The Barbers

I’d been working at Joel’s Barbers for a few days, mostly sweeping the floor, washing the sinks and similar mundane things. I couldn’t complain; any work was better than no work. Likewise with money, although it would be a long while before I would have enough to buy a car. But I put up with it.

Thankfully, my colleagues were okay; Lily was twenty three, only a couple of years older than me. She was lovely, bubbly and energetic, and very, very attractive. We had a lot of fun, and regularly took lunch breaks together. Then there was Sean; he was the senior barber, and seemed much too serious about everything to fit in at a public establishment, but there we have it. He rarely caused a fuss about anything, normally getting on with his job and occasionally making small talk with customers.

Lauren was odd. She was too nice for anyone to dislike her, but she had a certain falseness about her that made us at least a little precautious, but we got on. Alex had been there for a week, and had already earned the reputation of the ‘darling’. She was eighteen, very shy and very pretty. Lily had taken Alex under her wing straight away, so she normally hung around with us.

Yesterday, as I was sweeping the particularly large amount of hair from under Lily’s seat, the bell on the door rang and every eye instantly darted towards the new customer. A thirty-something man with a mass of red hair perched precariously on his head. 

He strutted in and sat at the first vacant seat, next to Lily’s. Sean instantly strode over to his, and asked in a surprisingly chipper tone; “How would you like your haircut today?”

I glanced at Lily curiously, but she just shrugged. Lauren ignored them and continued filing her nails in her empty chair. Alex looked at me, and I found myself shrugging in the same manner as Lily.

Sean continued to make small talk with the man, and reached for the clippers. I watched with interest as I swept the floor. He went about the haircut with unusual precision, and I couldn’t help but wonder what was so special about this fellow.

After a while, I lost interest, and collected the trimmings into a pan. I took a last glance back at Sean, hoping for a clue as to his strangely social behaviour as I went into the back room to dispose of the hair.

The back had a water cooler, which I helped myself to. As my cup filled up, I yawned and thought longingly of my bed. Shaking my head clear, I went back into the shop, and slumped into one of the waiting chairs.

“Can I leave early today Sean? Need to pick up-“ I began my well-rehearsed excuse but he cut me off:

“I think we’ll all be leaving early today.” He turned to me and grinned. I frowned questioningly, and he winked at me. The girls all looked at him, but he ignored them and turned his attention back to his customer.

Sean lathered the man’s cheeks with shaving foam with an almost loving caress, and whispered; “Chin up, bud.”

The red-head raised his chin as he took the straight razor from the shelf.

Sean brought the edge of the blade to his throat.

He hummed a cheerful tune.

He grinned, and slashed.

            Blood spurted on the mirror, the floor and just about everything else.

He laughed manically. 

Michael

“You wanna talk to me about ambition, eh? Well, I got a story for you, pal; oh you better believe do I got a story for you. Let me tell you about this kid, Michael Capogliani. He’s one of them quiet types, y’know? Never said a word he didn’t need to, but my god you could see the fire in his eyes. That spark, y’know. A real goombah in the making.

“So this kid Michael, he’s waiting the bar for his pop at that nice place down on Third Street, just going on about his business, y’know? You wouldn’t give him a second glance; right? Nor would I, believe me. Yeah, so anyway, he’s at the bar when who should waltz in? That’s right, big fuckin’ Frank Coppa and his clan of goons. Real stunads, they are, y’know? Real fuckin’ morons, but what’re you gonna do, he’s practically fuckin’ royalty now.

“One of his goons, brain like a skulabast, he goes up to Mikey and says to him; ‘Kid, you know who we are?’ Real impolite, y’know? ‘That’s big Frank Coppa right over there, ya see him? Get off your bambino ass and get him a fuckin’ drink, y’hear me?’ I know, real fuckin’ douchebag.

“So Mikey just looks at him and nods his fuckin’ head. Not even a fuckin’ word, just nods his head and grabs a glass from under the counter. I tell ya, if I was him I’d have slapped the shine off of that ciuccio’s face, but then again if I was him I’d probably be dead. So he grabs a glass, pours a measure of bourbon and slides it over, smooth as balls.

“Few hours later, Coppa and his boys are drunk as hell and shoutin’ like it too, y’know? But Mikey’s pop, the guy who owns the joint, he calls up Don Solano and, well, he makes him aware of Coppa’s presence, if you catch my drift.

“Now the Don himself couldn’t make it, but lemme tell you one thing; he wants Coppa dead, real bad. I won’t get into the details with ya, but there is some real bad blood between the two of ‘em. Now back to Mikey; he might have the manners of a saint but he knows he’s better than waitin’ the bar, y’know? So he volunteers, ya hear me, he fuckin’ volunteers to get the job done. He’s got balls, I tell ya, a real Sicilian.

“So Mikey’s standin’ at the bar, just cleaning glasses or something, quiet at per, and then he walks over to that gaguzz’s table and asks if they need any more drinks. I’ll tell you now, they didn’t need any fuckin’ more drinks, but how can you call a man a man if he says no to a refill, right? So they all start yelling their orders, real loud and obnoxious, and Mikey just stands there, writing it all down before going back to the bar.

“Few minutes later, he yells over to the table; ‘I’m gonna need you to pay your tab, gentlemen.’ So Big Frank gets up, and Mikey pours his drink for him, saying something about giving him his drink first, out of respect. Frank starts nodding and grinning and laughing, he’s got this real loud fuckin’ laugh, but remember by now he’s real s’bronzo, y’know? Slurrin’ his words all over the fuckin’ floor.

“So then, Frank starts talkin’ ‘bout Don Solano, givin’ it the big one, y’know? Mikey just stands there, nodding and smiling. His goons are gettin’ impatient now, and a few of them start walking to the bar, but just then, Mikey pulls a little glock outta nowhere, y’know, skadoosh! He pops Frank right in the kisser with the barrel, and fires at each of the goons. Perfect shots, too; beats me where he learned to shoot like that; probably from his old man.

“So now it’s just Frank, standing there with that same stupid fuckin’ grin on his face, and Mikey walks up to him, pushes him to the floor and bam! His brains’re on the floor. It was beautiful, I tell ya.”

Familiar

Kings Cross station was crowded with masses of hurried Londoners, as was usual on a week day. I fumbled through my jacket, searching for my wallet and the oyster card within, and eventually extracted it from my inside pocket, amongst a pack of tissues and a few loose coins. One of the coins, a pound, dropped to the floor and rolled away, soon lost amidst the hundreds of pairs of shoes and boots and heels and the odd flip flop. I scowled, but quickly resigned to being a potential packet of sweets lighter. Somewhere in the crowd I heard, “Shit, a pound coin, look,” and shook my head ruefully.

I continued pushing my way deeper into the station, and finally reached the escalators that would take me down below into the underground. Taking a moment to rest on the descending metal stairs, I looked around at the swarming crowds, nonchalantly picking out a few interesting faces, as one generally does when taking the tube. A very pretty woman came up the escalators to my right; she had dark red hair and an enchanting complexion. She caught my eyes with her own, for a fleeting second, and I quickly looked frontwards.

Once I was sure she had gone past me, I sighed, and moments later reached the bottom of the moving staircase. I stepped off and, following the signs for the metropolitan line, made my way towards the network of tubes and tracks that would take me home. A few moments later, as I continued walking, I heard a muffled yell amidst the mass of people; “Shit, a pound coin, look,” and frowned. Turning my head towards the voice, I scanned the crowd, hoping to see a familiar face, but to no avail. I sighed again and continued walking.

I reached another set of escalators and once again descended further underground. Humming a tune quietly to myself, I observed the people making their way upwards on the opposing staircase, and spotted a young female with shiny, copper coloured hair. My eyes caught hers and, feeling a strange déjà vu, I gave her a small smile. She beamed back at me enthusiastically, and I felt a small lurch in my stomach. Shaking my head, I looked back down towards the bottom of the staircase, and soon stepped onto the metal platform at the base. A dull golden gleam caught my eye on the floor; “Shit, a pound coin,” I muttered, and attempted to land my foot on it, hoping to drag it along with me to a slightly secluded part of the station so I could pick it up. As I did so, I bumped into someone, and my Londoner instincts led me to apologize immediately, hoping to quickly move on without any conversation.

“Oh, sorry dear,” a soft, friendly female voice spoke to me. I glanced upwards and saw a beautiful woman with curiously familiar auburn hair and bright green eyes smiling at me. I may have stared slightly longer than I had intended to, and as I stuttered, “Oh, it’s- it’s alright,” she blushed slightly. I managed to muster a small smile of my own.

The War

For the men, women and, in far too many cases, children, all fighting for what they believe in. Or what they are told to believe in.

On a deserted street corner, there is a man dressed in old battle dress uniform, torn and frayed from years of destitution and degradation. He owns but a large rucksack and its meagre contents; a heavily chewed pencil, a steel mug stained by frequent use, another set of equally ragged clothes, and a photo of his mother. His straw coloured hair is matted by dirt, sweat, spit and blood; not all his own, but now part of the identity attached to him and thousands like him. Once a soldier of a different war, he stands small in a world not his own.

A short walk away, the man’s desperate calls for help are drowned by voices so booming and vehement they seem to blend into a crescendo. Thousands gather with picket signs and posters, demanding an end to the war that produced so many victims, it is a wonder that these afflicted and forgotten heroes cannot be heard amongst their fierce defenders. People protest, march, roar but their labours bare little fruit; the war rages on.

In the cold, dark depths of the prison cell almost half way around the globe, innocent civilians of the war-stricken land wait silently amidst clouds of fear and dread; will the hungry eat tonight, will the thirsty drink, will the tired sleep, will the ill be tended to? Deep down, they know the answers, but their spirit hangs on by a thread, regrettably reflecting their chances of survival.

On a dusty trail, a group of men in modern military clothing, carrying bags containing their government and military issue items of war, engage in conversation in a manner so casual, one would wonder if they were bothered in the slightest at the destruction they witness. But how can a man support the weight of his country, the love he has for the family he may never see again, the heart ache and sorrow for his fallen comrades, the bittersweet regret for his fallen adversary, without maintaining some barrier to protect his mind from caving in?

Back to the quiet, suburban safety of the first world, people sit in their living rooms, eyes locked onto their television. The familiar jingle of the evening news breaks the tense silence, before the anchors, not only of the news but of the public who hang onto their every word, offer them no reprieve from the fear that has plagued their hearts from the moment their loved ones departed to serve their country, their people, their family. For one woman, sitting next to the phone, telling her young child that everything will be okay as it begins to ring, her world is about to collapse.

“Mrs Doe? I regret to inform you…” The general’s voice joins the chatter in the room as more and more phone calls are made, all exactly the same. The men and women, in their positions of safety at the office, offer the same condolences and words of comfort, and listen in return to the same shocked silence on the other end of their line.

In a hospital, close to one of the battlegrounds, a group of doctors and nurses tend to the wounded. Their scars will remain, forever reminders of what they fought for, what they fought against. What some of their comrades are still fighting, what some will never fight again. Some men and women lie without limbs, without organs, yet they live. People might call them lucky now, but when these people sit at home, wherever that maybe, in the coming years, will they feel quite as fortunate?

Somewhere, a young person takes the biggest step of their life. They join the army, and, along with thousands of others, propagate the message of hope, of glory, of patriotism. The person is lined uniformly behind the others, and into them is bred the message that keeps them going. It is the fuel that drives them towards the light at the end of the tunnel. It gives them hope that everything will work out.

The political establishments all over the world communicate with concern and urgency, with anger and stubbornness, with fear and regret. World leaders debate and argue, trying to find solutions that please their subordinates, their peers, their bosses and their people. But, despite their apparent best efforts, they come to no avail, and the savage slaughter that plagues the world continues.

Soon, as the war grows and grows, the messages of hope for a better future fade into images of an unavoidable and inevitable dystopia. Cries for a saviour, in any shape or form, go unheard. No messiah stands above the rest; they all float in an endless chasm of destruction. The leaders find themselves as helpless as the rest as the world plummets into a dark abyss.

The war eventually ends, as colliding forces finally understand that their efforts are best directed towards the reestablishment of their own broken homes, rather than the continued destruction of others’. People all around the globe mourn for their lost, pray for the losing, but no one thanks the winners; they have lost as much as the losers.

Humanity breeds within every living soul, and the homeless, the prisoners, the protesters, the soldiers, the families, the public servants, the world leaders collectively grip upon the world they love and pull it out of the jaws of the dark abyss they were headed. They pour themselves into the world, into each other, and they rebuild an empire. But this is just the completion of a cycle; the world continues to turn, and the darkness once again begins to grow.