The Barber and the Butcher

When I lived in Queens, there was a little deli that was across the street from my apartment. It wasn’t the greatest, but it was close, and when I am in a new place, I work my way out in concentric circles from my home base, exploring in baby steps like Bill Murray.

I got to know the kid that worked there most nights (we tried dating but the chemistry wasn’t there). Being scared to venture to far to get food or beer, I defiantly wasn’t venturing out to get my hair cut. I looked like Shaun around super bowl time.



One day I asked the guy "Is there a place around here where I can get my hair cut"





He repeated it back as a question "Is there a place that YOU can get your hair cut? Yeah, YOU can walk about 15 blocks down Steinway"

This was the first time in my life that I was on the receiving end of racism. I was ok with it I guess, but completely confused, because I was White, he was Hispanic, we were in a Greek neighborhood, and he sent me to get by hair cut at a barbershop owned by two Italian guys. I am not sure why I couldn’t get my haircut at any of the other places that I passed on my walk, but deli guy was clear, "Yeah, YOU aren’t going to want to go to any place closer than that"

I did end up liking the barbershop and I continued to use it the whole time I lived in New York. Plus it was right next to Sac's pizza, which was the best pizza in NYC as far as this fat guy’s was concerned.

I sat down in the chair and the old straight-off-the-boat Italian barber (picture Geppetto in appearance and accent) asks me "So, what is it that I can a do for a you?"



"One on the sides and the back, shorten it up on top" (one men’s regular)...



Barber - "You a sure you a want a one eh?"



"Yes"



Barber - "You a sure?"



"Yes, I’m sure"



Barber - "Ok, well a here we go"



He puts the clipper to my cheek and starts to run it up my sideburn. He could have been using a straight razor. My sideburn was completely gone"



"Wait, wait, wait!!!"



Barber - "ah ha.... I a told you.... (now he sits down in the chair next to me like a grandfather giving advice), a son, let me a tell you a something that will a do you a lot a good" You a go to da barber, or you a go to da butcher, make a sure you know what you are a asking for, or you will a get a something that you a don’t a want"



Maybe it was because it is the only advice I have ever gotten from an old Italian guy, but I have carried it around with me ever since. I sometimes take it out, and think about it, wonder if it has a greater meaning in my life. Wonder if the barber was racist and would have refused my Hispanic friend if I would have brought him along.



This is all going somewhere.... stay with me...



So last night I went to Tops to get stuff to make dinner. Tub has been a little sad since Jezebel left (he has been keeping up a gruff exterior, but I hear him weep at night... it haunts me). So I thought I would make him something a little special.



So I went up to the butcher (see it coming back around). I told him;



"I want two fillets 3" thick."



"You do" (said as statement - oh really ra-tard)



"Don't I?" (said as question - is there a reason I don’t want that? is that too thick)



"Do you?" (said as statement - There you go, you know something isn’t quite right)



"No.. I want them..... 2"? 2" thick?”



Butcher - "Thaaaaat’s more like it"



He was right. In my head 3" inches seemed like a reasonable thickness (thick, but not too thick), but in retrospect I guess I didn’t really know what I was asking for.



I made a half-assed attempt to share Geppetto's proverb with him but what came out was "I went to the barber...." Realizing that I had already fucked it up, I stopped and just stared at him. He had no idea what the hell I was talking about, nor how long it would take to explain it all. He seemed content that I had just gotten my hair cut. I made some remark about meat, and lying about an inch, then I winked and went on my way. He very well might have thought I was coming on to him.

After all of that, Tubby didn’t come home from work until almost ten. I sat like a disgruntled wife from the 50's when he came in. I was careful to let him know that I had slaved over a very special meal for him, and now it was cold, without stepping over that fine line that would get me a backhand and a speech about how he has to work to put food on our table.



I went to bed so I could get up extra early to make bird noises out side his window.