the water dispenser

The uniformed man walked past, straight down the middle of the two rows of chairs, perfectly ordinary. He’s young-ish, he’s wearing a hat, a baseball cap, but I didn’t catch the logo. When he got to the back of the shop, I lost interest in his activities, but on recollection I see that he entered the scene empty handed, which is odd for a delivery person or service man. When I glance at him again something slightly odd is happening. He’s got the carboy out of the water dispenser and is looking at the main body of the dispenser itself. Maybe a repair? The carboy is empty. Everything seems normal. But then I see that the dispenser is unplugged and he’s holding the cord. He picks it up and hoists the whole thing onto his shoulder. My eyes track him, head held still, as Maria continues cutting my hair. The empty carboy is in his other hand and he walks back out right down the dead middle of the chairs with all of it. He doesn’t look left or right, and says nothing to anyone.

They’ve started taking the place apart. Maria says it’s been like this all week. There were some workers out measuring at the front of the shop a day or two ago. “Bro, we’re still here,” she says, gesturing toward the emptying room, the barbers beginning to pack combs and trimmers, the decorations barely still hanging on the wall. One of the other clients leaves a bottle of tequila for them, after his last haircut. I send a larger than my usual tip along with the payment. Maybe I’ll see her again at the next barbershop.

jg