Harry’s cut is a two-step bowl: flat across the bottom straight up the
cheek, straight across the eyes, then straight down the other cheek.
Harry says it’s from Mussolini’s guards. In truth, it was unconciously
inspired by a cut on a buxom brunette in the stack of Playboys
underneath the cash register. It lives on in school photos, similarly
sequestered in attics and box bottoms, and in laughter and shame.
— He made the trains run on time.
— Bullshit, Harry. You left. What do you know about it?
— Get out.
— You’re not done.
— Get out of my shop.
— Finish your job, then i go.
Harry spreads his left hand across the customer’s face and holds him
against the chair. In his right hand he holds his razor against the
— Get out of my fucking shop.
Harry swats at flies. He checks the sky above 12th St. and thinks
about low- ering the blinds. A curve swings through the city’s
parallels and orthogonals. His son-in-law’s brother’s bride. He went
to the wedding. What an ass.
— I’m going for a coffee.
— OK, Harry, i got you covered.
The light at the corner turns red. She stops, eyes fixed on the light.
Harry pulls up beside her and pinches her nipple. She laughs.
The light turns green and she crosses. Harry stays on the corner.
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