“I understand one of you boys knows Mr. Davis?” Her sharp eyes darted between Brian and me.
“Um. That would be my father, ma’am,” I managed to say.
“What? You mean your father’s Mr. Davis?” she demanded clarification.
“No, ma’am. I don’t mean that. I meant my dad knows Mr. Davis, that’s all,” I sheepishly replied. “From business.” (Umm, have I lost the job yet?)
“I see.” She eyed us over for an uncomfortable length of time. Brian started to chuckle, his chest heaving up and down. (Please don’t piss your pants dude!)
She then threw down the gauntlet…
“What the heck is going on with your hair, boys?” Her eyes were shooting daggers at us. “You two look like little girls,” she snapped, “and it’s too damn long to work here. It’s against the health code, so you’re gonna have to cut it, and that’s all there is to it!” She finished with firm determination.
Silence. Red faces. Hot ears.
I think I saw Brian’s pants moisten.
After proceeding to tell us about the gobs and gobs of money we could have made, would have made, emphasizing CASH TIPS, and big paydays, tantalizing us, she ended the interview with a sinister looking smirk.
“Well, boys, do let me know if you’ve decided to cut your hair before I give the jobs to somebody who has a proper look. Otherwise, I think we’re finished here,” she snarled.
We were bummed. Of course there was no way either of us would be cutting our hair, for that cranky so-and-so or any other so-and-so for that matter. We departed the interview discouraged, talking about maybe getting a job at a gas station.
When I got home, my sister Alison upon hearing the news had a goofy but great idea. She was surprised that I hadn’t thought of it.
Wigs!
That’s right, wigs, dammit!
Sounds crazy, I know. But my super-cool, glassy-eyed, doobie-loving barber, Victor Osorivito, had connections to everything. He answered mostly to Vic, and typically cut his client’s hair while puffing on large pungent, oversized doobie. He sniffled a lot too. But if you had a problem, Vic he had the answer. It was well known that he’d do anything for my sister, so she called on the spot and asked him.
Turned out Vic, as well as a few of his customers were in the National Guard, and in a brilliant work-around, he had wigs manufactured for them to use while on active duty, which kept them from being forced to succumb to the GI-Joe haircut style conformity.
Don’t forget, this was 1970, and we were in the midst of a free-spirited anti-establishment cultural revolution. Hippie fashion was at an all-time high. Bell-bottom jeans and long hair were wildly popular. Even the formerly suit-wearing, neatly trimmed, mop-top hairdo Beatles were now wearing their hair long. My hair was even longer.
Guess who thought donning wigs was the funniest idea in the world and immediately wanted to do it? In fact, when I called and made the suggestion, I’d never heard a person giggle so much. Brian was laughing hysterically. “Eff yeah, I’ll do it! Why wouldn’t I? We’re gonna be rockin’ and rolling in the dough this summer, brother. We’ll make a fortune. Let’s go for it!”
Brian’s sentiment pretty much summed it up. So, Victor ordered the wigs (which I was plenty uneasy about), and we (ok, my mom) called Jennifer and accepted the jobs subject to what Ms. McCloud referred to as, “the non-negotiable hair length issue,” so there would be no misunderstanding.
We were to come back again for the next two Sundays for preliminary training, and were told in no uncertain terms we must show up “looking the part” (blah, blah, blah, we get it already). Presumably, we would then be fully-functioning, water-pouring, tray-carrying busboys complete with visions of crisp twenty dollar bills dancing in our heads. Or something along those lines. In any event we had our summer jobs lined up, and had done so, I might add, at no small cost to our egos.
About a week later Victor stopped by my house with a salon bag containing what looked like small shoe boxes. But instead of shoes, these boxes bore stenciled graphics on the lids, intended to depict wig-wearing recipients.
The illustrations featured sketches of some shirtless, studly looking model-dude, with an absolute heap of the fakest looking hair ever. The mass of hair portrayed in those images looked more like a lost carnival balloon than the cool, pompadour-fade it was apparently intended to replicate.
On the cover of one box the wig dude’s hair was black and creepy. On the other box it was blond and creepy. It was awful enough that I seriously didn’t want to open either box. But Victor, who was enjoying this far too much, and happily rolling puffing joints as he awaited the unveiling, encouraged me to at least take a look.
I decided to open Brian’s first. Simply because he wasn’t there, and I wasn’t sure I was strong enough to withstand the heart attack if I had to face mine first.
Both wigs looked hysterical.
Well, we were literally unrecognizable. Admittedly, a bit weird looking, but most importantly we were totally incognito, to the extent that we probably could have survived a lifetime in the witness protection program, without needing the protection! The transformation was flat-out amazing. We bussed so many tables that summer that were full of people we knew, friends, neighbors and even relatives, and not a single person recognized us the entire summer—zero, zilch, nada.
Too funny! It turned out that the biggest problem was fitting all our hair up under the damn things, so we began a regimen of arriving at work early and having one of the waitresses do it for us. This involved a lot of tugging and ample installation of bobby pins (not a fan)! But the waitresses seemed to get a kick out of helping, and they mostly thought it was cute and adorable.
At the end of most nights, after clean-up, we would, with great anticipation, whip off our wigs and dive into the ocean directly behind the restaurant, to a chorus of whoops and hollers from the attending staff, all of whom were drinking fairly heavily by that point. Even a couple of nastier-than-hell chefs who scorned us most of the time, seemed to get a kick out of it.
Hey, I know it sounds awful, and yes we did get teased about it a bit, but shit, we made a ton of money, had a blast, drank with the staff after almost every closing, ate free lobster, and laughed like hell about all of it!
I never would have done it without Brian, my partner-in-crime and biggest supporter, egging me on, always joking about it with his winning smile, but I’m glad we did. And hey, to this very day, I’ve never had so many crinkled-up one dollar bills stuffed in my pockets and …
Man, It felt great!
PART TWO
THE GREATEST SUMMER EVER...
Chapter 23
Listen
I often wonder how many have called it their happy place? How many have rented over the years, or visited, perhaps just for the day? How many babies were produced precisely nine-months after their parents’ stay? How many have learned to swim, or waterski, or hunt for horseshoe crabs here? How many have breathed in extra salt-flavored oxygen each morning, hoping to absorb as much island magic as possible, knowing it to be an elixir for all that ails? What about a first kiss, or first dance, or first love? First time kicking off your shoes inside the front door of your cottage and tossing them into the coat closet knowing there they would stay, untouched, until after Labor Day? Stubbed toes be damned.
But most of all, I wonder who’s taken refuge here. Who has wandered the narrow streets aimless, sad, and alone, looking for answers to questions summers simply aren’t equipped to supply? Or fought off their demons, or perhaps succumbed to them, with the island by their side? Who’s taken their very last breath there? Who’s wanted to? Who’s closed their eyes tightly during their darkest hours when escape seemed like a far better solution than facing whatever horror of life had decided to take root, maybe the kind of horrors we couldn’t have imagined as kids, and slowly willed themselves back from their brink, to the island? To taste the air. Feel the sand. Hear the buoys. Soak in the tides. And Stabilize. Ground. Center. Brace.
Who feels ownership without address?
Residence without visitation?
