oval mirror hanging from the paneled wall and shifted about nervously as Cowboy Roy set the musty-smelling wig on top of his head. “Hold still,” he ordered the boy, working the elastic band of the hairpiece down over the boy’s skull. “Got to make it fit right, don’t we?” the trucker said, looking over Daniel’s shoulder and grinning at him in the mirror. The boy could feel the man’s belly pressing up against him.
Finally, the trucker said, “Not bad. What you think?”
The long wig cascaded down Daniel’s scrawny back, a tangle of big blond curls. “It’s a little long, ain’t it?” the boy said.
“Well, shoot, you just need a trim,” the trucker said. “Stay right there.” Cowboy Roy hurried into the kitchen and came back out with a jagged fillet knife. “I can’t find no scissors, but this will do the job.” He grabbed a length of the brittle hair in his stubby fingers. “Say about this much?” he asked the boy.
“Maybe I oughta do that,” Daniel said.
“Just don’t make no sudden moves,” Cowboy Roy said.
“That’s what my old man told me.”
“Oh, yeah, I forgot,” the trucker said. “Hell, I ain’t gonna hurt you. This damn thing cost thirty dollars.”
“That’s good.”
The trucker started in, chewing his chapped lips as he hacked off pieces of his dead mother’s fancy wig and let them flutter to the floor. After a few minutes, he stepped away and slid the knife into the back pocket of his coveralls. He reached behind him for a pint bottle sitting on the end table next to the couch, his eyes never leaving the boy. As he unscrewed the cap, he said, “What you say now, pardner?”
Daniel stared into the mirror. The hair draped from his head like a thick curtain. He kept turning from side to side, looking at himself from different angles. No longer did he see the scabs on his scalp, the bony triangle of face, the acne flaming across his skin like a brushfire. “It does make a difference,” he finally said, turning away from the mirror, his voice barely a whisper.
“Goddamn if it don’t,” Cowboy Roy said. “Hell, I bet there ain’t many dolls look so pretty.” His face was flushed with heat, his body trembling. After steadying himself with a deep breath, he stepped closer and held out the bottle of whiskey. “C’mon, let’s celebrate,” he croaked.
Daniel tried to laugh, but that had always been too hard for him. He’d never had anything to celebrate, not once in his whole life. He took a small drink from the bottle, and as he handed it back, he felt the trucker’s fat, sweaty hand touch his and linger there for a moment. And suddenly, Daniel knew that if he looked in the mirror again, he’d see the wig for what it really was. So instead, he closed his eyes.
PILLS
I WAS HIDING OUT IN FRANKIE JOHNSON’S CAR, A CANARY-YELLOW ’69 Super Bee that could shit and get. We were on a spree, stealing anything we could get our hands on—tape players and car batteries, gasoline and beer. It was a day or two after my sixteenth birthday, and I hadn’t been home in a week. And even though my old man was telling everyone around Knockemstiff that he hoped I was dead, he kept driving up and down the township roads with his head out the window looking for me like I was one of his lost coonhounds.
Frankie kept saying that three hundred dollars would get us to California, but the only person we knew who had anything worth that much money was Wanda Wipert. Depending on who she was fucking at the time, a man could end up sleeping at the bottom of the Dynamite Hole with trash fish and bald tires for ripping Wanda off. Besides that, my old man’s place was right across the road from her house. “No way,” I said. Even talking about it gave me the willies.
“Fuck ’em,” Frankie said. “Shit, Bobby, we’ll be three thousand miles away.”
We broke in through the bathroom window. Pressed into the gray scum of the tub, our boot prints looked like those fossil
Finally, the trucker said, “Not bad. What you think?”
The long wig cascaded down Daniel’s scrawny back, a tangle of big blond curls. “It’s a little long, ain’t it?” the boy said.
“Well, shoot, you just need a trim,” the trucker said. “Stay right there.” Cowboy Roy hurried into the kitchen and came back out with a jagged fillet knife. “I can’t find no scissors, but this will do the job.” He grabbed a length of the brittle hair in his stubby fingers. “Say about this much?” he asked the boy.
“Maybe I oughta do that,” Daniel said.
“Just don’t make no sudden moves,” Cowboy Roy said.
“That’s what my old man told me.”
“Oh, yeah, I forgot,” the trucker said. “Hell, I ain’t gonna hurt you. This damn thing cost thirty dollars.”
“That’s good.”
The trucker started in, chewing his chapped lips as he hacked off pieces of his dead mother’s fancy wig and let them flutter to the floor. After a few minutes, he stepped away and slid the knife into the back pocket of his coveralls. He reached behind him for a pint bottle sitting on the end table next to the couch, his eyes never leaving the boy. As he unscrewed the cap, he said, “What you say now, pardner?”
Daniel stared into the mirror. The hair draped from his head like a thick curtain. He kept turning from side to side, looking at himself from different angles. No longer did he see the scabs on his scalp, the bony triangle of face, the acne flaming across his skin like a brushfire. “It does make a difference,” he finally said, turning away from the mirror, his voice barely a whisper.
“Goddamn if it don’t,” Cowboy Roy said. “Hell, I bet there ain’t many dolls look so pretty.” His face was flushed with heat, his body trembling. After steadying himself with a deep breath, he stepped closer and held out the bottle of whiskey. “C’mon, let’s celebrate,” he croaked.
Daniel tried to laugh, but that had always been too hard for him. He’d never had anything to celebrate, not once in his whole life. He took a small drink from the bottle, and as he handed it back, he felt the trucker’s fat, sweaty hand touch his and linger there for a moment. And suddenly, Daniel knew that if he looked in the mirror again, he’d see the wig for what it really was. So instead, he closed his eyes.
PILLS
I WAS HIDING OUT IN FRANKIE JOHNSON’S CAR, A CANARY-YELLOW ’69 Super Bee that could shit and get. We were on a spree, stealing anything we could get our hands on—tape players and car batteries, gasoline and beer. It was a day or two after my sixteenth birthday, and I hadn’t been home in a week. And even though my old man was telling everyone around Knockemstiff that he hoped I was dead, he kept driving up and down the township roads with his head out the window looking for me like I was one of his lost coonhounds.
Frankie kept saying that three hundred dollars would get us to California, but the only person we knew who had anything worth that much money was Wanda Wipert. Depending on who she was fucking at the time, a man could end up sleeping at the bottom of the Dynamite Hole with trash fish and bald tires for ripping Wanda off. Besides that, my old man’s place was right across the road from her house. “No way,” I said. Even talking about it gave me the willies.
“Fuck ’em,” Frankie said. “Shit, Bobby, we’ll be three thousand miles away.”
We broke in through the bathroom window. Pressed into the gray scum of the tub, our boot prints looked like those fossil
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