(House of Spirits Part II)

Faded Memories

 Walking out of the bar, his words, "Everyone has a story..." echoed in my head and resonated with my heart and as much as I wanted to write the old guy off, had to agree, the last few chapters of my life had been a complete disaster. It was too painful to think about, much less discuss with a Barfly.
   I had left my car in a small parking lot a couple blocks off Elm Street, by the trainstation, near an old Barber Shop my father and I frequented when I was a still in single digits. The walk was giving me a chance to unwind from the previous scene, and time to process things. When I approached the Barber Shop I stopped and took a moment.
  I had not been there in years, so I stepped up to the window, pressed both hands against the glass, and leaned forward to look inside. The shop was lit by a small light mounted over a mirror that hung behind two Barber Chairs. When I looked through the window, a flood gate opened as I remembered walking into that same shop every other Saturday with my dad.
     I recalled climbing up into the chair and the sound of the Barber’s cutting cape popping in the air. I was always intrigued with how in one fluid motion, he could wrap it around my upper body as it fell across my lap and remembered the tickling sensation on the back of my neck when he clipped it together.
     I saw the chairs that lined the wall and from my mind’s eye could see my father sitting and reading from the latest issue of sports illustrated. I could smell the fragrance of different hair tonics from the Barber’s stash.  I heard the chatter of men talking about the weather and other things that didn’t matter, such as politics and small town gossip. My father was the local minister of a small country church, so the conversation was G rated, for the most part. Life was simple then and the memories left me longing for the innocence of youth again.
     But, the nostalgia quickly faded, with a haunting reality of yesterday being gone while the complications of my life were grew more difficult. And with that realization I heard the echo of Methuselah’s words, “Everyone has a story,” and understood the Barber Shop represented something more significant than a haircut. It was a rite of passage—written into the early chapters of my life. It was my dad’s way of bringing me into the fellowship of men.
     After the haircuts were finished and the gossip had run its course, my father and I would leave the shop and stop by Guilford Dairy for a Banana Split. He called it a “Sneaky,” and informed me I was to never tell my mother. It was his way of taking the ordinary and making it special. Creating memories that have lasted a life time.
     I had looked forward to a time when I would return the favor by doing the same kind of things with my own son, but that was no longer a possibility.  And with that understanding I stepped back from the window, and looked to the parking lot where I had left my car, then tuned my head toward bar, where I had left Methuselah and knew I had to go back and hoped he was still there.