week 4: Saturday morning at the barber shop

Eight inches of dense, wet snow had fallen since yesterday afternoon, and the roads into Black Grass, KY were covered with a sheen of icy slush. But Fred Jones was not about to let that stop him from doing what he had done six days a week for the past forty-seven years; he was going to open his barber shop. It was just before 7am when Fred slipped and slid his way down the hill to his old pickup truck and cranked the engine.

“C’mon girl. You can do it,” he said as he turned the key one more time. The engine roared to life and Fred began the short drive into town that he’d made for most of his life. He was taking his old truck because the keys to his new car were missing from the kitchen counter this morning. He just chalked it up to old age and grabbed the set to his work truck.

Fred grew up in this town, the son of a coal miner. His daddy was the only black miner for Peril County Coal Company in the ’60’s, but he always heard the other men say that there wasn’t a harder working man than Fred Sr. When he was a little older, Fred was a standout for the Peril County Panther basketball team. He was the leading scorer his junior year and lead them to the state semi-finals. A bad knee injury cut his career short the next year, but it wasn’t so bad that it kept him from being drafted by the Army just after graduation.

Fred did two tours in Vietnam and was awarded the Purple Heart and two Bronze Star’s for his service. He came home and decided that digging coal for the rest of his life was not something he was interested in. He’d spent a little time as a military barber at Fort Campbell between deployments and took that experience to get an early accreditation from the Appalachian Barber’s Academy. Jones’ Barber Shop opened on Main St. in Black Grass forty-seven years ago and except for holidays and two weeks of vacation every year, (always the week of July 4th and the week between Christmas and New Years) the shop was open six days a week.

The Dairy Cheer was doing good business that morning, with a line of cars stretching out to the main road. Fred’s wife, June, had filled his thermos with hot, black coffee before he’d left, so there was no need to stop. Fred never ate breakfast and always got a burger from the diner next to his shop for lunch on Saturdays. These weekend mornings were his favorite day at the shop, especially in the fall. Many of the local dignitaries would bring their breakfast and their papers in and philosophize about what went wrong with Peril County’s football game the night before and strategize on how to win the next week. But here in late January, most folks stayed in on these cold Saturday mornings. Fred figured he might have a few straggle through the doors, but he’d be lucky to make $30 by the time he locked the doors at noon.

Ice and snow were thick on the sidewalk in front of Jones’ Barber Shop right off of Main St. There were a few motorists brave enough to traverse the frozen morning and a handful of those waved at Fred as he walked from his truck to the shop. He could see across the square that the lights inside the bank were already on and the post office was open. “Folks always need their mail and their money,” he thought to himself as he stabbed a key into the lock.

Warm air hit Fred like a shotgun blast as he pushed the door open. The smell of his shop always made him smile and today was no exception. As much as he loved June and the house they shared, the house where they had raised five children, the house where thirteen grandchildren came every Thanksgiving and Christmas; this shop was where Fred felt most at home.

He hadn’t been in the shop ten minutes, cleaning an already spotless floor, when he heard the door open. It was Sheriff Higgins, a white man in his mid-forties with sandy red hair and a handlebar mustache. “Mornin’ Roy. Need a trim?” Fred asked.

The sheriff looked crestfallen as he took off his hat and walked further into the shop. “Not today Mr. Jones. ‘Fraid I’m here on official business.” He sat down and motioned for Fred to do the same. “When’s the last time you spoke to your niece, Frannie?”

Hearing the name come out of the sheriff’s mouth was not much of a shock, but it still sent a fury of thoughts running through the old barber’s mind. "What has that girl got herself into this time?” he asked as he sat in his swivel chair.

Frannie Jones was the baby of her generation; the youngest daughter of Fred’s youngest brother. She was younger than a few of Fred’s grandkids, even. And she had always been “troubled” as his Grand-mama Erma used to say. Frannie would lie and steal from an early age and started drinkin’ and drugin’ before she ever drove a car. She had a couple young’uns that her mom and dad had been raising since they were born addicted to whatever Frannie was taking at the time. She’d been to rehab a few times and county lockup a few times more.

“You seen her around here lately, Mr. Fred?” The Sheriff had grown up coming to Fred’s shop, getting hair cuts and listening to the old men talk about sports and politics. Fred felt that the sheriff respected him as a local citizen and as an honest man. The expression on his face shared that it pained the sheriff to do what he was doing. “I’m ‘fraid she’s in a spot a trouble.”

Fred shook his head. “It’s been a fair piece, I reckon. What’d she do now?”

Sheriff Higgins took in a deep breath. “Got a call early this mornin’ a’ two suspects ransacking an ol’ house out on 431. We dispatched a deputy, but by the time she got there, no sign of anyone and the house was engulfed. Officer said she recognized the smell of a meth lab. Fred, it was your mama’s house.”

Ms. Jones had been passed now 20 years but the family had kept that house up during that time for various folks to use as a stopping place when they were in town. Grand kids, nephews and cousins alike would use it as a place to sleep over on weekends and holidays and Ms. Jones’ kids all chipped in on the bills. Nobody had been staying there since they had a new years service at church. At least, that is what Fred had thought.

“I ain’t heard much from her in a while,” Fred said with regret dripping from every word. He’d always loved Frannie and tried to make over her when he could. But she tried her best to screw up every situation she could find herself in. “She came to the family Christmas for a few minutes, but that’s been it.”

The sheriff took a pad from his breast pocket and jotted something down. He ripped off the paper and handed it to Fred. “We’ve got an APB out on her. Mrs. Lewis across the street was pretty sure it was Frannie running out a the house when it went up. Said it looked like Sam Anderson was with her. We been watchin’ him for a while, if that tells you anything. Just thought you should know that. If you hear anything, let me know, will ya?”

Fred took the paper from the sheriff’s hand and folded it into his pocket. “Will do, sheriff. Will do.” They talked about nothing for a few more minutes before the sheriff’s radio went off. It seemed there was a fender bender on the other side of town, and he was the only officer on duty that morning.

“Guess I’ll go direct traffic for a few minutes. Good talkin’ to ya, Mr. Fred,” Sheriff Higgins said as he stood and put on his hat.

Fred stood to match the sheriff and stuck out his hand. “Always a pleasure, sheriff. I’ll ask around the family and see if anyone has seen Frannie.”

Sheriff Higgins nodded and walked out the door. Fred watched him climb into his cruiser and flip on the lights. He didn’t turn on the siren, Fred guessed, because it was still early and the sheriff didn’t want to wake anyone still sleeping in the apartments on Main St.

The rest of the morning was slow and quiet, with only a couple of regulars fighting the snow and ice to come in for a trim. Coach Simpson, the varsity football coach said he’d heard about Ms. Johnson’s old home place and offered his sympathy. A few hours later, Deacon Barrett wandered in for a shave and said he’d heard Frannie was on the run. “News sure travels fast ‘round here,” Fred said as he lathered up the deacon.

“Bad news travels faster, I’m afraid,” Mr. Barrett said as Fred lowered him in the chair. “The church Messenger Group was blown’ up all mornin with people offerin’ prayer requests and the like.”

Fred thought it sounded more like a gossip chain, but he kept that to himself. He gave the old Baptist a shave and thanked him for the $10 tip. After Deacon Barrett was finished, it was time to close up the shop. A quick swipe of the floor with his old broom, more for habit than necessity, and he started turning off the lights.

As he made his way to the door, the sound of something falling in the back of the shop stopped his heart for a moment. “Rat?” he thought to himself. There had been mice and rats in this old building for decades. He walked back to the storage closet and flicked on the light. When he opened the door, he saw a mass of dirty clothes and a singed blanket lying on the floor. It moved subtly.

“Well, I can guess where my set a keys snuck off to now,” Fred said aloud, looking down at Frannie. She was passed out, a pill bottle and fifth of Jack laying on the ground next to her. “What the hell am I supposed to do with you?”