Guest Author Lockie Young.

Part four of an eight part series on authors from New Brunswick, Canada.

So pleased to have Lockard (Lockie) Young of Albert County, NB as a featured guest. I know you will enjoy this amusing tale that he is sharing with us this week. Lockie has appeared on the Scribbler many times. He is a published author  and a terrific story teller. His links are below.


Are You Sure   by Lockie Young

My day got really bad right after I said “you’re pretty sure?” Well, maybe if I start at the beginning.

It had been a really crappy week at work. I was convinced that bitch from accounting was trying to screw me over, again. For the second pay period in a row she ‘forgot’ to add my tips onto my paycheck. That meant that once again, come Monday morning, I was going to have to submit for a second check to be cut just for my special deposit. That’s what I called the extra money I made in tips, which I usually moved into my savings account. I’m two special deposits behind now, and I was counting on that extra cash for my haircut.

Doing a slow burn I watched as the paper envelope was being gobbled by the slot in the ATM. I withdrew twenty bucks that I couldn’t spare and that should have stayed the hell in there. It was impossible however, to leave it there, because tomorrow was haircut day. If I didn’t get a haircut at least once every four weeks, I would take on the look of an Einstein impersonator with steel wool locks.

I’m the type of person who thrives on order. I take pride in my appearance, and the fact that I have never been late for an appointment, but that is only because I plan everything. Like a game of chess in my head, I calculate for errors, for bad weather, for rush hour traffic. I try to make a plan for every scenario, but some things you just can’t plan for.

Saturday morning arrived after a very dull Friday evening de-stressing in front of the TV. The first day of the weekend poked its sunny head through my curtains, and I smiled at my great good fortune. It was a beautiful bright day after all. Perhaps I would walk to the barbershop today. I threw my legs over the edge of the bed, and planted my feet firmly to greet the new day. My right foot landed into something cold, soft, and slowly squishing between almost every toe. The unmistakeable odor of Toby, the family fertilizer factory on four legs greeted my day and encouraged my gorge to rise. I half ran half slid into the bathroom and dry heaved over the cold porcelain of the toilet. Nice I thought as I raised my head from the bowl and saw the brown swoosh style smear on the floor. Let’s just say my gorge rose several times more while getting myself and the entire hallway cleaned all the way back to the bedroom.

 

When the coffee maker overflowed hot grounds all over the cupboard, and then that mess pooled on the kitchen floor, I didn’t lose it like I thought I would. Even after the toast caught fire and I threw the toaster into the kitchen sink, I didn’t pick it back up and heave it through the glass patio door like I wanted to. No sir. Maybe there were forces at work to discourage me today, I reasoned, as I chuckled to myself.

“A pox on you, Karma!” I shouted to the air, with fist raised in mock defiance of the forces that be.

I’m thinking that’s when I really got the bad MoJo going.

I left the house, and didn’t even pick up the garbage can that I hit on the way out of the driveway. Garbage day was four days from now. Why was the garbage can down by the street?

I pondered this question on the drive to the barbershop. The walk was cancelled, courtesy of Toby, and no accidents happened on the way to the shop. I did have to pick up the pace a little bit though. The oddest thing; there wasn’t a free parking space within two blocks of the barber shop. I finally found a spot only to discover the meter didn’t work but when I was getting back into the driver’s seat the car in the space ahead of me pulled away.  I nudged ahead quickly and threw the gear shifter into park. I knew my luck was changing for the day, as I ran the rest of the way to my ten o’clock.

I was slightly out of breath when I skidded into the doorway at exactly nine fifty nine a.m. My record was still intact. I looked around and asked the skinny kid with the coke bottle glasses, “Where’s Walter?”

The young lad looked up from his comic book. “Uncle Walt had to go to a funeral. His best friend died, and so he asked me to take a few of his clients. You want a cut?”

This, this was not good. This skinny runt would need a box to stand on to reach the back of my neck.

“Well, you see, Walt always does my hair. Are you even allowed to cut hair? I mean legally?” I asked him, and almost laughed out loud at the size of the poor guys eyes behind those glasses. How could he even see to cut friggin hair?

“Oh sure, I’m licensed and everything, see?” He pointed to a square of heavy paper propped up beside a tall glass jar containing blue fluid and several combs. I squinted at the document and stammered, “The date on that diploma was last month.”

“Highest marks in the cut exam.” He motioned to the chair as he held the green striped apron open. I looked at this stranger in the mirror with wide eyes and a half scared look on his face and wearing my clothes, and I almost left. I scrunched down in the barber’s chair, wondering if he was still going to be able to see the top of my head. He grabbed a spray can from the counter.

“A little lubrication,” He said as he sprayed the electric clippers. I swear he winked at me.

“Look just a little trim, okay.” I smiled nervously to geek boy’s reflection in the mirror.

“Whatever you say, you’re the boss.” He said, as he fired up the clippers. As soon as the razor hit the hair on the back of my head, it dug in like a snow blower digging into a four foot drift. The motor started to make a funny noise as the first of the pain registered. Junior yanked the shears away and a very large clump of hair the same color as mine slowly swirled to the floor.

“Oh my god, that must have been hairspray and not oil. I’m pretty sure I can fix that.” He said looking at the back of my head, with his own tilted at a strange angle.

A stranger using my voice said, “You’re pretty sure?”

I don’t remember much after that. I think my arraignment is next week.  

The End

Thanks again Lockie for entertaining us again with your witty stories. You can discover more about Mr. Young and his novels by visiting the links below.

The Legend Returns:

http://morningrainpublishing.com/project/the-legend-returns-by-l-f-young/ 

Ryan's Legend: http://morningrainpublishing.com/project/ryans-legend/ 

Website: http://poems-and-other-ramblings.webnode.com/

Blog: http://lockardyoung.wordpress.com/

 

 

Watch next week when the Scribbler presents a 4Q Interview with Gwen Martin of Yoho, New Brunswick. Gwen is an accomplished author as well as the Executive Director of the Writer's Federation of New Brunswick. A very charming and talented lady. Don't miss it.