in a world that had no place for me, guilty of wanting to be a dry cleaner, sure, but not of murder. he said i *was* modern man, and if they voted to convict me, well, they'd be practically cinching the noose around their own necks. he told them to look not at the facts but at the meaning of the facts, and then he said the facts *had* no meaning. it was a pretty good speech, and even had me going. until frankie interrupted it. well, he got his mistrial, but the well had run dry. there was nothing left to mortgage; riedenschneider went home and the court appointed lloyd garroway. who threw me on the mercy of the court. it was my only chance, he said. i guess that meant i never had a chance. he wasn't buying any of that modern man stuff, or the uncertainty stuff, or any of the mercy stuff either. no, he was going by the book, and the book said i got the chair. so here i am. at first i didn't know how i got here. i knew step by step of course, which is what i've told you, step by step; but i couldn't see any pattern. now that i'm near the end, i'm glad that this men's magazine paid me to tell my story. writing it has helped me sort it all out. they're paying five cents a word, so you'll pardon me if sometimes i've told you more than you wanted to know. but now, all the disconnected things seems to hook up. that's the funny thing about going away, knowing the date you're gonna die--and the men's magazine wanted me to tell how that felt. well, it's like pulling away from the maze. while you're in the maze you go through willy-nilly, turning where you think you have to turn, banging into dead ends, one thing after another. but get some distance on it, and all those twists and turns, why, they're the shape of your life. it's hard to explain. but seeing it whole gives you some peace. the men's magazine also asked about remorse. yeah, i guess i'm sorry about the pain i caused other people. but i don't regret anything. not a thing. i used to. i used to regret being the barber. i dont know where i'm being taken. i don't know what waits for me, beyond the earth and sky. but i'm not afraid to go. maybe the things i don't understand will be clearer there, like when a fog blows away. maybe doris will be there. and maybe there i can tell her. all those things. they don't have words for here.