Self-Betting-Meant

The distinct scent of perfume, shampoo, and shaving cream slapped my nose as I entered through the glass doors logoed in bright golded font, “Santio’s Palor Est. 1955.” 

The buzz of electronic clippers and razors mimicked a swarm of bees in which their sounds engulfed my very ears. It was a barbershop, what would you expect. Along the floor littered the casual variances of hair. There was a long type of brown hair that never had the intention of meeting the red curly fur of hair partnered in its mix. Big, floor to ceiling, type windows hugged the generic scene of the barbershop. The sun’s casual ray of midday light talked with the glow of the fluorescent lights that hung rectangularly above. Three workers covered the shop, two of which were in the middle of clientele haircuts and one, stocky-built and thick black hair, sat bluntly bored at the desk. 

“Hello,” monotonously said the cashier while he read Sports Week’s True Athlete article. 

As though we were on the same topic, I responded in likewise tone, “Ross Murphy. I’m here for the two o’clock and… *cough,*’ adding under a hasty breathe, “midnight buzz, Patrick.”

The cashier looked up as though I told him his mother passed away. After a moment of simple starring, the cashier realized there was a next part and told me in an exaggerated voice, “Uh-ya-oh… the back. See that door. Go there and you should… go luck.”

Giving a slight nod I encouraged, “Thanks, Nick. Don’t fret.” 

All I focused on was the oakwood founded door. Everything else looked like basic shit. White floor tiles met white ceiling tiles partnered with a couple of mirrors. A couple of black-leathered chairs line themselves ordinarily in front of the mirrors. Yet, this door was its own house. Unlike the black handle of the glass door, this door flagged a flamboyant gold doorknob and deep-brown-rich wood that bragged its expensiveness. 

I knew what people expected, so everything I did was the opposite out of rebellious spirit and spit. My pearly plump dimples displayed as I kept a calm stride through the what seemed like the never-ending corridor of chairs and weird kippah-like domes that, I think, people in the 70s used. I don’t know, but they seem like something not built for 2011. The door, either way, oddly grew bigger, darker, as though the closer you came the more power it gained. 

Two consecutive knocks followed by one deliberate knock and a matched second. 

“Yo, Brick I’m here,” I deeply emphasized. 

What the hell am I doing? Like really Ross, what―do you think this will work. I can act all I want but inside of me is volcanic in fear. Brick left his brother like wiping off a crumb from his lip. He’s taken Shoe, Naple, and even freaking Nick who has always been a rogue. Who am I? No, really Ross what makes you think you can just undo the arbitrary power of a man? His name is Brick!

“You going in or what!” eagerly cried Nick across the room, while the other two barbers also paused their haircuts to listen.

Apparently, my indecisiveness was known and my thinking became abundant. Screw it, I am nothing and what is worse than that.

I swung the door open to a room dimly lit by a yellow hanging lap that floated over an empty black desk. In the middle of which, a dehydrated pee color row of teeth flashed. 

“Hello, Ross. Enter, please my good sir,” the suave voice rang in the room’s emptiness.

Taking an unnoticeable deep breath, followed in its exhale, “God damn me,” I walked in the room just as notable in the way in which I entered.

The scene did not change much once I walked through the doorway and so I sat in the cold metal chair placed across the dirty-teethed man. Everything in the room though felt weirdly similar to how it was in the barbershop behind me, except for the fact it very dark. The smell of hair products still crept in my nose, and the sounds of hair being cut rang just as any it would at any barbershop. 

In moments like this, where you know the inevitable bad will happen, it’s best never to show that you know. Once you flinch they always win. That’s the rule of thumb I’ve learned.

Politely I greeted, “G’day Brick everything good?”

Brick gave two deep grunts before proceeding, “Well ya know Ross my day actually hasn’t been good which is weird since a man like me is always used to having good days. Don’t ya agree?”

“Of course Brick life sometimes acts like that. Nothing is―.”

“Shut up, please. I don’t need a Plato outlook by a degenerate,” calmly, yet still noticeably stern demanded Brick. He leaned in closer across the table, displaying his oddly soft face. Unlike the manner in which he acted, Brick’s physical appearance was somewhat like that of a short dad who would coach little league baseball. He consisted of an obviously poorly hidden receding hairline that meshed into his steel-gray scruffle of a beard. Brick’s skin seemed tired for its slight wrinkles, but nevertheless, still holding. But the eyes. Two violent green rocks shot out of his eye sockets every time eye contact was made. It felt as though he knew their effect and so he made it his priority of use whenever interrogating someone. Pulling out a box of Malboro Reds and a cheap lighter, he lit the cig and arrogantly took a slow, emphasized drag of tobacco. 

Now it seemed his intro was enough, for both him and definitely myself, for he now he continued his conversation with me. 

“Ross have you ever wondered why people just know Malboro Reds… the cigarette brand,” he annoying added for I showed no wanted reaction.

“Uh-they were popular, weren’t they? Sort of like Coke people―,” but before I could elaborate Brick cut me off again. 

“It’s because of power― Well if you want to play semantics it’s, of course, simple advertising, but more so, I see it as what the advertising did,” Brick took another extended inhale before leaning back in his office chair and then pressing on, “Women used to only smoke’em because back then real men didn’t smoke filtered cigs. At least not until they came out with the Malboro Man―y’know the guy in the cowboy suit and shit. All it took was one moment, one commercial, and now everyone identifies with Malboro Red even if they don’t smoke. All because they mean power, manhood, and so on. What does that make you think Ross? Am I right?” And with that last question, his stoney eyes pierce through mine like a pin through cloth.

 Well, what the hell do I say to that! Right, right? The nerves have gotten to me at this point because in my stomach and in my head I can basically feel their minuscule vibrations everywhere in my body.  

Trying my best to sound indifferent to his intimidation I answered, “Well Brick you are right. True marketers can make a simple table seem like a one-of-a-kind fashion statement,” and with the last syllabus I held my breath, for no reason whatsoever but I did and a held a twitchy face with it.

Those marshy teeth flashed once more. He knows I flinched. Brick sat up now and took several moments to finish his cigarette and then casually but still somewhat commandingly said, “Ross that’s an interesting name. Irish?

“Er-I think so. My―.”

“I’m half Irish. Get it from Dad. They too follow the story of Malboro. Once complete outcasts they are now just everyday citizens…,” Brick folded his arms, slouched his head a little, and then asked, “Ross you want to know why my barbershop has just three little, insignificant people out in the front? Huh-don’t ya want to know!” 

Hasitly I replied, “Uh-y-ya of course-why do you only have―.”

BANG!

Brick’s boulder fist slapped the table at that moment.

His suave voice was no longer and instead a loud and deep raspiness filled his mouth, “Are you just that stupid! I don’t like when people play with me! Am I not your bookie… ANSWER DUMBASS!” Brick furiously demanded for I just sat blankly in his presence.

He’s in control Ross. Now change that idiot. 

“Yes Brick you are my bookie,” I voiced. 

Still yelling but more so in a patronizing voice Brick continued, “Well good now we see each other! I’m the bookie you are the lousy gambler! So that means every bet you lose―which happens to be a lot lately―you pay me. Right?”

“Yes.”

Now standing up, Brick eyed me once again, changing back to his initial infuriatingly smooth voice, “Okay we are now on the same page. So why do I keep hearing―and of course this could be rumors or bullshit―that a man by the name of Ross, who I learned is an Irish no one, is now running his own book. His own book that has not only taken away my beautiful customers but has also been taking my men as well―DON’T! ”

Brick pointed at the door for it only opened slightly before being quickly shut. Though what stood out was he glared at the door for several seconds. What is he waiting for? Wait he might be thinking, lost in thought? His face was scrunched and tight like lettuce texture, similar to how I was on the other side of that same door. He seemed on almost of the verge of tears, frustrated tears. I beat him, I now know what this is all about. It dawned, he’s the one on nerves now. A true person of focus doesn’t steer away from their objective nor show irrationalness. My Dad taught me that when I almost failed my high school speech class. Thanks Dad.

And so the cycle of uncertain thought pervaded my mind just like fear did at the door. But no longer was fear attached. Wait-can I really pull this off? Yes of course! He’s a person, I’m a person what’s the difference really? He has fear just like I did. So what he has a reputation, anyone at one point another had to build it from the ground up. This is my ground up moment Ross, get your shit together. 

As he rambled on I then leaned back myself, balancing on the hind legs of the chair.

“It has been talked that you and people you have encouraged are purposefully not paying me? Now why is that, why stop something that has been so good?”

Whether it was fear, anger, boldness, or just simply not caring, I focused my eyes solely on his to the point I could examine each and every one vessel of his.

With a focus in mind, my nerves like droplets evaporating eased as I spoke strongly, “It seems like that’s a message from the people we don’t owe you anything. What did you think would happen? Ever since the recession you up’d your juice 5%. Already from a bold taking of 20%. More so, your payouts are no longer every Monday but whenever you feel like it. That’s laziness right there. You think you became all that when you took over Shoe’s book in the eastside. C’mon Brickie you know better, you know a quick punch and threat doesn’t just end the deal. Better to have friends than enemies, even if your friends are all enemies. Right? Am I right Brick?

BANG! 

Brick just slammed two gorilla-like fists onto the table once more.

Dumbfounded Brick cried, “Who the hell―”

“You also ratted on your own brother Brickie. Your own brother man. All because he cut you $100 short for some accidental bet he never placed. That was really just some smuck from who knows what that faked in the order. The Brick falling for some petty bum prank call? Sheesh, Brickie―.”

“FOR THE LOVE GOD YOU CALL ME BRICKIE ONE MO―!”

“Or what?” I calmly replied, “I have all your clientele information logged in and set on my laptop and hard drive. North, South, East, whatever, anyone that you bookied now comes to me. And you want to know why they chose some Irish no one?―Huh, don’t you?” I added for he just stood across with an enraged but also dazed look.

Emphatically I dared explain, “It’s because I can relate, really more like change… Kinda like that stupid-ass Malboro parable you pulled outta your ass. When things are chaotic, I can adapt. Instead of demanding money from people who had none because of the ‘08 crash, you should’ve put all betting on hold and scheduled payment plans. Rather than hiking up the juice, you should’ve actually decreased it to bring in more attraction and different clientele in such a financially dead moment of life. 

“Your aggressive demeanor is a mask for your insecurity and incapability of seeing things through. Change is good, really inevitable so you might as well work it in your favor you pathetic, short, receding hairline looking as―.”

Like a wave crashing down, Brickie pounced on me before I could finish. I fell straight back, crashing to the floor. Damn, he was strong for as we grabbed, scratched, and punched any limb of ours I could feel the muscle behind them. Now I get the nickname Brick for every punch felt like a car crash on my body. He was on top, direct right-handed punches landed on my left cheek one after another. 

Click!

I think I cracked a tooth. 

Grunts, moans, strangles, basically any sound of pain or anger rattled butterfly-like in the air. Then right as his fifth came hurtling down I twisted my torso to my right, allowing the punch to scrape my shoulder and thud the floor. Brickie lifted just a touch in response to the pain, which foolishly gave me space to wriggle free. I twisted my torso left now and crawled several feet away, kicking Brickie’s grappling hands as I went. I staggered up instantly and began my own raid on Brickie’s poorly shaven face. 

CLAP! CLAP! CLAP! CLAP! CRACK!

After my own barrage of punches to Brickie’s nose, it finally broke like pimple being popped. Bloodshot everywhere on his face, clothes, and even on myself. I got up, completely out of breath, and stared down at the, literally, broken man. He laid totally on his back in a starfish position, he was done. 

Through every gasp, I told him, “B… Brickie… you are… done. Over man… I’m taking this business… legit. A bird… told me that *cough* gambling will be legal soon… That’s the reality, that’s the… change. You can’t handle that. Please understand… you lost… move on.”

In response, Brickie moaned before barely creasing open his eyes. Amongst the blood pouring over, he looked like an ugly tomato with two random green stains. 

After a moment or two, I guess Brickie had a final word for he faintly said, “Asshole… no matter what that’s something you are. Legal gambling? Gamlbing is a drug that was never meant to be regulated. It’s for those who want to break the law… degenerates like you… like me. It’s a scandalous lifestyle and you are wrong to try and change that. Criminality is its core.”

I had no answer to that. Brickie was defeated and my business was starting, I had no time to contemplate the essence of “gambling truth” at that moment. Words of a defeated man are no words of meaning to me. 

Walking around the ugly bloodstained star, I opened the door and was greeted by the fluorescent brightness of the barbershop. The two barbers were now sitting off to the side for there were no longer any customers at the moment. Nick was now just staring off into the city scene of cars and people outside.   

Closing the door purposefully hard behind, its ring alerted the three of my presence. Their heads darted up from their distractions to stare at me, whereas, I stared focus on the glass exit door ahead. My appearance and thoughts were now on the same page. 

While I walked across, I announced, “Brickie is handled, get him to his house and tell him to move out of town. That’s not a threat to him but heavily encouraged advice for the betterment of him. Book opens next Monday. I am doing teasers, 10% juice. First business meeting is Sunday. All three of you will meet me at my pub at 10 pm.” 

The glass door closed quietly behind me. That business was done, the greater one awaits.