The Barber's Chair

“Good morning, Charlie,” said the tall, dark, and plain stranger. He sauntered into the one chair barber shop and eased into the only empty on deck spot. “How's that sore on the old Johnson?” he queried. “Did you use that ointment I told you about?” He picked up a copy of “Field & Stream” and thumbed casually through a few pages.

Peter, the barber, cast a bent eye toward the stranger and wondered who he was. “Huh?” Pete asked. “How ya doin'? Don't believe we've seen you in here before.”

“Funny man, Charlie. You know who I am,” the new arrival said softly. “How are things with you and that gorgeous blond wife of yours? You two were actin' like 'next stop no-tell' Saturday night. Ken and Barbie's night out.”

“Say what?” Pete the barber sputtered. “Not me! You got me mixed up with someone else, pal.” Pete noticed the other customers suddenly getting interested in street traffic. Nobody was looking at Pete or the stranger.

“Maybe. But you weren't too mixed up about what you wanted Saturday night. Come to think of it, the deeper Blondie's hand got in your pants, the more confused you looked. Everybody at Ollie's Oysters was real focused on that hand,” the man grinned.

“Wha, wha, what the hell you talkin' about?” Pete stammered.

A pretty face with a mane of auburn hair poked around the corner. Green eyes flashed with great interest in the conversation. Caroline Postal didn't say word.

Noticing the flash of red from the shop's office cube, Pete loudly threatened to toss the tall man out. “Bob and Roy here will back me up, so don't give me any shit, buddy!” Pete nodded toward the other two customers who were trying to look busy.

Roy, a paunchy middle-aged customer sitting in the chair nearest the door said, “What the hell! What are you sayin'? Pete was with me Saturday night, just like he always is. Yessir! Texas Hold-em at my place, every Saturday.” Roy pushed his sliding horn rims back up his rather large nose.

“Sorry guys,” the stranger said. “Roy, I won't ask you about that young 'pretty boy' you were checking out at the bar.” The tall man scratched his chin and continued. “I'll admit I thought you two were gonna slip out and hook up in the parking lot.”

"You son of a bitch!” Roy screamed, jumping to his feet. Bob's grab nearly missed, just barely snagging Roy's belt loop, and yanking him back into his seat.

“Settle down, Roy, this guy's just having some fun with you boys”, Bob said quietly. “No need to make a big fuss about it.”

The latest exchange between the barber and his patrons brought the red headed woman out of the office. She stood larger than life, hands on her hips in the middle of the shop. Feet set shoulder width apart and green eyes flashing dangerously, she was looking for some answers.

“I don't know who you are mister, but what you're saying sure adds up,” she said. “Every Saturday night Pete, who you know as Charlie, goes out saying he'll be at Roy's playing poker. When I call his cell, it's never on. When I call Roy's house the machine's turned off. It’s always the same for Bob's. I can't reach him 'til he stumbles home at four or five AM!”

“Callie, honey,” The barber stammered. “You can't believe this guy! Every Saturday, it's poker at Roy's. We shut the phones off so we don’t get interrupted.”

“Hey, I'm sorry if I've made trouble for you dudes,” said the stranger. “I didn't know about all the secrets around here.”

“How about you, Bob?” he went on. “Is that chunky little brunette you were with your wife or another secret? You had your hand on her ass all night.”

Now Bob was hot too. His wife was, in fact, a chubby brunette whom he'd been begging for years to lose weight. His 5'7”, 210 pound body left Bob with little room to squawk. No matter. He felt since he'd married a shapely 102 pound prom queen fifteen years ago, she ought to stay thin forever. As unrealistic as that fantasy was, Bob clung to it. Hearing some stranger call his wife fat was more than he could take. Angry, Bob lost control and lunged toward the cocky stranger swinging like a windmill.

Pete's shapely 6' 3”, 150 pound wife, Caroline Postal, stepped calmly between them. Afternoons in the tanning salon had bronzed her body; a lucky gene pool gave her beauty, and two hours at the gym every morning kept her fit and athletic. With her glistening auburn hair flowing past her collar and her carefully shaped eyebrows giving her a permanent sultry look, Caroline could have stopped Bob the pudgy accountant with a glance. Extending a long, tanned arm, Caroline quickly halted Bob's lunge toward the tall stranger. She flicked him backward into the chair he just jumped from. The wooden chair splintered as he landed. Bob foolishly rebounded to continue defending his hefty wife's honor. Teetering, still dizzy from the sudden change of direction provided by Callie Postal, he lost his balance and fell back into the rubble. Old and dry, the chair had exploded into a hundred pieces. A broken spindle held one leg upright, waving in the air. Bob landed in the exact same spot he'd just vacated. Unluckily, as he fell, the chair leg was perfectly aligned to Bob a painful eight-inch goose. This unfortunate insertion caused Bob to shoot back to his feet screaming. Running blindly to escape the pain, he missed the doorknob and flew through the plate glass onto the sidewalk. Bob was bleeding from his face, hands, and butt. The broken chair leg sticking out of his backside. Howling like a wounded wolf, Bob ran down Mill Street toward the traffic light. At the corner of Mill and River, chair leg wagging like a Labrador Retriever's tail, Bob hung a right and disappeared. As he rocketed passed the bus stop, the wino on the bench raised his brown bag.

“Evenin' Bobby,” he mumbled. “What's the rush?”

Back at the barber shop, Caroline had a laser eye on her roving husband and his lying pal. “Bob'll be alright,” she said. “That's what he gets for being a part of your filthy scheme.”

The barber and Roy looked like they'd just seen The Father, Son, and Holy Ghost. Heavy emphasis on the ghost.

“Wipe those stupid looks off your faces, you imbeciles!” Caroline hissed. “I'm going to divorce your raggedy ass, Peter Postal, and MY next call after the lawyer will be to your wife, Roy. I'm sure Reggie'll be ecstatic to finally have a reason to take you for everything you own! Serves you right. I'm sure you and your 'boyfriend' will be very happy together!”

Stunned, Roy and Pete stood like the statues on the Courthouse lawn. Neither knew what to say and was not really sure of what had just happened. Fifteen minutes ago life was perfect. Now, both could see nothing but years of misery ahead.

“Get out of my shop! Both of you!” Caroline said.

For tax purposes, Pete's wife already owned their barbershop and everything else they had. In his infinite smugness, Peter Postal had insisted on setting up their financial affairs in this manner, making his wife the sole owner of everything. He was her only employee. It occurred to Pete that he might have just been fired. He was right.

Roy loved his wife beyond anything he could even imagine. He was devoted to making her every waking and sleeping hour nothing but paradise. So blinded was he by his own idealistic feelings about his wife and marriage, Bob had no clue about Regina's reality. He worked twelve hours a day, selling worthless stock to retirees to provide luxuries for Reggie. While he swindled geezers, his highly overpaid gardener, Raul, was trimming Bob's wife's golden bush into a delicate astrological sign. Not her sign, but if she'd ever let him see it, Bob wouldn't have known it was Raul's.

Caroline Postal knew that the stranger's information was just what her friend was praying for. Now Reggie could grab the proverbial diamonds in the mine and give good old Roy the shaft.

The tall, dark, and oddly less than handsome stranger slowly rose to his feet. He glanced around at the trashed barber shop.

“Well,” he said. “It looks like I can't get a haircut here today.”

As he made for the door, he reached into his inside jacket pocket. He pulled out his iPhone, and quickly typed in his password. He hit “Survey/Results” on the touch screen menu. It lit up instantly and he punched in; “Barbershop: Reactions recorded/Survey complete.”

Smiling as he reached the sunny sidewalk, the stranger decided to hit the nearby tiki bar. Time to enjoy a boat drink on the way to his downtown campus psych lab. The report could wait a couple of hours. Strolling easily down Washington Street, he suddenly broke into laughter.

“Rod Serling,” he thought. “Eat your heart out.”