PHOTOCOPY from "Not Immediately A Parent"

Here is a short story from my first collection.... 

            It was the third haircut he needed that year, but the first one he had arranged at his chair.  The young man would be in around ten-thirty, time enough before lunch, after the nannies brought in the boys whose parents were too busy to hold their hands.  Roberto looked at the wall in quiet indifference, the photocopies of celebrities and civic leaders taped randomly next to the mirror over faded models’ hairstyles that had gone out of fashion a decade ago.  They would be back he thought to himself, they always came back.  It seemed a shame to hide their faces, his friends from the past that reminded him of customers trying to place their own face between two ears, trying to picture a smile after his work was done.

Selection from NOT IMMEDIATELY A PARENT

 Here's a selection from a story called "Train'd Peoples"  from my first short story collection, Not Immediately A Parent, available this fall on Amazon.

 TRAIN’D PEOPLES

            New Canaan, Connecticut, a place where pressing one button will bring four lanes of opposing traffic to a dead standstill for twenty two seconds, allowing the plastic pusher a brief and unsatisfying stroll across memorized lanes, barely escaping the exhaust trying to run them over after the light turns green.  A bicycle-clad officer stands by, offering pre-printed assistance to those unfamiliar with New Canaan’s buggy and horse traffic laws.  “It don’t make no darn sense,” you find yourself saying on the inside, a primal response to stupidity and lack of fast-food convenience.  One would think that walking with traffic would suffice as a pedestrian flow for the modern age, but it appears that the inhabitants of this backward Connecticut hamlet like to count to twenty two before asking, “Who’s head is this that I run over before me?”  As charming as all of this four-wheeled wonder is, I find that it serves as only the gateway to a much grander play on words, the loco motives, or “train’d peoples” as my wife casually refers to them as.  In short, there is a train that brings the inhabitants of civilization to this sleepy burb, and in some ways acts as the cultural exchange between those with a little money and those with so much money that tupperware feels uncomfortable visiting it’s faberware cousin from the country.  I’m not blaming the money for New Canaan’s bankruptcy of compassion or burgeoning asswiping, I do however think that a little more curiosity about why everything has worked in their favor might erase some of their scowls and short tempered smiles.