Previous installments of Missing Time: Part 1, Part 2, Part 3.

Tim entered the elevator packed with business people staring blankly into their phones or in various stages of preparing to. Yesterday he had been lazy, so, today he would have to really make it count.

He spotted his mark. A young woman pressed shyly into the corner of the elevator, and shuffled his way to the vacant space beside her. Her eyes were ringed with dark circles, her shoes were scuffed, and her shoulders slouched forward. To the casual observer, she might appear to be doing fine, but Tim could see she was already in the beginning stages of giving up.

Her relatives back home thought she was living her dream in the Big Apple, she probably let them assume that. Her lunch had probably consisted of a bag of Fritos from the office vending machine. Her dinner might be free happy hour tapas at some neighborhood bar. Like so many people her age living in this city without a trust fund, survival was a continual juggling act.

New York City always had a way of seducing the dreamers. Once it had them in its grasp the city kept them entranced until the best of their years had slipped away. Only a small handful of lucky ones realized their dreams. Even fewer made it to middle age with their dignity intact.

As the doors closed and the elevator jerked, beginning its descent, Tim stumbled into the girl. In a flash, he deposited a tight roll of ten one-hundred dollar bills into her coat pocket.

“Pardon me. These old legs aren’t so steady anymore,” he said, laughing as he inched his way to a more socially acceptable distance.

The young woman flashed a sympathetic smile of the sort he was used to getting these days. Old age was setting in fast now, there was no denying it. Soon his hands would lose their dexterity, but for now, he would make the best of what he had left.

The young woman flashed a sympathetic smile of the sort he was used to getting these days. Old age was setting in fast now, there was no denying it. Soon his hands would lose their dexterity, but for now, he would make the best of what he had left.

After Tim got back from Vietnam, it was impossible for him to find work. He crisscrossed the west coast hitchhiking, taking whatever odd jobs he could find. To fill in the gaps in between employment, he relied on the pickpocketing skills taught to him by an old drifter he met in a beer joint in Oregon. Tim had only resorted to grifting when there were no other options, but it was still enough to weigh on his conscience. Tim was happy to have resurrected his talent, this time to try to rebalance the karmic scales.

Before he made it to the top stair of the subway station, he decided he would do something spontaneous on his way home. Tim would treat himself to something he had his eye on at the Black Gold record store for the past year -- a rare, minty, and very expensive autographed copy of The Bridge. This was a comeback album for Sonny Rollins, an opportunity to reinvent himself. At this particular moment, this album seemed copacetic, the perfect soundtrack for this next stage of Tim’s life.

“High and tight Joe, just like his pops.” Paul said to the old barber as he patted his flat top with his hand.

Timmy climbed cautiously into the red vinyl barber chair.

The air was heavy with the fragrance of clipper oil, talc, stale beer, and Old Spice. The barber looped the thin paper strip around Timmy’s neck, snapped the cape, and it slowly settled over top of him.

The barber struggled to comb through Timmy’s mop of thick, sun bleached hair, “Looks like it’s been a while, boy! Gettin’ kind of shaggy.”

Timmy smiled, bashfully nodding at him in the mirror.

The barber sorted through a drawer sliding on the number two guard.

“How’s life treating you, Paul?”, he said as he clicked on the clipper.

Paul looked up from the magazine he was thumbing through. “Happier than a pup with two peckers. You?”

Joe smiled as he took a rough pass at Timmy’s head with the clipper. “It’s summertime, been busier than a one-armed man with crabs.”

“That’s a good thing right? All ‘cept for the crabs part. Sure does explain some of those lopsided haircuts though.”

The two men laughed, and Timmy laughed too although he didn’t quite understand why. This was the first time he had witnessed his father talking this way, and he was trying his best to understand what was going on.

As he got older, Timmy learned his old man possessed a gift. He had the kind of charisma that could change the energy in a room. He could instantly make a stranger feel like they were an old friend. Tim felt his life would have turned out differently if he had inherited this gene from his dad. Less would have been left to fate and to the whims of those who wielded the power around him.

As he got older, Timmy learned his old man possessed a gift. He had the kind of charisma that could change the energy in a room. He could instantly make a stranger feel like they were an old friend. Tim felt his life would have turned out differently if he had inherited this gene from his dad. Less would have been left to fate and to the whims of those who wielded the power around him.

Joe took another swipe at Timmy’s hair revealing a few freckles on his scalp underneath.

“Speaking of peckers and crabs, Lyle said he saw you leaving the diner across town the other night with some redhead. Said the dame was gorgeous, like Lucille Ball or something.”

Paul absentmindedly fanned through the magazine pages. “That’s what he’s going around saying, is he? You know I work the night-shift down at the plant and one woman is plenty for me.”

“Mmm, hmm.” Joe grunted as he dipped the brush into a dented tin of powder, removed the cape and the paper strip, dappling talc across the back of Timmy’s neck.

“You’re ready to conquer the world now, sport!” Joe tossed him a Tootsie Roll from the glass dish on the counter.

Paul peeled a few crisp singles from his bank roll and tucked them into Joe’s shirt pocket and nodded his head.

“Thanks for everything, Joe.”, he said, holding the barber’s gaze just long enough to make him look away.

Paul stepped out of the barbershop jingling his keys. He walked towards his gray Hudson Hornet, and opened the driver’s door. Timmy climbed onto bench seat, made toasty by the sun and slid across to the other side. Paul leaned forward to put the keys in the ignition, pausing for a moment before turning them.

“Son, you understand that was just man talk in there, right?”

Timmy looked perplexed.

“It’s just nonsense and should be kept between us guys, understand?”

“You bet, Dad,” Timmy answered as he unwrapped his Tootsie Roll, bit it in half, wrapped up put what was left, and slid it into his pants pocket for later.

“Let me share a little secret with you I learned in the army.” Paul said, shifting into drive. As he slowly eased the car into traffic, the sunlight glinted off of its massive chrome hood ornament.

“Everyone’s got a little crazy in them. Whenever you meet someone the very first question you should ask yourself is, ‘What kind of crazy are you?’ Your dealings with everyone become a hell of a lot easier once you answer that question.”

Read On

With Gratitude,
~Eric Vance Walton~

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