Jericho Page 11

  “How you doin, gents?” he’d say when we went in.

  “What do you know, Lonnie?” someone would ask back.

  “Can’t complain, can’t complain. What’s the use of it, eh? How’s the missus?”

  “Not bad. Yours?”

  This was like the catechism of the barbershop. Everybody knew the answers and the questions.

  He’d laugh a sad laugh, happy-go-lucky, at the last bit. “Well, she’s a real piece of machinery, let me tell you. One minute everything’s hunky-dory …”

  I’m not kidding. This is how these people talked.

  A customer to the barber: “Remember to give me high up over the ears, will you?”

  Lonnie to the barber: “How’s business been?”

  Barber answers back: “It hasn’t. Not so you’d notice. Nobody wants a haircut any more. They want their hair styled.” Everybody would laugh. “It’s like that old joke. ‘What’s the difference between a haircut and a hair style? About five bucks.’”

  This was a real thigh-slapper, another of Lonnie’s pet expressions preserved from his young days.

  “You know,” the barber was saying, “I was hoping to give the shop to my son one day. You know my boy, eh? Yeah, well, he wants no part of it. He’s still going to school. Says he’s going to get a degree in philosophy. I tell him, ‘What are you going to do, open a philosophy shop?’ He’d be better at this, you know what I mean? Customers are all young kids now anyway.”

  Everyone seemed to be looking at me.

  “That’s because the rest of us are going bald,” Lonnie said. “Them combs get sharper and sharper.”

  The barber ignored him. “They want to go to some other young kid with tight pants and his shirt open down to here to get their hair styled. You understand what I’m saying? They even got girls cutting their hair now.”

  “Well, you’re keeping busy,” Lonnie would say. “That’s the main thing.”

  “I wish I was.”

  The guy in the chair said, “Every time I come in here, you’re sitting in the chair reading the paper or something.”

  “Except on Saturday,” the barber said. “Saturday’s still not too bad.”

  “Well, you got your health,” Lonnie said, still all happy-go-lucky. “That’s the important thing. If you got your health, you’ve got everything. Don’t matter how much money you have if you don’t have your health.”

  “You could be E.P. Bloody Taylor.”

  “Yeah, you got your health,” Lonnie said. “I only wish I could say the same.”

  “You feeling a bit under the weather there, sport?”

  “I got this problem, see. Had it all my life, I guess, but I never knew anything about it until they made me take this checkup. I’ve got some pills for it. And the tests! I take so many tests it feels like I’m back in school.”

  “You were never very good in school,” said the guy in the chair. Then to the barber: “Him and me were the dumbest kids in the place.”

  “We did our share of horsing around, though, didn’t we?”

  The guy getting his haircut laughed. “You remember Old Man Ridgeway? He was this big hulk of a man, see. Had a jaw like a sack of sugar. He used to say, ‘Lad, I’ll drive you so far into the deck it’ll take two Mack trucks to pull you out again.’”

  “Course, he had to be tough. That was a tough bunch back in those days.”

  “Sure was. You remember the Eyetalian named Smith. What was his name?”

  “They called him Cappy.” Lonnie volunteered the information but I could tell he was being careful about what else he might say.

  “Christ, I haven’t thought of him in years. Jesus, Ridgeway used to get on his back and he’d just give as good as he got.”

  “Remember he went around with his hand all wrapped up for so long?” Lonnie held up one paw like it was injured.

  “His hand?”

  “Cappy and his girlfriend—I think it must have been the Calder girl …”

  “Helen Calder,” the customer explained to the barber. “She was this real fast number. They say she did more things than a penknife.”

  Lonnie became the historian once more. “Cappy and her were walking up Woodward one Saturday night by the Loew’s. A guy was up on a ladder, changing the words on the marquee. You know them big glass letters they used to have? Well, the guy’s taking down letters that say Clark Gable and putting up ones that say Gary Cooper or something. Cappy and the girl walk by underneath and stop to smooch. The guy on the ladder hollers at them to get the hell away and Cap begins hollering back at him. ‘Get away from here, you little bastard,’ the guy on the ladder says. And Cappy just tips the ladder over. The guy comes crashing down, glass letters breaking all around them. Made one hell of a crash. Cappy got cut up pretty bad. That’s why he went around with his mitt all bandaged.”

  The others were listening very carefully, so he added a punchline, softly. “Wasn’t his gun hand, though.”

  The guy in the chair wanted to know what happened to the fellow on the ladder.

  “Oh, I think he was hurt pretty bad.”

  “Did Cappy get in trouble with the cops for that one?” The barber addressing the historian.

  “For a little while, until he got into the real money.”

  “When you’re rich you can get away with anything.”

  “In this burg, you have to be able to get away with anything to get rich.”

  This made all the heads nod up and down.

  Then all these guys would sort of wander away from the point they’d all agreed on, and Lonnie would lose the chair as historian.

  “What you do think about the Leafs?” the barber might ask.

  “They say Mahovlich is still on his streak, but I don’t know. I hope so.”

  “I put my money on Little Davey Keon. He’s small but you never seen a kid skate like that.”

  “That’s what they say, that’s what they say all right.”

  “Course, they’re not the Leafs of the old days. Remember them? The Kid Line. Charlie Conacher, right wing, Busher Jackson, left wing, Joe what’s his name at centre.”

  “Primeau. Joe Primeau.”

  Lonnie said that from behind the newspaper he’d picked up. All this talk was getting close to treason in a Red Wings town. “Says here that the city has said go ahead on that plaza they want to build. Says it’s a great deal for the community. What a bunch of malarkey. Politicians trying to buffalo everybody while lining their own pockets as usual. They’re as crooked as a dog’s hind leg.” There was a pause. “What’s a plaza going to do to your business here, do you think?”

  “I’ll tell you it isn’t going to help any, that’s for sure. A thing like that just drives people away from the street. I’ve seen it happen.”

  The guy was almost finished getting his haircut.

  The barber said, “Lonnie, do you remember when me and you used to get higher than a kite on a couple of bottles of beer? You can do that when you’re young. We used to paint the town red, the two of us, didn’t we?”

  “We’d wake up in the morning in Snaketown sick as a dog. I was saying this to the wife just this morning: horseplay is one thing but, Jesus, sooner or later you got to, well, take responsibility. You know what I mean, of course.”

  “What’s all that about?”

  “We’re all getting older.”

  “Ain’t it the truth.”

  “It hit me again all of a sudden just a minute ago when we were talking: I know somebody who’s been dead more than thirty years.”

  “Who’s that?”

  “Nobody.”

  But Lonnie was one of the last people to see him alive.

  “The doctor will see you now.”

  By this time Lonnie was in such a hurry to get all decrepit that he got me to come with him. I was supposed to ask the doctor what the patient forgot to ask. That was my job. I had to make sure the doctor explained in English that the patient and me could understand. I was the witness. The
job of historian had been passed to me.

  “Mr. Bischoff, is it?”

  “That’s right.”

  “You were Dr. White’s patient?”

  “I was. At least I was until he moved to the States. I guess you people do a lot better down there, eh? That’s what I read.”

  “Dr. White has given up his practice here, yes. I have his records but they seem to be incomplete.”

  Lonnie looked over at an almost life-size plastic skeleton hanging in the corner. “I guess he didn’t make it, eh, Doc?” There was what you could call a clammy silence. “Must be left over from Dr. White.”

  “Now about your childhood …”

  “I was a kid during the Depression, you see. Funny in a way. My old man came over from Germany because it was pretty rough over there.”

  “Childhood diseases, Mr. Bischoff. Have you ever had the mumps …?”

  “At my stage of life, does that really matter?” But he could read the doctor’s face and figured out that it did. He understood, one history buff to another. “Nope.”

  “Chicken pox?”

  “Nope.”

  “Scarlet fever?”

  “Naw.”

  “Rheumatic fever?”

  “Is that like rheumatism?”

  “No, rheumatic fever. It’s a disease in children and adolescents that weakens the heart.”

  “No, not that.”

  “But you do suffer from rheumatism?”

  “No.”

  “What profession are you in, Mr. Bischoff? Do you work a lot out of doors?”

  Lonnie tried to hide his hands, hide how rough-looking they were. “When I worked, I worked inside mostly. I’m a finishing carpenter and general handyman, but I’m pretty much retired now. That is, I’m self-employed but I’m not getting much work any longer. You know how it is.”

  Apparently the doctor did not in fact know how it is. Big surprise.

  “I guess I talk too much,” Lonnie said.

  “Well, Mr. Bischoff, talk is mainly what we’re here for today. I’m trying to see all of Dr. White’s patients who are on continuing medication. How are you finding the nitroglycerine spray?”

  “It works great, I guess.”

  “You’re not finding your normal activities too strenuous? And you’re taking the Pravacal as prescribed?”

  “You bet.”

  “How about at home? You’re not experiencing any side effects or any difficulties at night?”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “You’re following the diet Dr. White suggested for you?”

  “To tell the truth, I have fallen down a bit there. It’s kind of hard in my—situation—to stick to the rules all the time. But I do the best I can.”

  “You really should try to follow the diet to the letter, Mr. Bischoff. Avoid fried foods, prepared foods of all kinds and red meats and of course monitor your cholesterol and fat intakes very closely. Are you getting proper rest?”

  “That’s one of the things I wanted to talk to you about, Doc. It’s not exactly a rest home round there, if you follow me.”

  “I’m afraid I don’t.”

  “I’ve been married as many years as you are old.”

  “Go on.”

  “And my wife’s sicker than I am. We used to be able to take care of one another but I’m not sure how much longer that can go on.”

  “What is your wife’s medical problem?”

  “She’s being treated for cancer, Doc. And she has conniption fits. She’s always had a terrible temper.”

  “Has she been under psychiatric care as well as treatment for her cancer?”

  “No, never has. Wouldn’t hear of it. But she flies off the handle at the drop of a pin, when she has the strength. Of course, she’s been a terrible drinking woman almost as long as I can remember.”

  “Has your wife ever been diagnosed as an alcoholic?”

  “No, ma’am, she’s not an alcoholic. I wouldn’t say that. But she does put it away pretty good. That’s not really what the matter is, though.”

  “If you feel your wife needs counselling, perhaps she should see a colleague of mine. Referrals to a specialist are the usual custom in cases like this. I know a very good woman in the field.”

  “You think she’s a kook or something? No, that’s not it. She’s not crazy. She just acts crazy all the time. Since she’s been sick, I look back on them days as the good times. When she gets real mad, I know she’s having a good day.”

  I worried if I should butt in at this point but I didn’t know what words to use.

  “Is she subject to hallucinations?” the doctor asked, moving back in her chair.

  “I just mean she’s not happy most of the time,” Lonnie said.

  “The same can be said for many of us, Mr. Bischoff.” She seemed totally straight when she said this, didn’t know how flat she sounded. She wasn’t one of those people whose intentions you can read. Unlike Lonnie, who was worried and nervous and wouldn’t shut up.

  “I mean she goes on the warpath, busting up the place and everything. When she gets in one of her spells, there’s hell to pay.”

  “And she behaves this way when she’s been drinking?”

  “When she’s drinking I know there’s a bad one coming for sure. But, I dunno, the last couple years that’s not been a guarantee. It used to be, when we were first married, she’d drink gin. Her mother told me once that the old man liked that too. In recent years, though, she’s taken to Seagram’s.”

  The doctor looked blank. Professional and all that but she didn’t want to get involved.

  “It does sound as though your wife has a problem in addition to her medical condition.”

  “I’m sort of getting ahead of myself here. All that, what I just told you, that was a long time ago. She doesn’t drink so much any more. She’ll only keep a little bit in the place at one time. It’s not her drinking that makes a difference. She was always what you could call a moody person. She’d always blow hot and cold whether she was hitting the bottle or not. But there was always some kind of rhyme and reason to it. When the kid here was small and she was cooped up all the time looking after him, then she’d really go at it at night. She’d let go at anybody, come to think of it. But she’s not that moody any more. Not good and bad. Just sick mostly. That’s the only mood she’s got.”

  “I see. Well, I think you’ll find, with most people, that we reach a time of diminishing expectations. We get to an age where we realize that we haven’t accomplished many of the goals we set out to achieve when we were younger.” This doctor wasn’t all that much older than me. “It can be a peaceful time. But for some people it can be a very disturbing one too. But I’m not really the person you should be speaking with about this.”

  “You’re the only person I’ve got to talk to about it, ma’am.”

  “No, you just believe I am. There are specialists trained in dealing with situations of this sort, both from your point of view and your wife’s.”

  “A specialist isn’t going to do the trick, ma’am. I know what the matter is. It’s me. This is kind of tough for an old guy to say, but I’ve let her down in life. I’ve been letting her down a long while, each year a bit more.”

  “This bears on my point. I’m in family practice but that just refers to treating the medical needs of all the members of the family. It sounds to me as though you and your wife need a specialist trained in relationship difficulties. Of course, her present medical condition may make this difficult …”

  “It’s me, I’m the problem. Somebody told me once I was a romantic. You know what that means?”

  “Of course.”

  “It means I go off half-cocked. It means I think I can go through life pretending things are a lot more interesting than they really are. The fellow explained it to me like this. He said I go round acting like I’m in a story in some magazine. That I think there’s a plot, like on a TV show. You know what I mean? For years I got her believing it too, just bec
ause that’s the way I acted. For me it was sort of good practice. I’m getting old, Doc, but most of the time I don’t let it get me down. Like I said a minute ago, I haven’t amounted to much but I knew that anyway. Being a romantic like this was how I got by. Now that I’m really getting to be an old man I’m not so bothered by it. I still got that other side of me.”

  The doctor was getting restless listening to all this. I was too but that’s because I’d heard it all before.

  “I used to think she was just like me. Let me tell you, when we were younger we had some pretty good times together. I thought we were sort of like twins. Then it all went haywire somewhere. For a long time I thought she was stringing along with me, but the last few years I seen it the way it really was. I went on being old Lonnie, everybody’s pal with his tool box, and she started seeing things the way they really are. She don’t like me being one of the boys with other people. She thought that was just our thing, the two of us. She learned something else too. She saw me putting it on all the time and I guess she figured that I’d been putting it on all these years. She sort of got the idea that I’d tricked her or something. Or that what we had wasn’t real. Hell’s fire, I don’t know what she thought was going on. But I see now we probably shouldn’t have stayed together all this time when none of us knew what the other one was thinking.”

  The doctor looked kind of thoughtful, I would say. I guess that was all she could do in the circumstances.

  “I can sympathize with the difficulties in your home life, Mr. Bischoff. But my concern is with how they affect your physical health. I must repeat that I’m a family practitioner. For this sort of situation you might wish to see a therapist who’s specifically trained to help you.”

  The session didn’t last much longer.

  What happened next is that Paulette died and Lonnie gave up the apartment—I helped him move, what a day that was—and took a room at the Dempster. Hard as this was to believe to look at it, the dump had been, like I already said, one of the glories of his youth: the scene of much play. Now Lonnie was alone. I spent as much time with him as I could, learning to be the next historian. Lonnie would talk about her a lot. He told me that in her last years she would phone the Vets taxi dispatcher every day to get him to send a cab to the LCBO to get her a pint of Seagram’s Gold. Never a quart, always a pint. Cost nine dollars. I guess she couldn’t trust herself with any more than that at a time. But when Christmas came up that year, she’d got the taxi to bring her two pints or three—one for each day the liquor store would be closed.