Emajanation Street

Dorothy Einsberg, aged eighty nine, acted as if the world never left the 1950s. She was proud that she could still drive and rolled around in a candy apple red 1955 Chevy she bought with her retirement money. She couldn’t stand all of today’s SUVs, calling them “new monster trucks that all looked the same.” She got a few looks from male car enthusiasts, but whenever they complimented her on the car, she shook her head and called them “perverts.” The only places she frequented were the few left in Harrisburg still standing from her era - the old Shell gas station on 82nd St., the old St. Paul’s Church on 151st, and the Emanajation Street Hair Salon, where she always requested the same stylist. 

  Dorothy grew bitter in her old age and only her nephew, John, stopped over to her apartment to run her errands, but he barely said two words to her. If it weren’t for her  long relationship with her sixty-three-year-old stylist, Helen, she would have no one in her life. Helen wasn’t anywhere near eighty-nine, but as Dorothy first told her, “you’re a tolerable age to talk to.” 

  Dorothy feared Helen would retire at any moment, but year after year, Helen would laugh and say, “You got me. I’m hanging on another year for you.” But as each year passed, Dorothy worried more and more when she entered the salon. 

  She breathed a sigh of relief on this particular Tuesday as after she opened the door and the bell jangled, Helen was the first person she saw coming right up to the counter. Helen always greeted her warmly, and Dorothy always grinned back through her heavy wrinkles. 

  “Well, now. Your hair just keeps growing by the minute, doesn’t it, Dorothy?”

  “You don’t have to lie to me. You know it’s thinner each time I come in here, damn it.”

  “Dorothy, we have kids in here.”

  “I know there are kids in here.”

  Helen rolled her eyes, smirked, and motioned toward her booth. Dorothy shook her head, shuffled her tiny frame to the first seat on the left. Helen tossed the black apron on her, and Dorothy chuckled to herself.

  “What’s so darn funny now?” Helen asked. 

  “I was just thinking, sweetie, on how if paramedics found me dead, they’d throw something like this over me.”

  “Oh, come on now. Where do you get an idea like that?”

  Dorothy tilted her head to the side, and Helen nudged it back as she began to clip what was left of the brittle, wispy hair. 

“Bound to happen. I’m ninety-one, dear. Could get a heart attack someplace, and the last thing people see of me is some white sheet.”

  Clip, clip. Jingle jangle. The sounds of Emanajation Street became music to Dorothy’s ears. This was her happy place, and no, she didn’t have to come here once a week. But like most of the salon’s elderly customers, she came to have someone to talk to. 

  “So, how’s John?”

  “That nephew of mine just comes ‘cause his mother makes him. No good kid. Looks like I’m putting him out most of the time. ‘I need you to go to the Walgreens to get these pills,’ I say. He says, ‘Uh-huh.’”

   “Well, kids are like that, Dorothy.”

   “They shouldn’t be. Wally Cleaver’s not. He’s a fine young boy. Father raised him right. Even Eddie Haskel’s got more manners than my nephew. At least he fakes manners.”

  Helen paused the scissors over the top of Dorothy’s hair and laughed heartily. 

   “What’s gotten into you now?”

   “You’re talking about a TV show. No one acts as they do on TV, especially not from Leave it to Beaver.”

  “Well, they did then. You was just a pup. You were raised in them crazy sixties, missed the good times. Times when boys respected their elders.”

  “My brother respected my father, Dorothy.”

   “Wasn’t your father a military man?”

   “Well, yes. But...”

  Dorothy sighed and looked straight into the mirror. 

 “No one respects you when you’re my age, honey. My face looks like a prune, and I don’t quite know when I got so old.”

   Helen checked herself out and rubbed the side of her face, studying a new wrinkle. 

  “I respect you, and with this haircut, you look a whole year younger.”

   Dorothy almost choked from laughter. Helen pulled out the handheld mirror and asked what she thought about the back of her head. 

   “Looks fine. Just fine.”

   Dorothy gave herself one last look in the mirror and, for a second, imagined her younger face from her wedding day in 1951 when she married her late husband, Tom. Her hair ran down in brown curls to her shoulders, and her cheeks flushed a rosy glow. Not a single wrinkle plagued her face, and her sapphire eyes sparkled. 

  Helen lowered the seat, and the jingle jangle awoke her temporary happiness. Only a small cluster of white hair littered the floor around her chair. Helen styled her hair as best she could with the hair she had to work with, but she knew Dorothy had just come in to talk.  She paid with her senior citizen discount, waved, and was on her way. 

   Dorothy drove her ’55 Chevy to the Shell and waited outside the pump with her hands on the wheel. After a few minutes ticked by, she honked the horn. After another few seconds, Dorothy blared it. She kept honking until a young employee from inside came storming out wearing a quizzical look. 

   “Lady, what’s up? I had to lock up the store since I’m the only one in there.”

   “Am I gonna get some service or what? I’ve only been waiting here forever.”

  “Service?”

  “Yes. To fill up my tank.”

   “Oh, we haven’t done that in years, ma’am.”

  “You haven’t? Well, I got it done here just this last week at this very gas station.”

  “Well, I don’t know, see. I’m new here, and…are you sure because we don’t self-serve.”

  “Yes, damn it. I’m sure. Now, are you or aren’t you?”

  The employee pulled out the nozzle and gently nodded at Dorothy’s fading scowl. 

  “Unleaded, ma’am?” 

  “That will be fine, sonny.”

  Dorothy switched on the Oldies channel as he filled it up and looked straight out the window. She closed her eyes to the sweet sound of “Earth Angel” and pictured dancing with her husband in the galley kitchen as it played on their radio. He wrapped his arms around her thin, soft neck and whispered, “I love you,” in her ear. 

  “That will be forty dollars,” the employee said, awakening Dorothy from her trance. 

   Dorothy handed over two twenties. 

  “Now, be careful driving home.”

  “Thanks.”

  The employee waved and then hurried back to the store, where a few customers huddled around the doors. 

  Dorothy was always on time for her hair appointments, so Helen thought there might be something off when she showed up three hours late the following week. 

  “Dorothy...hi. I was expecting you a few hours ago. We’re a little backed up now, but if you can wait for about half an hour, we can get you in.”

   “Nonsense. I’m here on time, just like every week. I don’t see why I shouldn’t be able to get my hair done before these people.”

“You’ll have to wait your turn. I’m sorry.”

  But Dorothy didn’t sit down. 

  “I’m here at the right time. I’m demanding you do my hair, Helen, now let’s go!” 

  The other customers grew a little agitated, and a little girl sitting in the corner spoke up. 

   “She can take my turn. It’s no big deal.”

  “Sweetheart, are you sure you want to do that?” her mother asked. 

  The little girl nodded. 

   Helen half-smiled. 

   “That’s very sweet of you, little girl.”

  The girl grinned and kicked her legs back and forth while her mother exhaled and shrugged her shoulders. 

  “Okay, I’ll be done here in just a minute, and I’ll be right with you,” Helen said. 

   Dorothy nodded and took a seat. The little girl’s mother shook her head and returned to reading her magazine. The girl smiled at Dorothy, and Dorothy smiled back. 

   A Men’s Magazine, a Cosmopolitan, a Sports Illustrated, and a People decorated a rack to Dorothy’s left. She was shocked to find a scantily clad model with the words: “Sex, Drugs & Death” printed in bold next to her. 

   “Filth,” she muttered and stuffed it back in the rack. The little girl snickered. “The world today has no decency,” she grumbled. 

   “Dorothy, I’m ready for you now.”

   “About time.”  

  Helen threw her a funny look, thinking she appeared more crabby than usual.  Dorothy was the first to speak as Helen set the white apron over her lap. 

   “Now, if paramedics found me dead, they’d throw something like this over me.”

   “Uh-huh. Didn’t we have this conversation already?”

   “I don’t think so.”

   “We did. You told me this last week.”

   “Oh.”

   “Dorothy...are you okay today? Do you know what time it is?”

   “Sure do. Ten o’clock, just like it always is when I come in here.” 

  “It’s 1:15, Dorothy. I was worried about you.”

   “It is? Well, so what if it is? I must have slept late or something.”

   “But you never sleep late.”

  “Well, I guess I did today.”

  Clip, clip. Jingle Jangle. 

   “You know...I sure do wish more young people today would act like Wally Cleaver, Helen. Even that Eddie Haskel had more manners than my nephew.”

   “Right. I feel like you’ve told me this before too.”

 Dorothy clammed up and stared into the mirror again. She strolled on Miami Beach with Tom this time, holding hands during their honeymoon. The sun set over the water and the last of its golden rays splintered and onto the waves. 

   “Dorothy, you okay there?”

   “Oh yes. I’m okay.”

  “Well, we’re done for today. Does the back look good for you?”

   “Sure. Thanks, honey.”

  “You’re welcome. Now remember, next week, you’re here at ten.”

  “Ten. Right. Sorry about that, dear.”

  “It happens.”

   Dorothy paid with her discount, waved goodbye, and Helen called up the little girl who so graciously gave up her spot in the line. The following day, Dorothy walked in at ten a.m.

Emajanation Street was unusually busy for a Tuesday morning, but that didn’t seem to faze Dorothy. Helen stopped mid-haircut on her teenage customer and rushed over to the front desk.

   “Dorothy. What are you doing here?”

   “Well, it’s ten a.m., isn’t it? I’m back at the right time.”

   “Dorothy...I think you meant to come back next Monday. It’s Tuesday,” Helen said with her eyes racing between Helen and her impatient customer in the chair behind her. 

   “I know what I’m doing, damn it. Now, are you gonna cut my hair or not?”

 The other stylists and customers now directed their attention to Dorothy, and the manager stormed up from the back. 

  “Is there a problem here, Helen?” she asked.

   “No, ma’am. Everything’s under control. Dorothy, I’ll be with you in just a second.”

   “Okay. That’s better.”

As Dorothy shuffled over to have a seat, the manager rolled her eyes at Helen before returning to the back room. Helen frowned when she finally begrudgingly called Dorothy up to her regular post. She didn’t like the look her manager gave her, and she knew she was in for a talking later. Maybe it was time to retire after all. 

   “Dorothy...maybe it’s time to look into assisted living. I can help you find one that works for you. You know, when you reach a certain age….”

   “I ain’t living in a place where they tell me what to do all day. I’m my own person.”

 “Uh-huh. But if you could, just let me help you. I can maybe start cutting your hair at home so you wouldn’t get confused and come out here.”

   “Confused? I like coming out here. It gets me out of that apartment.”

  Clip, clip. Jingle jangle. 

   Helen only pretended to snip her hair this time, but Dorothy didn’t seem to notice. This time, she flashed back to the birth of her son. ‘We got a crier,’ the doctor said. A tear trickled down her cheek as she remembered him on his deathbed a few years earlier, after his long struggle with prostate cancer. A mother should never have to outlive their children, she thought. 

  “What’s wrong?”

   “Nothing. Are we done?”

   “Yes. We are. But are you sure I can’t?”

   “Don’t do anything for me.”

 As they approached the register, Dorothy opened her purse, but Helen brushed the money away. 

  “You paid yesterday. Don’t pay again.”

  “You’re the boss.”

  Helen waved goodbye, and several customers and staff sighed collectively. 

   By work day’s end, forty-year-old manager Julie Wilkoff did have some words for Helen. 

  “Helen, you’ve been a strong asset to this shop for many years. But let’s face it, you’re getting old now. Maybe it’s time you retire. You can’t let friendship come before business. You’re gonna let this woman drive out all our customers, and we’ve already lost a number to

Great Clips and Super Cuts.”

   Helen rolled her eyes. She hated knowing she was there ten years longer than Julie, but Julie appeared to know what was best for her. 

   “So, I’m giving you an ultimatum. You either choose between retirement, or I move your schedule around, and you’ll work nights, away from that woman. You are to have no more interaction with her at work. I don’t care if you see her outside these doors, but it’s interfering with our business. Understand?”

   “But I’m all she has to look forward to in her week. She has no family, no friends, nobody.”

“I understand. I understand that every time she comes in, she’s hurting our business,” Julie said. 

  Helen hung her head, knowing that there was no arguing with management. It was either   Option A - work evenings or Option B - retirement. She didn’t want Option A. From the hours of four to nine p.m., she got to see her grandchildren during the week. 

    “Well, I guess I’m going to retire. Congratulations. You’ve been looking for someone younger and faster than me for

some time now. You got your wish.”

  “It’s not that. It’s….”

   “Don’t lie to me, Julie. This was just the excuse you needed. I’ll clean out my booth, but let me warn you. She’ll be back, maybe even tomorrow. Then she’ll be your problem.”

   As Helen gathered her things, Julie knew what she said rang true. She was a hands-on manager with her employees but hands-off with the customers. Julie barely knew any of the regulars’ names and never cut hair anymore. She wasn’t sure how she’d handle the Dorothy tornado. But now it was too late. Helen walked out the door and didn’t look back. 

   The following day, Dorothy returned right at ten a.m., demanding a haircut. Julie took a convenient mental health day, leaving the problem to the other stylists. When Dorothy saw that Helen was nowhere to be found, she started banging on the front desk and repeatedly rang the silver call bell. 

   New stylist Becky came running over with a forced smile. 

   “Hi, Dorothy, is it? Someone will be with you shortly.”

   “Where’s Helen?!”

   “Helen...um...well.”

   “Where is she?!”

  Another stylist looked over with a sympathetic look on her face. 

   “Helen was let go last night, dear. I’m sorry.” the other stylist chimed in. “But one of us will be with you soon if you don’t mind waiting,” she continued. 

           “I’m sorry,” Becky said before hurrying back to her customer. Dorothy banged on the counter once more and then brushed past the row of people awaiting their turn in line. 

          The sunlight hit her face like the sun she remembered in Miami Beach. It was warm and comforting. It made her forget the world. She saw another car from the fifties drive down the parking lot and imagined that she had gone back in time. Her ’55 Chevy glistened in the sunlight that day. Once she found her way inside her car, she turned once more to the Oldies station, and “Too Young” by Nat King Cole came on, Dorothy and Tom’s wedding song. She cried with her head in her hands before giving one more look at Emajanation Street. Without any cars in front of her, Dorothy could see the goings-on of the shop she once loved and the stylist that was the person that she looked forward to seeing week in and week out. 

           As Cole sang, “We were not too young at all,” Dorothy clutched the wheel and

slammed the gas, speeding the classic car across the lot and into Emajanation Street with all the power she could muster. People dove for their lives as the bulky metal behemoth cut through the glass windows, spewing shards of glass in all directions. The crash threw Dorothy’s crumpled, bloody body onto the floor by Helen’s station. Her last thought was of reuniting with Tom and her son Jim, walking around town in the 1950s. She was smiling.