Chapter 5 #3
“I’m open until five,” he said, and turned his face up into the sun. “After that you’re on your own.”
4
I traded two of Al’s vintage dollars for a leather valise, left it behind the beatnik’s counter, then walked up to Main Street with my briefcase banging my leg.
I glanced into the greenfront and saw the clerk sitting beside the cash register and reading a newspaper.
There was no sign of my pal in the black overcoat.
It would have been hard to get lost in the shopping district; it was only a block long.
Three or four storefronts up from the Kennebec Fruit, I came to Baumer’s Barber Shop.
A red-and-white barber pole twirled in the window.
Next to it was a political poster featuring Edmund Muskie.
I remembered him as a tired, slope-shouldered old man, but this version of him looked almost too young to vote, let alone get elected to anything.
The poster read, SEND ED MUSKIE TO THE U.S.
SENATE, VOTE DEMOCRAT! Someone had put a bright white band around the bottom.
Hand-printed on it was THEY SAID IT COULDN’T BE DONE IN MAINE BUT WE DID IT! NEXT UP: HUMPHREY IN 1960!
Inside, two old parties were sitting against the wall while an equally old third party got his tonsure trimmed.
Both of the waiting men were puffing like choo-choos.
So was the barber (Baumer, I assumed), with one eye squinted against the rising smoke as he clipped.
All four studied me in a way I was familiar with: the not-quite-mistrustful look of appraisal that Christy once called the Yankee Glare.
It was nice to know that some things hadn’t changed.
“I’m from out of town, but I’m a friend,” I told them. “Voted the straight Democratic ticket my whole life.” I raised my hand in a so-help-me-God gesture.
Baumer grunted with amusement. Ash tumbled from his cigarette. He brushed it absently off his smock and onto the floor, where there were several crushed butts among the cut hair. “Harold there’s a Republican. You want to watch out he don’t bitecha.”
“He ain’t got the choppers for it nummore,” one of the others said, and they all cackled.
“Where you from, mister?” Harold the Republican asked.
“Wisconsin.” I picked up a copy of Man’s Adventure to forestall further conversation.
On the cover, a subhuman Asian gent with a whip in one gloved hand was approaching a blonde lovely tied to a post. The story that went with it was called JAP SEX-SLAVES OF THE PACIFIC.
The barbershop’s smell was a sweet and completely wonderful mixture of talcum powder, pomade, and cigarette smoke.
By the time Baumer motioned me to the chair, I was deep into the sex-slaves story. It wasn’t as exciting as the cover.
“Been doin some traveling, Mr. Wisconsin?” he asked as he settled a white rayon cloth over my front and wrapped a paper collar around my neck.
“Quite a lot,” I said truthfully.
“Well, you’re in God’s country now. How short do you want it?”
“Short enough so I don’t look like”—a hippie, I almost finished, but Baumer wouldn’t know what that was—“like a beatnik.”
“Let it get a little out of control, I guess.” He began to clip. “Leave it much longer and you’d look like that faggot who runs the Jolly White Elephant.”
“I wouldn’t want that,” I said.
“Nosir, he’s a sight, that one.” That-un.
When Baumer finished, he powdered the back of my neck, asked me if I wanted Vitalis, Brylcreem, or Wildroot Cream Oil, and charged me forty cents.
I call that a deal.
5
My thousand-dollar deposit at the Hometown Trust raised no eyebrows.
The freshly barbered look probably helped, but I think it was mostly being in a cash-and-carry society where credit cards were still in their infancy…
and probably regarded with some suspicion by thrifty Yankees.
A severely pretty teller with her hair done up in tight rolls and a cameo at her throat counted my money, entered the amount in a ledger, then called over the assistant manager, who counted it again, checked the ledger, and then wrote out a receipt that showed both the deposit and the total in my new checking account.
“If you don’t mind me saying so, that’s a mighty big amount to be carrying in checking, Mr. Amberson.
Would you like to open a savings account?
We’re currently offering three percent interest, compounded quarterly.
” He widened his eyes to show me what a wonderful deal this was.
He looked like that old-time Cuban bandleader, Xavier Cugat.
“Thanks, but I’ve got a fair amount of business to transact.” I lowered my voice. “Real estate closing. Or so I hope.”
“Good luck,” he said, lowering his own to the same confidential pitch. “Lorraine will fix you up with checks. Fifty enough to go on with?”
“Fifty would be fine.”
“Later on, we can have some printed with your name and your address.” He raised his eyebrows, turning it into a question.
“I expect to be in Derry. I’ll be in touch.”
“Fine. I’m at Drexel eight four-seven-seven-seven.”
I had no idea what he was talking about until he slid a business card through the window. Gregory Dusen, Assistant Manager, was engraved on it, and DRexel 8-4777.
Lorraine got my checks and a faux alligator checkbook to put them in.
I thanked her and dropped them into my briefcase.
At the door I paused for a look back. A couple of the tellers were working adding machines, but otherwise the transactions were all of the pen-and-elbow-grease variety.
It occurred to me that, with a few exceptions, Charles Dickens would have felt at home here.
It also occurred to me that living in the past was a little like living underwater and breathing through a tube.
6
I got the clothes Al had recommended at Mason’s Menswear, and the clerk told me yes, they would be more than happy to take a check, providing it was drawn on a local bank. Thanks to Lorraine, I could oblige in that regard.
Back at the Jolly White Elephant, the beatnik watched silently as I transferred the contents of three shopping bags to my new valise. When I snapped it shut, he finally offered an opinion. “Funny way to shop, man.”
“I guess so,” I said. “But it’s a funny old world, isn’t it?”
He cracked a smile at that. “In my opinion, that’s a big you-bet. Slip me some skin, Jackson.” He extended his hand, palm up.
For a moment it was like trying to figure out what the word Drexel attached to some numbers was all about.
Then I remembered Dragstrip Girl, and understood the beatnik was offering the fifties version of a fist-bump.
I dragged my palm across his, feeling the warmth and the sweat, thinking again: This is real. This is happening.
“Skin, man,” I said.
7
I crossed back to Titus Chevron, swinging the newly loaded valise from one hand and the briefcase from the other.
It was only midmorning in the 2011 world I’d come from, but I felt tired out.
There was a telephone booth between the service station and the adjacent car lot.
I went in, shut the door, and read the hand-printed sign over the old-fashioned pay phone: REMEMBER PHONE CALLS NOW A DIME COURTESY OF “MA” BELL.
I thumbed through the Yellow Pages in the local phone book and found Lisbon Taxi.
Their ad featured a cartoon cab with eyes for headlights and a big smile on its grille.
It promised FAST, COURTEOUS SERVICE. That sounded good to me.
I grubbed for my change, but the first thing I came up with was something I should have left behind: my Nokia cell phone.
It was antique by the standards of the year I’d come from—I’d been meaning to trade up to an iPhone—but it had no business here.
If someone saw it, I’d be asked a hundred questions I couldn’t answer.
I stowed it in the briefcase. It would be okay there for the time being, I guessed, but I’d have to get rid of it eventually.
Keeping it would be like walking around with an unexploded bomb.
I found a dime, dropped it in the slot, and it went right through to the coin return.
I fished it out, and one look was enough to pinpoint the problem.
Like my Nokia, the dime had come from the future; it was a copper sandwich, really no more than a penny with pretensions.
I pulled out all my coins, poked through them, and found a 1953 dime I’d probably got in change from the root beer I’d bought at the Kennebec Fruit.
I started to put it in, then had a thought that made me feel cold.
What if my 2002 dime had gotten stuck in the phone’s throat instead of falling through to the coin return?
And what if the AT there might even eventually have been an item about it in the newspaper.
I had gotten lucky this time, but next time I might not.
I needed to be careful. I thought of my cell phone again, with deepening unease.
Then I put the 1953 dime in the coin slot and was rewarded with a dial tone.
I placed the call slowly and carefully, trying to remember if I’d ever used a phone with a rotary dial before.
I thought not. Each time I released it, the phone made a weird clucking sound as the dial spun back.
“Lisbon Taxi,” a woman said, “where the mileage is always smileage. How may we help you today?”
8
While I waited for my ride, I window-shopped my way through Titus’s car lot.
I was particularly taken by a red ’54 Ford convertible—a Sunliner, according to the script below the chrome headlight on the driver’s side.
It had whitewall tires and a genuine canvas roof that the cool cats in Dragstrip Girl would have called a ragtop.