Tom gripped a handle bar swinging his shoe hard against the kick stand and then over the long bike seat grabbing the other handle to pedal out on his journey. Two legs of his trip skirted the turkey farm along the railroad tracks and 62nd street. Grown-ups on their way to places followed these paths. Tom rode their narrow shoulders. He reached the stores along the last leg. Tom dismounted looking over at the farm. Several weathered coops in clusters edged the tracks. Chicken wire kept varmints out. The rumble of trains greeted hatching poultry. The hatchlings’ mouths would open as they gazed up at the sky and drowned during rain storms. Turkeys were stupid. Didn’t matter, this was an egg farm. A few peahens strutted among the turkeys. Peahens were different. They had peacocks as mates, with those blue, green, and bronzy-brown tail feathers. Turkeys had each other.
Tom leaned his bike against a wall. Two boys scrambled out the door of a shop. They ran from under the store awning to a station wagon. Tom caught the shop door before it closed and held it for their dad. He went inside. No kids were inside. No one but the barber was there. Tom got a Hot Rod magazine and sat down to flip through its pages. It spoke of a different life. Not a boy’s life. Tom knew a neighbor kid working on a Chevy in his garage and another boy up the street who raced go-karts. Here were ladies in photos holding auto parts. Ladies posing against cars. That was their job. The door opened. Tom squinted. His dad entered. The barber spun the chair, turned to his dad, and said, “Tom, hop up. Same as usual, Bill?” Tom tossed the magazine at the table. It slipped off. Tom leaned to pick it up. He stopped and instead went over to the barber chair. Tom looked at his dad who looked back. “Do what you can, Gene.” said his dad, “Would you pluck some off the inside too?” Gene smiled, tucked Tom’s collar down, and draped a brown apron across him. He pulled scissors out of a jar filled with blue water and began to groom. He lifted tufts of Tom’s hair between two fingers and then snipped, again and again. At times, the barber tilted Tom’s head to the side. “You got a pimple.” said the barber, “Want me to get it?” The barber pushed Tom’s head into his neck and dug in. Then he razored peach fuzz off Tom’s shoulders. At length, he shook talcum into a brush and dusted away the trimmings. He spun Tom to face the mirror. Dad approved. Haircuts messed with Tom. Haircuts were childish, and then not.
Some mornings, before heading to the bus stop, Tom would sneak a look at his dad shaving. His dad took a thick handled brush and stirred it around a soap bar into rich foam which he lathered on his stubble. He wet his double edge razor, wiped the steam off the mirror, and began to shave - first the neck, then the cheeks and chin, and finally from nose to lip. He splashed water on his face, patted with a white towel, and dabbed on aftershave. Tom saw that and wanted to see more. Barbers groomed men. They sized up a customer. They clipped what wasn’t needed and in that cutting revealed the man. Men went there to get the ear of other men. Tom wanted to go there, alone. His dad followed. Afterwards Tom would ride over to see friends. His dad would head back home. They left the shop together. Tom saw his dad lift his hand above his eyes as he got in the car. He was blocking out the sun to get a look.
Tom heard a commotion over by the turkey coops. A strident choir of gobbles diminished into raucous laughter. He saw two kids emerge from a coop with eggs. As he rode over, Tom heard the low whistle of an approaching train. The kids got set to egg the train. He had to see this. He lifted the rod of the gate and entered the farm. Across the way sharp, cracking sounds echoed as the kids struck their mark. As the train passed, a stodgy conductor waved frantically from the caboose. As Tom reached the kids, he saw Brenda walking along 62nd Street. Her brother delivered the paper in the morning. His throat tightened. Brenda was pretty. He liked to sit behind her on the school bus. He raised his hand high toward her. He saw Brenda quickly point back at him. Tom suddenly felt a sharp pain in his thigh as he tumbled hard. One of the kids had clipped him. The other moved in pinning Tom to the ground, straddling his stomach. The kid gripped Tom’s wrists. Tom looked up and saw the kid’s mouth open to dangle a thick drop of spit down at him. The kid slurped the rubbery liquid back into his mouth and then let it drool it out again. Tom felt his blue jeans slip down his tail bone. The other kid was pulling Tom’s pants off. Things were going terribly wrong. Spit landed on his cheeks and edged down his chin. As Tom grimaced a hand appeared over the kid’s scalp. The hand grabbed hair and yanked the kid aside. Then a foot piled into a shoulder of the other kid.
Brenda savaged them. The kids scattered. Brenda shrugged. She swept her long brown hair behind one ear revealing a lovely jaw. She turned as Tom got up and tucked his shirt back into his pants. He found his comb and swept it quickly through his hair. “Hey, McSoley’s Pharmacy is right over there. I was just headed there. Let's go.” Brenda said, “They have great stuff.” “Sure, thanks." said Tom. “Sorry they messed with you,” replied Brenda. Silently, they left the farm. Brenda closed the gate and joined up with Tom at his bike. His legs quivered on either side of his bike as Brenda hopped on behind. They set out, Brenda’s shoes scraping the road along the way. Tom stood up on the pedals and pushed hard over to the drug store. That was his job.
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