Windham Labec had never noticed ‘Tony’s Barber Shop’ before, and, feeling a little scraggly, decided to stop in.
“Eh,” said the barber, greeting him in a thick accent as he worked on a customer seated in the barber’s chair.
“Hey,” said Windham, chuckling a bit to himself. What were the odds that ‘Tony’ the barber was Italian?
“I’m Tony,” said the barber. “Grab a seat. I’ll be witchoo in a couple minutes over here.”
Windham sat down in a leather chair and looked around the décor. Many signed photos of NHL players covered most of one wall. Next to those: a signed photograph of the corrupt mayor, next to a crushed painting of Scarface… which was next to another painting of Scarface.
The conversation in the chair had included such choice phrases as “so you gettin’ enough pussy,” and “who was that shemale I saw you with” and “hey, lay off the Mayor, he’s got enough problems” to “we gotta get together and share a pie”.
“What’s your name?” asked Tony.
“Labec,” said Windham, surprised to hear himself use his last name for some reason.
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“Hey,” said the customer. “Don’t be racist. What the fuck?”
“You’re right, Angelo,” said Tony, kissing the customer’s ring. He turned to Windham. “Sorry about that.”
“No worries,” said Windham, fighting every urge to look at his watch and pretend he had to love.
“What the fuck is that supposed to mean?” said the customer, swiveling the chair around. “You don’t accept his apology about being a racist fuck who indulges in petty stereotypes?”
And at that moment, Windham realized he himself was guilty of perceiving these two men according to stereotype. But what was really concerning was that he became aware that he was surrounded by hundreds of tiny meatballs and raviolis who pinned him down in his chair with twine, like small, delicious Lilliputians.
And as he struggled and screamed, Tony locked the door and turned the “OPEN” sign to “CLOSED”, the corpse of Lois Prima drinking an espresso emerged from the closet and gave Windham the best damn shave he’d ever had.