Run With the Hunted by Charles Bukowski

another beer while you’re getting your hair cut?”
    Monk’s eyes fixed on Harry, “No, we’ll get a beer after I’m finished here.”
    Then his eyes fixed on the mirror. “Not too much off around the ears, Paul.”
    As the world turned, Paul snipped away.
    â€œBeen getting much, Monk?”
    â€œNothin’, Paul.”
    â€œI don’t believe that …”
    â€œYou better believe it, Paul.”
    â€œNot from what I hear.”
    â€œLike what?”
    â€œLike when Betsy Ross made that flag, 13 stars wouldn’t have wrapped around your pole!”
    â€œAh, shit, Paul, you’re too much! ”
    Monk laughed. His laugh was like linoleum being sliced by a dull knife. Or maybe it was a death-cry.
    Then he stopped laughing. “Not too much off the top.”
    Harry put the magazine down and looked at the floor. The linoleum laugh had transferred into a linoleum floor. Green and blue, with purple diamonds. An old floor. Patches of it had begun to peel, showing the dark brown flooring beneath. Harry liked the dark brown.
    He began counting: 3 barber chairs, 5 waiting chairs. 13 or 14 magazines. One barber. One customer. One … what?
    Paul and Harry and Monk and the dark brown.
    The cars went by outside. Harry started counting, stopped. Don’t play with madness, madness doesn’t play.
    Easier to count the drinks on hand: none.
    Time rang like a blank bell.
    Harry was conscious of his feet, of his feet in his shoes, then of his toes … on the feet … in his shoes.
    He wiggled his toes. His all-consuming life going nowhere like a snail crawling toward the fire.
    Leaves were growing upon stems. Antelopes raised their heads from grazing. A butcher in Birmingham raised his cleaver. And Harry sat waiting in a barbershop, hoping for a beer.
    He was without honor, a dog without a day.
    It went on, it went by, it went on and on, and then it was over. The end of the barber chair play. Paul spun Monk so he could view himself in the mirrors behind the chair.
    Harry hated barbershops. That final spin in the chair, those mirrors, they were a moment of horror for him.
    Monk didn’t mind.
    He looked at himself. He studied his reflection, face, hair, all. He seemed to admire what he saw. Then, he spoke: “O.K., now, Paul, will you take a little off the left side? And you see that little piece sticking out there? That should be cleaned up.”
    â€œOh, yeah, Monk … I’ll get it …”
    The barber spun Monk back and concentrated upon the little piece that stuck out.
    Harry watched the scissors. There was much clicking but not much cutting.
    Then Paul spun Monk toward the mirrors again.
    Monk looked at himself.
    A slight smile curled up the right side of his mouth. Then the left side of his face gave a little twitch. Self-love with only a twinge of doubt.
    â€œThat’s good,” he said, “now you’ve got it right.”
    Paul whisked Monk off with the little broom. Falling dead hair drifted in a dead world.
    Monk dug in his pocket for the price and the tip.
    The money transaction tinkled in the dead afternoon.
    Then Harry and Monk were walking down the street together back toward the bar.
    â€œNothing like a haircut,” said Monk, “makes you feel like a new man.”
    Monk always wore pale blue work shirts, sleeves rolled up to show off his biceps. Some guy. All he needed now was some female to fold his shorts and undershirts, roll his stockings for him and put them in the dresser drawer.
    â€œThanks for keeping me company, Harry.”
    â€œSure, Monk …”
    â€œNext time I get a haircut I’d like you to come along with me.”
    â€œMaybe, Monk …”
    Monk was walking next to the curb and it was like a dream. A yellow dream. It just happened. And Harry didn’t know where the compulsion came from. But he allowed the compulsion. He pretended to trip and lunged into Monk. And Monk,