By John D. Coville

“Wow, look at that,” Nick’s father said. “Never noticed it before.”

The Long Island Press distribution office was in a dilapidated one-room brick building in the center of town. Each Saturday afternoon the delivery boys would be driven by a parent to pick up the Sunday editions, which were too heavy to carry on their bicycles.  The place smelled of damp paper, dust and bicycle grease.                                                              

In the shadowed rear of the office, amid stacks of newspapers, sat an antique barber chair. Cobwebs linked the worn leather armrests to the mottled porcelain frame. The cast iron foot rest was rusted and gray.                                                                                                                                                                  

Nick watched his father approach the chair, gazing at it like it was a mint Corvette.  He waited for the whistle he knew would come. And it did. A long high chirp escaped his father’s puckered lips.  

“It’s a beauty.”

“Looks like a piece of junk to me, dad.”

Joey Short Arms laughed. He was the local distribution manager, an unkempt man with newspaper ink permanently smudged into his fingers. The paperboys called him Joey Short Arms because he was so cheap they imagined his arms were too short to reach his pockets.                  

“This building used to be a barber shop…back in the 1920s or 30s.” Joey said.  “That chair’s been sittin’ back there a long time.”                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                             

Nick’s father rested his hand on the headrest, the leather dry and cracked like and old man’s skin. He placed his foot on the pump lever at the chair’s base and pressed down twice. The chair rose with a dry groan, as if stirred awake.

“Sounds like it’s sick,” Nick said.

“It’s a hydraulic pump, just needs fluid,” Nick’s father said.

He pressed his foot again, this time holding the lever down. The chair dropped with a slow hiss that sounded like an exhausted exhale.

“It’s yours if you want,” Joey Short Arms said in a rare gesture of charity. “It just takes up room anyhow.  I’da thrown it away a long time ago, but it weighs a friggin’ ton.”

“Nick, let’s take your papers home, and mom can drive us back here with a dolly. You and I can work it onto the dolly, and roll it across town, back home. What’d ya say?”

“No way, dad. Everyone will see us.”

“Come on. It’ll be fun.”

“We’ll look like garbage pickers, Dad. It’s embarrassing.”

            Nick’s father did not react, but eyed the chair with an absent, far away grin. Nick watched him, waiting for a response. None came.

An hour later, Nick sat in the back-seat of the family red Buick Regal, with his mother behind the wheel driving them back to the newspaper office. She glanced forlornly at Nick in the rearview mirror, sympathetic to his plight. His father sat in the front passenger seat, window down, smoking a Marlboro.

“Are you sure this is a good idea?” she asked his father. 

“It’ll be great. We’ll get it home and fix it up.” He puffed smoke out of the window, which blew into the back seat. Nick felt nauseous.

“And then what?” his mother asked.

“It’s probably very comfortable to recline in when we watch Hawaii Five-O. Maybe we’ll put it in the living room.”

“The living room?” his mother stared back at Nick with eyebrows peaked high toward her hairline.

“Who knows, maybe it’s worth something. Right, Nicky?”

“Sure dad, whatever you say.”

“What’s that?”

“Nothing.”

“Which reminds me, Nick did you write that letter for me yet?”

 “What letter?” Nick’s mother glanced at him in the rearview again.

“Dad wants me to write a letter to the TV station…he’s got an idea for a special episode of Hawaii Five-0 and The Streets of San Francisco solving a crime together.”

“Oh, I see.” His mother’s eyebrows rose another notch.

“It’ll be great. Just wait till they see that letter.”

“Ok Dad.”

At the office, they maneuvered the chair onto the dolly like a sick patient onto a gurney. Nick’s father secured the chair with a frayed length of sisal rope, and a complex network of loops and knots. Nick watched, head down, silent.

His father had an old military canteen he brought from the Army & Navy store, filled with his mother’s lemonade, affixed near his waist. Nick appraised the canteen slung from his father’s belt, his baggy shorts, his black dress socks to his knees, and scuffed loafers.

“Dad, we going on safari?”

“Remember what I told you, fail to prepare and you prepare to fail. I’m ready for the long walk home.  Let’s go!”

Together, they began to roll the chair away. Nick pushed from behind while his father pulled from the front with a grey cord draped over his shoulder. He looked over his shoulder at Joey Short Arms, who leaned in the doorway watching them.

“Thanks for the chair.” Nick’s father said as he waved.

“No problem.” Joey replied, and to himself muttered, “Piece of crap if you ask me.”

Nick kept his head down as he pushed, avoiding eye contact with passersby, but soon the one float parade drew attention. Cars swished by, horns honking; laughter and voices hit his ears like cheap confetti hurled at a circus clown. Nick did not look up.

“Wow, that’s some chair. Haven’t seen one of these since I was kid,” someone said.  

At the edge of his vision, Nick saw a man point at them, then turn to say something to another, and both chuckled. Nick turned his head away from them, but first scanned quickly for familiar faces. No one.

They pushed the chair along Sunrise Highway, as cars sped by emitting hollers of “Nice chair!” like mocking exhaust.  At the busy intersection of Peninsula Blvd, Nick and his father waited for the light to change.

 “Not so bad. We’re making good time,” Nick’s father glanced at his watch. “We’ll be home in no time.”

His father pressed the walk button over and over.

“These damn things never work.”

“You have to wait dad; the light will change. You just press it once.”

The walk sign lit green. They crossed the boulevard before an audience of cars waiting at the red light. To avoid eye contact with the faceless occupants—hidden behind bright sun glare on their windshields—Nick peeked forward, around the chair, pretending to ensure the path was clear.  

In the distance, Nick saw the white spire of Our Lady of Peace loom above a stand of dark leafed maple trees. It was his occasional family church, attending mass only on those Sunday mornings when his mother could muster Nick and his father from bed. Nick had been confirmed there a few weeks ago. The chance of being seen by someone he knew had just risen.

As they approached the church, his father paused.

“Let’s take a break.  It’s hot as hell.” His father wiped his brow with a handkerchief, and glanced at the chair. “Well, might as well have a seat, and rest the legs.”

He climbed up onto the chair, which was facing the church. Nick noticed a row of black limousines parked before the church and a crowd of people gathered near the steps.

“Looks like a wedding, Nick. We got the best seats in the house.”

Nick’s father pulled a Marlboro from his shirt pocket, and lit it. He took a long inhale, and let out a relaxed smoky breath.

“You shouldn’t smoke, Dad. They’re bad for your heart.”

“I know son, I know.” He took another drag.

The church doors opened as the bride and groom emerged into the sunlight. The young couple waved to their friends and family, who gleefully threw raw rice at them.

‘Why do they throw rice?” Nick asked.

“No idea son.” His father bellowed a long cloud of smoke, then added. “Tradition, I guess. Sometimes people just do things, because they were done before.”

The bride glanced in the direction of Nick and his sweating father perched in the barber chair, like an umpire at a tennis match. Her eyebrows came together and her smile dipped into a bewildered frown, but without hesitation, she regrouped, grinned and aimed a queenly wave at them. Nick and his father waved back.

“She seems nice.”

They giggled as Nick’s father climbed down with a groan that lately began to accompany any of his physical activity. He dropped his unfinished cigarette to the pavement and ground it out with his sneakered toe.  

“Let’s move on son.”

Without a word they returned to their positions and resumed their journey. As they passed closer to the church Father Kim appeared at the top step, and cast an expansive sign of the cross upon the bride, groom and guests.  When he descended the stairs and began shaking hands with the crowd, the priest spotted the trio of father, son and chair.

“Hey, Nick,” Father Kim yelled. “Hold on.”

Father Kim moved through the church goers who grabbed his hand and patted his back, before jogging toward Nick and his father, his robes flapping behind him like wings, his face open in a wide toothy grin. He stopped before them, panting heavily, his face flush.

“That’s a beautiful chair Nick. Is this your dad?”

“Yeah…Hi Father Kim. This is my dad.”

“Sorry I missed you at confirmation.” The priest shook his father’s hands and ogled the chair.  “I remember these chairs when I was a kid in Korea.”

“Me too,” Nick’s father said. “My father used to take me for haircuts once a month. He would prop me up on the chair, and tell old Frank the Barber to make me look like a man.”

Nick saw something in his father’s face, unsure if it was happiness at the memory or sadness.

“Taking it home. Nick and I are gonna fix it up.”

“Well, it deserves a blessing.” Father Kim said.

Father Kim made the sign of the cross, placed a hand on one arm of the chair and whispered the Hail Mary. Nick and his father bowed their head while the curbside ceremony occurred.

“Bless this father and son on their journey. Amen.”

“Amen.” Nick and his father said in harmony. They glanced at each other.

“Safe travels men.”

Nick watched the priest jog happily back to his church, a wake of white robes once again fluttering behind him. 

“Well, now we’ve got God on our side. Let’s move.”

They continued to push the chair along Merrick Avenue. The summer sun had risen higher and Nick began to sweat. His sneakered feet and shoulders ached. They passed shops and houses, and gas stations; the chair bringing men, women and children out to gawk. He began to wave and smile at the passing audience.

Nick and his father came upon some men, clad in orange vests and white hard hats. They were perched around a hole in the street, peering down at one of them digging. One man looked up at Nick and his father.

 “What the hell is that?” he said.

Now all the men looked. Nick saw the eyes of the man in the ditch he had dug, peer over the rim like a startled gopher. From within the hole came a muffled voice.

“It’s an antique barber chair, ya dope.”

“Well, you’ve got to go around,” said the first man outside the hole. “We have a burst pipe we’re dealing with.”

“Sure, no problem.” Nick’s father said.

Nick and his father pushed on, giving wide berth to the crew and hole, but the dolly wheels caught on a rise in the pavement. Nick and his father pushed harder, but the chair would not budge.  

“Damn, we’re stuck.” Nick’s father said.

“We’ll give you a hand.” One of the men said.

They took up positions around the chair and placed their hands where there was space to get a firm grip. Nick smelled sweat and tobacco.

“Let’s rock it.”

“On three,” one said. “One, two, three!”

The chair gained momentum with each shove.

“One more time.”

With a communal grunt they pushed, and the chair rolled over the hump onto level ground.  The force of the final thrust propelled the chair forward with speed. The men stepped away, but Nick and his father found themselves in a slow jog beside the dolly, keeping the chair steady until it slowed to a stop under the shade of a large elm tree. Nick’s father turned to look at the men now several yards behind them.

The workers all waved in unison. The gloved hand of the half-hidden man jutted from the hole in farewell. “Bon voyage!” he hollered.

“Thanks,” Nick’s father called back.

“Well, that was fun.”

“Yeah, nice guys. How come they’re working on Sunday?”

“An emergency looks like. Probably getting double time for it. They’re not complaining. You’ll understand better when you have your own family to feed.”

They rested a moment in the shade, seeking a second wind. Nick’s father reached into his pocket for another Marlboro, but paused and took a deep breath. He left the cigarettes in his pocket. Nick sat down on the curb and bent down to tie his scuffed Pro-Keds.

“Dad, did you really get haircuts in a chair like this?”

“Yeah, your grandfather used to take me for trims when I was about your age.”

“Where is your father? You never talk about him.”

Nick untied his sneakers and began to entwine the dirty laces once again. He did not look at his father, and kept his eyes focused on his feet.

“In Canada last I heard. I didn’t see him much as a kid. I haven’t seen him at all as an adult.” He glanced at the chair, reached out and placed his hand on the worn leather.

“Dad, you okay?”

“Yeah, son, I’m fine. You sure are tying those things pretty tight.”

“Are you ok?”

“I’m good, Dad.”

“Well, you let me know if things are ever not good. Deal?”

“I will dad.”

Nicks father unscrewed the canteen cap and handed it to Nick, who drank one long gulp.  the juice cold and sour and sweet. It was delicious. He handed it to his father who poured it into his mouth, slowly pulling the canteen higher away form this mouth, the stream lengthening.

“Keep it going dad!”

The stream was near arm’s length from his mouth when he laughed, and the lemonade spilled across his face. He wiped his mouth with his bare forearm, smiling at Nick.

“Come on son, let’s move. Almost to the end.”

His father picked up the rope and began to pull. Nick resumed his position in the rear and silently began to push. The chair and dolly seemed lighter now.  His mother’s lemonade had given him energy and a sugar rush of optimism. He glanced around as he pushed, noticing the green trees and manicured lawns trimmed to golf course perfection.  They passed rows of colonial-style homes with front porches from which neighbors gestured acknowledgement and called encouragement. Nick wondered if one day he would own a home and have a family. Nick proudly waved back at them.

“Seems like these folks know you.”

“This is my paper route…thanks Dad!”

A black hearse eased up slowly, followed by a row of cars with lit headlights. Nick’s father noticed the hearse, and steered the chair closer to the curb letting the procession proceed. He dropped the rope and placed his hand over his heart. The hearse and train of mourners crept by them. 

“Dad, it’s not the pledge of allegiance.”                             

“I know son, but it’s the only thing I could think to do.”

Their eyes met as both suppressed grins. When the last car receded, they began to laugh. His father’s eyes watered and Nick covered his mouth while his shoulders shook. Their laughter swelled as the absurdity of the day— the chair, the people, the journey itself—struck them.

“Hey, Nick, what you up too?”

Nick stopped laughing.

His friends appeared like curious pack of scruffy wolves: Bobby, Jamesy, the Rice brothers Joe and Jimmy. They gathered around Nick and his father with eyes locked on the old barber chair.

“Cool chair!” Bobby said.

“We’re bringing it home. Gonna fix it up, maybe make it a TV chair.” Nick’s father said as he stroked the leather armrest.

“Can we help?”

“Sure.”

Each boy gathered around the chair and grabbed hold at various points, like the ditch diggers earlier. Nick and his friends began to push, as his father leaned forward with the rope slung over one shoulder, his face open with a broad grin.  Nick couldn’t contain his own wide smile as he pushed alongside his friends, his father leading the way.

“Let’s go!” someone yelled.

Their collective effort propelled the dolly and chair forward, its momentum and speed gaining with each step. As they approached Nick’s block, the boys, the barber chair and one middle-aged man, began to run.

They ran faster and faster, barely holding onto the chair as it sped and bounced along the pavement, like an unmoored rowboat. Someone tripped and caught himself. Another yelled “Hee Haw!”  It was a game now.

With adolescent energy, the boys ran, stumbled, and righted themselves. They laughed excitedly, wide-eyed and open-mouthed as they yelled and pushed, their sneakers striking the pavement in a near sprint.  Nick glimpsed his father drop the rope, step aside, and let it all pass by. Nick did not look back.

The dolly crashed into the curb and came to a jolting stop in front of Nick’s house. The boys fell to the ground, and tumbled their laughter filling the street. Nick rolled onto his back, looking up at the blue sky, panting and giggling at the same time. He glanced up to see his father slowly walking toward them.

“You ok Dad?”

“Yeah son,” he said through heavy breaths. “Not young anymore.”

He bent over, with his hands on his knees.

“I think I’ll go inside for a second. Guys, push this thing into the garage. Thanks.”

His father reached down, and held his hand out to Nick. He pulled him up from the ground, but did not let go of Nick’s hand.

“Nice job, son. Proud of ya. It was a good day.”

“Thanks Dad.”

Nick watched his father walk to the house, his mother greeting him at the door with a concerned look.

“Hey dad, I’ll write that letter about the special episode as soon as I’m done.”

Nick’s father didn’t hear him as the screen door squeaked shut. He saw his mother place her arm over her father’s shoulders. The boys pushed the old chair into the garage, and left it there among gardening tools, the lawnmower, snowblower, boxes and bicycles.

A week later, Nick stood alone in the driveway throwing a rubber ball against the garage wall. The pink Spaldeen hit the wall and bounced back to Nick with mindless rhythm.   Each time he scooped it up and threw again without thinking. No one was home but him, while his mother visiting his father in the hospital.                                                                                                       

Nick tossed the ball into the backyard. He yanked up the garage door to get his bike. The door rumbled open on its wheeled track, snowing dust on the oil-stained floor as it came to an abrupt halt.   In the shadows toward the back, sat the barber chair where they had left it, untouched since that day. Next to the chair was his bicycle, with its chrome frame, white banana seat, and tall sissy bar.

In the distance he heard the chiming bells of Our Lady of Peace. Nick grabbed the garage door handle and pulled it shut. He walked into town.

###

John D. Coville, Esq. is a practicing attorney in New York and a Brooklyn native who began his career as an editor for trade publications including Interior Design Magazine and Building Design & Construction. He holds a B.A. from Fordham University and a J.D. from DePaul University.