Capsule

My memories of my formative years, High School years, have become like capsules. Capsules floating in my mind that, when prodded, dissolve and release their contents. These memories are no longer part of my subconsious they are buried much deeper, they are dinosuars turning to oil.
His name was Jim. I believe his name was Jim. He was unassuming. Unassuming in his desire to be invisible. His hair was greasy, his manner timid, his eyes were that of a frightened dog. He was fragile. He wore cheap clothes. The kind of clothes that mark you in the kind of high school he was stuck at. It was a rich, white High School. The kind of High School where the scars of the have nots are deep and red. You either try to fit in and hide your caste or you try to disappear, hoping that you don't become grist for the mill of the haves. Jim, I'll call him Jim since I can't remeber his name for sure, was one whose only hope was to fade away, go unnoticed, avert eyes from the predatoty teens. He played trombone in the marching band. He had changed schools frequently. He was slow to make friends. Many of us simply assumed that he was slow. He was polite. He was respectful. He was quiet. He didn't want any trouble.

It was my senior year. I was the drum major. A position of leadership, or as much so as an 18 year old smart ass could handle. I had wanted it. It was the pinnacle of our little isolated world. Despite the dynamics and politics of the rest of the High School, we had our own culture, our own structure our own levels of acceptance. Gabba Gabba we accept you.
We worked together. We performed together. We shared intensity. It was our island from the pihrana pool outside the band room, off the marching field. Most importantly we were good. We travelled. We competed.

For three months we would travel several times to competitions around the northwest. At least one trip would take us far from home. We would sleep on gym floors, spend hours on end on the bus. It was our opportunity to be free. The smell of diesel still stirs emotions, a bit of adrenaline, nostalgia. Even in our protected world Jim was isolated, distant, afraid. He was reluctant to go. He was unable to afford the per diem. We covered his costs. We wouldn't leave anyone behind, how much of this was based out of camraderie simply the need for the fifth trombone I don't remember. I'd like to believe that simple charity was the overriding value. But morality is always to the benefit of the historian. He went on the trip. Jim did not bathe. He smelled. We were staying in the gym of a High School near the competition. People were complaining about Jim. Even within our own little world there were limits to acceptance. It was decided that I would approach him. We still believed that bad news from a peer was better than bad news from an adult. I don't remember the dialogue, or the language. I'm sure my best attempt at tact was employed. It was discussed discreetly. He would be escorted into the men's locker room, were we had already showered. The door would be guarded so that noone would enter. Jim would shower. All would be happy. The conversation did not go so well. I told Jim, as tactfully as I could, he smelled, he had to shower. I, even without wanting to or trying to, had done the unthinkable. I had exposed him. Regardless of my encouraging words, my reassurances, I had facilitated his nightmare. His peers had noticed him and disapproved. He may have cried, he acquiesced. He bathed. He came out of the locker room clean. And in the way that only teenagers can hurt each other people noticed him, each encouraging word, each congratulation on bathing, bit deeper and exposed him more. Each reassurance was a condemnation. He smiled and played along, but the damage was done.

He and his family moved away after the end of the school year. I graduated, and my thoughts moved to that of College. I would think of Jim now and again. I would think of him when I was chewing over the strange difficulties of High School, of the awkwardness, the unfairness. I looked through my Annual today. There is no hint of Jim. No class photos, no appearances in the marching band group photo. He exists now as he did in High School, undocumented, unnoticed.

Ivan the butcher

I've been going to the same barber for over ten years know. It's a hole in the wall, anchoring a row of decaying storefronts. A cake decorating supply store. An asian market. A video store. A 'lingerie' shop. Ivan has been there for at least three decades. Cutting, trimming, buzzing, dying, perming, frosting, and shaping hair. The shop is a collection of the jetsam of the past three decades. An old Hammond Organ, where he whiles away slow summer days, Flea market toys, combs, posters, magazines, and hair products, pictures, and until recently the pony tail he removed from me on my first visit there. He is Bulgarian. He has told me stories of the old country, working on a steam driven chaff machine. Joining the military. Mostly though the time is spent simply. I sit in the chair, he cuts my hair. Sometimes he suggests I take vitamins or condition, supplements vital to healthy hair. But mostly I sit quietly and he cuts. He is a craftsman who knows his way around a head of hair, tasks he could perform in his sleep. When I moved to the West Hills I started going to a small shop in Cedar Hills. They used warm shaving cream and straight razors. Barbers who had, much like Ivan, learned their craft from the military or from Fathers or Uncles. A couple years ago I went to a trendy local shop on a handful of occasions to receive a 'rock and roll' haircut. I returned to Ivan. He was suspicious. He knew I had gone to someone else. I couldn't lie to him, he could see right through me. "Who cut you hair?" his accent is still thick with the old world. "How much you spend?" "Ahhh, too much! They don't know what they doing. You keep coming here." He was right.
I've jokingly called him a butcher. He will cut your hair short if you ask for it and sometimes if you don't, he will swipe away sideburns without a second thought, he'll part my hair on the wrong side always. Despite those little idiosyncracies he is still a pro. More importantly though he is a dinosaur. A simple shop owner who has raised children and supported a neighborhood. He only takes cash which he keeps in a small drawer by his chair. He works five days a week, eight hours a day, plying a trade that he has practiced for longer than I have grown hair. Someday he will cut no more, and I dread that day. Cut shops, and strip mall chains are a dime a dozen, but there is only one Ivan.