“How’s that,
nef?” asked Clyde.
He had just
stepped from the bathroom where he had been sliding a comb through his hair for
close to an hour. It was a ritual of
sorts since he had seen pictures of Elvis.
It took a while to prepare his hair after a bath. A touch of baby oil to take the wildness out
of the towel dried mop. A comb through
it gave it that first approach to over the ears into a duck tail after which
the true magic of a pompadour came to fruition as it swept back along the ears
with the top slipping into a curl over the forehead and an upsweep into a duck’s
tail at the back. That magic was
provided by a heavy dosing of Butch Hair Wax which held the curl, sides and
tail on permanent hold.
I studied it
for a while.
“Well, nef?”
“Maybe it
needs to be longer,” I said looking at the sides. “Aren’t you supposed to have sideburns? Elvis has sideburns.”
His lip
curled up, his voice dropped, “Why they’ll grow in, nef. Just gimme a little time.” His imitation of
Elvis’ hick talk and accent were dead on as he ended up swiveling his pelvis to
an imaginary rock beat.
Out came his
comb from his back pocket and through the greasy locks plastering them to his
temples. A small beading of Butch Hair Wax lined the comb at the base of the
teeth. He slid it between his thumb and for finger then streaked it down the
outer seam of his dungarees.
“Why’d you
do that?” I asked wrinkling my face.
Clyde pretended
to ram his finger up his nose while saying, “See that policeman up the corner?”
I looked
without thinking then turned back. His hand went from his nose to the seam on
his pants again.
“You see him,
the one with the stripe all the way down his pants?” At which time he pushed that finger downward
removing the rest of the hair wax.
“Clyde Lynn
Parnelle! What are you doing?”
It was my
grandmother who had walked in catching this moment of childhood humor. Clyde
dropped the Elvis stance turning to see his mother glaring at him.
“Um, I was showing
Rickey how my new pants have that pink thread running down the side along the
seam.”
He glanced
at me with a determined look wanting me to go along.
“Oh,
yeah. It’s new. Pink and black. It’s cool,” I said, trying to
help him out of the situation, bobbing my head up and down.
“Yeah, pink
on black. I bought it with my own money
from my paper route. “
He’d been delivering papers for a couple of
months. Each day they would arrive in
the afternoon and he’d get me to help roll them, rubber-band them and pack them
in the bag furnished by The News and Courier.
Then he’d throw that tightly packed canvas bag onto a makeshift T-board
on the handlebars of his bike and pedal around the neighborhood throwing papers
in yards. His first payday had been
fairly good. With each paycheck he had
put aside some to buy his new pink and black ensemble. Doubly proud, he was.
“It looked
like something much different from where I was standing,” said my grandmother.
“It wasn’t
what it looked like if you thought I was wiping my nose on my pants,” he said
it before thinking about it. He cringed
after saying it.
“Alright, I
better never catch you doing that. That
is a nasty habit no child of mine will do.”
“Yes ma’am,”
said Clyde. He gave a quick sigh of relief.
“What have
you done to your hair?” asked my grandmother after a brief study of his new pompadour.
“It’s how I
want to wear it. I’ve been letting it
grow. What do you think, mama?” he
asked.
“You look
like that hoodlum, what’s his name? Presley something…” Her scowl showed her disapproval. “That singer they won’t show from the waist
down on the Ed Sullivan Show.”
“Oh,
mama. He sings good. I like how he combs it. Thought maybe I could get the look and become
a singer, too.”
He broke out
in song sounding like Elvis, “Love me tender Love me true…”
“That is a
nice song,” said grandmother. “I guess
that’s how the new generation has to show their difference from us old
folks. You do have a good voice, son.
Maybe you could.”
Clyde had an
amazing voice, at least after puberty’s cracking vocal funny business finally
faded away. He sang all the time
now.
“The girls,
they like it,” he sang mimicking Bobby Bare singing All American Boy. Then he would smile with the Elvis lip
curl. To be truthful I could hear the
girls swooning in the imaginary background and by his smile so could he.
Grandmother
smiled at her son and turned back to the kitchen.
“You boys
stay out of trouble, now,” she said turning on the oven.
There was a
thump on the front porch.
“Papers are
here!” I yelled running to the front door.
“Bring ‘em
in, nef. I’ll get the rubbers,” he
snickered.
The bundle
was tied together. I held the string in
both hands leaning over nearly backwards hauling them into the living room
floor.
Clyde opened
his folding knife and sliced through the string. He dropped the bag of rubber bands between us
and opened the canvas bag to receive the rolled papers.
He folded, rolled
and banded three papers to each of mine.
“Come on
slowpoke. I gotta get going. It’s gonna be Friday night soon and I gotta
get dressed to go out.”
“I’m going
as fast as I can.”
“Here,” he
said holding the canvas bag bulging with papers. “Put it in here.”
There was a
tight spot he was holding open for the last paper as I slipped the band around
it. There was no more room when we
finally got it jammed in.
He hefted
the bag onto his shoulder and hauled it out the back door. His bike was propped up against the garage with
the T-board fitted in the handlebars. He
settled the heavy bag on the board which creaked under the weight.
“See you
when I get back, nef.” He shouted as he
peddled off.
He returned
in a couple of hours as the sun was near setting.
“How’s my
hair?” he asked slipping the comb into his pocket and his finger down the seam.
“Just like
it did the first time you asked,” I said.
One had to marvel at the holding power of Butch Hair Wax.
“Good. I’m gonna wash up, then get out my new pants
and shirt. I’m gonna be the hit of the
party.” His smile foretold that he would
be. He was always confident about his
effect on the ladies.
Twenty
minutes later he walked out into the living room sliding the comb through an
extra coating of hair wax. The bead he
piled on his finger while drawing thumb and forefinger over that well-trod path
on his comb. His finger went
automatically into position to wipe it off on the seam of his pants when he
realized that could not happen now.
He stood in
the double doorway between the dining room and the living room. I would have sworn there was a spotlight on
him. His stance was not unlike Elvis as
the eye was transfixed on his attire. A
black shirt with pink stitching along the edges of his left hand pocket echoed
by the stitching on the border of his collar which was standing up at the back
of his neck. His pants, also, were the
same midnight black with the outer seam of each leg stitched in heavy pink
thread. It was the style and he was on
top of it.
The singular
moment was broken as he looked around for something to wipe the sticky mess off
his fingers.
“Hand me
that Kleenex box, nef,” he said pointing his waxy finger to the side table.
I took it
over to him. He yanked one out and
another popped up in its place, always a mystery to me, and wiped his hand free
of the hair wax.
“Well,
nef? How do I look?” His lip curled
around his Elvis voice.
“Pink and
black!” I said.
“Yeah, pink
and black, baby. I’m in style. I’m gonna knock ‘em dead. I’m gone, cat,” he said. I watched his black outfit fade into the
night as he went off to win the hearts of the girls. It was something he would be good at for a
very long time after that night.
