Sideshow

Jimmy used to visit the airport once a week to watch the planes take off. He liked to imagine where folks were going as they shuffled through the boarding line and into the jet bridge. 9/11 changed all that. You can’t get far enough into the bowels of the terminal anymore, and nothing of real significance ever seems to happen before the security checkpoints. Jimmy once witnessed a runaway baggage cart that had to be wrangled by four panicked handlers and one hysterical air traffic controller. In the end, a maintenance worker impaled it with her forklift.

Now, Jimmy stumbles into an outdated Café drunk and reeking of cigarettes and motor oil. The sun hadn’t yet broken over the tops of the buildings opposite the café to warm the sidewalk, so he walked quickly hugging his arms close to his chest. A black Labrador retriever tied to a newspaper box stood on the cold concrete waiting for its owner to exit the café. It looked soft and pleaded with its large eyes for Jimmy to touch it. He strode quickly past it without a gesture of acknowledgment. Once inside the tension fell from his shoulders that he had pulled up toward his ears. He looked around. None of the patrons sitting alone or in pairs at the small tables flanking either side of the main aisle paid him any notice. Like a dog, Jimmy thought, and he felt a pang of remorse that he hadn’t offered the friendly Labrador a quick scratch.

But, he had more pressing matters to attend to: “Buy me a coffee?” Jimmy tried to form coherent words but his mouth was numb from the cold and alcohol. What had come out sounded more like “Buh may a cahwffy?” The man sitting nearest the door looked up briefly to shake his head without a word. There was no use begging; Jimmy moved on. 

At the next table where two women sat knitting and talking about the benefits of homeschooling, Jimmy paused. He concentrated to articulate each word, “Buy me a coffee?” He pulled his shoulders back to make himself more presentable. He was sure that neither of these women would help him out, but he also knows that soliciting charity is a numbers game.  

One of the women looked up at Jimmy’s grease-stained white T-shirt that was so ragged she could almost see through it. His unwashed graying, brown hair hung about his shoulders, yellowing the v-neck. She managed to say, “Sorry,” and returned her attention to the purple scarf taking shape in her hands. 

Jimmy, waiting for the other woman’s response, mumbled again, “Buy me a coffee?” It was quieter this time and less coherent as if he had to push each syllable from his mouth by forcing his booze-swollen tongue between his chapped lips. His teeth were rotten and tobacco-stained and his breath stank. The woman pressed back into her chair to retreat from his stench.

“Sorry,” she echoed her friend’s apology. Jimmy knew that they would talk about him the rest of the day, wondering how he ended up like this: a vagrant––a bum. Do you think he fell on hard times, Jimmy imagined one woman asking the other. Her friend would warn that It could happen to anyone. Surely, not us! the first would assure her friend. He’s just a worthless drunk. Sad, really.

Jimmy moved along. At the counter, a young couple waited for their order. The girl had just finished paying and hadn’t yet put away her change. “Can you buy me a coffee?” Jimmy said, eying her cash.

The boy turned around. His lips clenched into a tight smile and he nodded, “Sure,” he said and held up a finger to the barista who had been listening. 

“Thank you,” Jimmy said looking at the ground. “Do you have a cigarette?”

“Sorry, I don’t smoke,” the boy said, unsure why he felt the need to apologize. His girlfriend had passed her money to the barista who handed her a paper cup and some change. 

“Here you go,” she said as she turned to Jimmy. She passed him the empty cup and offered him a dollar and a few coins. He held out his hand and she dropped the money into his palm.

“Thank you,” Jimmy said. He balled his hand into a fist and pushed the gift into his pants pocket. He smoothed his greasy, unkempt hair and smiled at the couple with his mouth closed. His eyes glistened. 

“You’re welcome,” the girl said. Her boyfriend had retrieved their things from the counter and stashed them in a tote bag that he slung over his shoulder. He placed his hand on the girls back, but she didn’t move. “Are you hungry?” she asked Jimmy.

“Yes,” Jimmy said. His response was drawn out and embarrassed as if he were admitting to an accusation.

“Here,” she said while digging a bagel out of the tote. She handed it to him and when he took it she noticed the dirt caked beneath his fingernails. His knuckles were cracked and bloody from the cold.

“Thank you,” he said, staring at the food. “You’re very kind.” 

“Okay,” the girl’s boyfriend said. “Have a good one, man.” He took the girl’s hand and led her out of the café. Jimmy watched them leave. Their bodies were pressed close together for warmth and affection. They paused outside the large pane-glass window to untie the dog’s leash from the newspaper box before disappearing down the street.

Jimmy filled his paper cup with coffee from an airpot and then snapped a lid on top. “Can I sit here?” he asked the barista with a chunk of bagel in his mouth 

“Sure,” she said. The women knitting stared at her in disbelief. The barista, who had seen Jimmy several times but hadn’t ever said very much to him directly looked back at them with an expression of mild annoyance. As Jimmy sat down the women begrudgingly gathered their things and walked out of the café looking back to express their disapproval. The barista had already disappeared into the kitchen and Jimmy was concentrating on ripping another hunk off his bagel. One of the women, intent on being understood, locked eyes with the man who was sitting nearest the door and was himself preparing to leave. He raised his eyebrows, confused as to what the woman had hoped to communicate to him. She huffed a gust of air from her nose and left. 

“Hey, mahyn,” Jimmy drawled, “do you have a cigarette?” The man again shook his head without a word and exited behind the two knitters. 

Alone, Jimmy wrapped his hands around the paper coffee cup to warm his fingers. He took a sip and said loudly, “That’s good coffee!” He was used to talking to himself and didn’t mind that everyone else had left, though he wished that he didn’t have that effect on people. He ripped another piece off the bagel and dipped it first into his coffee and then his mouth. He ate the soggy bread, loudly. When he had finished, Jimmy refilled his cup and headed toward the exit. At the door, he shivered preemptively and braced himself for the sting of cold. “I’m leaving,” he announced to the empty café. There was no response. 

Jimmy walked along the crooked sidewalk and turned left at the end of the street. A car waited at a stop sign for him to cross. Jimmy waved at the driver and shouted through the closed window to ask for a cigarette. The driver furrowed his brow and drove away without acknowledging the request. Like a dog, Jimmy thought. Further down the block, he stopped before a sign that read “Sideshow.” He recalled spending his summer weekends at Coney Island. He would lay on the beach during the day and enjoy the amusement park at night. He met his wife there, at the Side Show, where she painted set designs for the circus before becoming the art director for Cantor Fitzgerald’s Manhattan offices.

Curious, he peeked through the blinds that hung upon the door to see what oddities waited within: a warm yellow glow illuminating the tiny shop––its walls were decorated with an assortment of taxidermied animal busts, and he spied an imitation Tiki bar in the corner that convinced him to try the door. It opened.

No bell rang to announce Jimmy’s entrance, just the clacking of wooden blinds followed by a gust of cold air. A man wearing a starched, white and blue striped button-down shirt and black, pleated slacks looked up from his work. “What’s shakin’?” he asked, eyebrows raised above the thick black frames of his eyeglasses.

“Everything,” Jimmy said with a forced laugh that rattled in his chest. A bit of phlegm crept up his throat and into his mouth. Jimmy quickly swallowed it down.

“Alright, man. What can we do for you? Are you looking for a trim?” It was then that Jimmy noticed the rotating barber pole that hung upon the wall above the Tiki bar. He focused his eyes back upon the man who had greeted him, taking in the straight razor he was using to scrape white foam from his client’s face. 

 “Can I have a cigarette?” Jimmy asked. 

“Oh, sorry, man. I don’t think we have any,” the barber said while looking at him askance. Jimmy’s threadbare T-shirt and ragged jeans hung from his gaunt frame. “Do you have a coat or something?”

“No,” Jimmy said as his eyes darted around the shop. Every available inch of wall space was decorated with Hawaiian photographs or disembodied animal heads: bison, bear, buck. Above his head, an entire marlin seemed to breach the wall. Further in, a long mirror ran the length of the entire shop reflecting each of the three chairs, the clients that sat upon them, and the barbers who stood behind them. A small glass case next to the front door, into which Jimmy was leaning, held an assortment of styling pomades and combs as well as the cash machine and a bowl of mints.

“I’m Mike,” the barber introduced himself.

“Jim.” 

“Alright, Jim. You from around here?” Mike asked. He hadn’t seen Jimmy around, and Mike thought of himself as being fairly well connected in the community.

“Yeah.” Jimmy drew the world out long like late afternoon shadows. “Kinda. Here and there.”

“Okay, well, this is Josh,” Mike said, pointing to the man next to him whose red hair was slicked back. He wore his shirt buttoned to the collar, and a walrus mustache covered much of his face. Josh didn’t have a client in his chair, so he had busied himself with sweeping the hair on the floor into small piles against the far wall. He nodded and smiled.

 “And at the far end is Joel,” Mike continued. Joel was doubled over with laughter at something the boy in his chair had said, and when he heard Mike introduce him, he directed his good nature toward Jimmy.

“Can I stay here for a couple of minutes?” Jimmy asked.

“Yeah, man, have a seat. It’s cold out there,” Mike said. He pointed at the two folding chairs with his razor.

Jimmy shoved off from the counter towards the chairs. One of them was covered by a coat and the other with magazines. He picked up the stack of magazines and placed them on the small end table. Then he asked again if he could have a cigarette. Mike looked at the others with wide eyes as if to ask them, Is this guy for real? 

“Oh, like I said, none of us smokes,” Mike said. The smell that Jimmy carried with him followed into the shop. Mike scrunched up his nose but quickly relaxed it so as not to offend his customer. “Listen, if you need to wash up or something, there’s a bathroom in the back.”

“Yeah, okay,” Jimmy said, unable to smell himself, but taking the clue. “I musta stepped in something.” He curled his fingers into loose fists to hide the dirt under his nails and crossed his arms across the front of his chest hoping to mask some of the stains on his threadbare shirt. 

“Something,” Mike agreed.

Jimmy stood up and without looking at himself in any of the mirrors walked past the barbers and their clients toward the bathroom. In the last chair sat a small boy of about five years old. His wild curls hung loosely around his ears and Joel worked to clean him up. The boy’s mother stood in the corner close by, coaxing him to sit still. As Jimmy passed by, the boy stuck out his small hand for a walk-by high five. Jimmy’s arms relaxed a bit, but he hesitated. Instead, he looked at the boy’s mom for permission. She shrugged her shoulders and Jimmy noticed the way her tits moved up and down beneath her tight sweater. He uncrossed his arms and offered the kid his hand. The boy wound up and smacked it. Jimmy shook it off as if the boy’s strength was too much for him. The kid laughed, and Jimmy disappeared into the bathroom.

The sink was damnably small. He turned on the faucet, and while he waited for the water temperature to heat up he shifted toward the toilet to take a piss. Above the bowl hung a vintage photograph of a pinup model. She looked like a flapper straight out of the 1920s. Her hair was cut in a short bob and diamond earrings hung from her ears. The only other item she wore was a matching necklace that lay between her pert breasts. Jimmy traced the curves of her body up and down with his eyes before settling upon her wry smile.

He unzipped his pants and began tugging at himself, trying to get hard. The booze was beginning to wear off, but he was still in need of a cigarette. He pulled faster, but to no avail. So, he pressed his free hand against the wall and closed his eyes. Jimmy pictured the woman on the other side of the door. He imagined the soft mounds of her sweater pressing against him and felt himself swelling. He paused to lick his palm before settling into a rhythmic stroke. The smell of his breath on his hand turned his stomach, but only for a moment.

When he had finished, Jimmy flushed the toilet and returned to the sink. He took off his shirt and washed his armpits with hand soap, which he also used on his face and in his hair. It was difficult to rinse clean in the tiny sink, but he managed. Next, he pumped soap into his mouth. Jimmy gagged while using his tongue to spread it across his teeth. He then scrubbed them with a wet paper towel. His gums hurt. He took a few mouthfuls of water, swashed it about, and spit into the sink. As he dried himself with the remaining paper towels and struggled back into his dirty T-shirt, Jimmy prepared for the embarrassment of being seen. Better to be a dog, he thought. Still, he felt better.

When he exited the bathroom, everyone looked up. The mother and her child were gone and now an old man holding a pint glass filled with beer the color of maple syrup sat in Joel’s chair. Before Jimmy could say anything, Mike called him to his chair. 

“I don’t have any money,” Jimmy admitted. 

“I know,” Mike said. Then handed him a black long-sleeved T-shirt that still had creases in it from being folded up in the display case. On the front was a picture of the Grim Reaper clutching a clock and a banner that read, Killing Time at the Sideshow. “Here, put this on.”

“Okay,” Jimmy said and took off his old undershirt.

“You can just pitch that one,” Mike said and motioned to the garbage can. 

Jimmy pulled the new shirt over his head and fished his arms into the long sleeves. The fresh cotton felt good against his clean skin. “Why do you call this place the Sideshow?”

“Our main shop is around the corner on Main Street. Traditional, walk-in style kind of place. I opened this place up on the side for folks who just don’t have the time to wait around in line. Typically, you need an appointment here,” Mike explained.

“Oh, I don’t have an appointment,” Jimmy said, confused.

“No worries, have a seat,” Mike said. He patted the chair twice. “I’m free this hour.”

Jimmy sat down and looked at himself in the mirror––it was almost impossible not to. He could see the other men in his peripheral vision also staring straight ahead while their hairs were cut. They each wore wide, black capes draped over their bodies like tents. The man on the far end sipped his beer. Jimmy tried to puzzle out where he had got it from without having to ask. His eyes scanned the shop until they spied on a shelf above the Tiki bar. Nineteen pint glasses arranged in four rows of five glasses each. The middle glass in the second row was missing.

“What do you think about a side-part fade?” Mike asked. 

“Okay,” Jimmy said, unsure of what Mike meant. He was more interested in figuring out if the barbershop served beer. “How much for a beer?” he said so that only Mike could hear him. 

“I thought you said you didn’t have any money,” Mike said. 

“I got two bucks,” Jimmy admitted. He fished in his pants pocket for the bills that the girl at the café had given him. 

“Are you okay, Jim?” Mike asked. He knew the answer but wanted to make sure Jimmy wasn’t about to go off the deep end.

“Just to warm up,” Jimmy explained. He had met Mike’s gaze in the mirror. His eyes pleaded. 

“Alright,” Mike said, “put your money away.” Josh and Joel both looked at him disapprovingly. He waved off their concerned looks and walked behind the bar to retrieved a glass from the wall. He filled it three-quarters of the way full, then handed it to Jimmy saying, “Take a load off.”

Jimmy reached out his hands for the glass which he immediately raised to his lips. He cut short the gulp he was prepared to take so as not to look like an alcoholic. “Thank you. This is the best day I’ve had in years.”

Mike patted him on the shoulder and set to work with the electric clippers, running them up and down the circumference of Jimmy’s head. Large clumps of brownish-gray hair fell upon the tiled floor that Josh had just recently finished sweeping. Jimmy sipped at his beer and noticed for the first time that a radio was playing. Keening vocals bled from the pristine Stephens Tru-Sonic speaker mounted next to a boar’s head near the ceiling. His arms went limp and he rested the remainder of his beer on his lap. Jimmy closed his eyes, and in the darkness the song called forth a two-decades-old memory. His wife had exited the train at World Trade Center Station, leaving him alone for the rest of his commute to West 79th. The song was playing in his headphones as she squeezed his hand goodbye.

“So, where are you from?” Mike asked, still working the clippers near the base of Jimmy’s neck. 

“The city,” Jimmy said. He opened his eyes. “Brooklyn. Before everyone got priced out.” He took another sip of beer.

“What brings you all the way up here?” Mike asked. 

“PTSD, mostly,” Jimmy said. “I had to get outta there, start over. Except, I guess I never really started.”

“You a vet?” Mike asked.

Jimmy tried to focus on the buzzing sound of the clippers but they wouldn’t drown out the music altogether. “Can you change this song?” Jimmy asked. “I don’t want to be a bother or nothing, but…”

“Sure,” Mike said, sensing that Jimmy was upset. “Who put on Radiohead, anyway,” he asked the other two. They both shrugged.

“It must have just come on based on something else we were playing,” Josh suggested. 

“Yeah, the algorithm will get you from Bob Marley to The Police to UB-40 and all a sudden you’re listening to Radiohead because they happen to be English,” Joel explained. 

“Josh, could you throw on some Agent Orange or something,” Mike said. Josh left his post to fiddle with a phone near the cash register. 

“Thanks,” Jimmy said. He slurped the dregs of his beer before Mike started in with the scissors. The taste of alcohol had somehow sharpened his focus. He still wanted a cigarette. “Why are you doing this for me,” he finally asked. 

“We all need a little help sometimes. Today, that’s you. Tomorrow, maybe it’s me,” Mike said. “Do you have somewhere to go?”

“I think so,” Jimmy said. He watched as Mike parted his hair and greased it with a glob of pomade.

“I can trim your beard, too. Shape it up a little bit. We probably shouldn’t shave it all off in this weather,” Mike suggested. Jimmy agreed, and Mike tilted the chair back. 

The warm shaving cream felt like sunshine on his face, and the surf guitar playing through the speaker made the small shop feel like a Hawaiian paradise. Mike cut Jimmy’s beard short and shaved along the edges to give it all a clean, well-groomed look. He finished by slapping an aftershave balm on Jimmy’s neck and jowls that smelled delightful.

“That’ll do it then,” Mike said. He removed the cape and lowered the chair so that Jimmy could step out of it. “Listen, come on back in the next time you need a cut. It’s on the house.” 

“Thank you, Mike,” Jimmy said.

“Jimmy, take that coat hanging there,” Joel called from the other end of the shop, “I’ve got a backup at home.”

“Uh, I’ll be alright,” Jimmy said, not wanting to take any more of their generosity. “I won’t be outside too long.”

“Are you sure,” Joel asked. “It’s frigid out there.” 

“Yeah,” Jimmy said and turned to leave.

“Take it easy, man,” Josh said. 

“Okay, I will,” Jimmy promised. He shook Mike’s hand before reaching for the door. A teenaged boy pushed it open and entered the shop and Jimmy asked him for a cigarette. The kid retrieved one from a half-empty hard pack he pulled from his inside coat pocket and passed it to him with a lighter. Jimmy opened the shop door, leaned out into the cold and lit the cigarette with a long draw. He breathed out a plume of smoke, passed the kid his lighter, and gave the shop one last look. “I’m leaving,” he said, waving goodbye to the guys inside.

Jimmy walked slowly along Second Street. Light snow began to fall. He stopped to look into the window of an antique shop while breathing in the smoke from his cigarette. His neck was cold, but he liked the look of his reflection in the glass. Inside he noticed a hand-painted carnival sign that gave him pause. He only had two dollars in his pocket, which wouldn’t even buy him another cup of coffee, but he pulled at the door nonetheless hoping to get a closer look at the artwork. The door, however, was locked. Jimmy pressed his face to the glass and cupped his hands around his eyes to cut the glare. He couldn’t see anyone inside so he banged on the window a few times with his fist. No one came. He lingered there, finishing his cigarette and studying the sign’s shapes and colors until it became a memory of something he had seen before.

When there was nothing left of his cigarette but the filter, Jimmy pushed it into his pocket and walked along the snow-covered sidewalk past rows of Stockade District boutiques, an empty strip mall, and a gas station. He crossed over a busy intersection toward the deserted park opposite the dark storefronts. Baseball diamonds were recognizable only by their chain-link backstops and outfield fences topped with yellow plastic tubing. Past the snow-covered fields and through a densely-wooded area littered with automotive debris dumped there by a nearby garage, Jimmy arrived at a set of Catskill Mountain Railroad tracks. In the distance, a diesel engine howled through the cold valley. He sat down between the metal rails and waited.