First, an apology: Last
week, I chopped two inches
off Reid the Fly Creek barber’s
height. He is not a
towering six-foot-six, but a
stratospheric six-foot-eight.
Watch out, low-flying aircraft.
Reid’s Fly Creek shop
shows every sign of continued
success. It reminds me
that, before a recent hiatus
of about fifteen years, Fly
Creek had probably had an
almost unbroken line of
barbers back to its earliest
days. Such was the way
with hamlets like ours,
which met most of their
needs with shops and stores
right at hand.
And we had industry,
too. Through the 19th century’s
second half, Fly
Creek was noisy, six days a
week, with the steady
clanks and bangs coming
from the Badger Ironworks.
Badger’s poured and assembled
all manner of castiron
objects, including a
handsome woodstove now
on display in our Historical
Society. I’m guessing even
the Sabbath must have
been fairly noisy around
here, at least on toward
eleven o’clock. That’s when
the bells of all three flourishing
churches vied to lure
the devout.
The 1872 Fly Creek
boasted, beside Badger’s, a
general store, a machine
shop, three blacksmiths,
two wagon-wrights, a cobbler,
a creamery, two hat
shops, a hotel, and, of
course, a barber shop. I’m
not sure where that barber
was located, but I do know
where his lineal successor
did business in the 1930’s.
It was right where Reid has
set up shop.
My source for that fact
was Arrie Hecox, who lived
Fly Creek history from his
1914 birth till his death after
the century’s end. Arrie
patronized that barber and
had colorful tales about
him, some downright bizzare.
The man, for instance,
never could find a set of
false teeth that pleased
him. When he got a new
set, he added the rejects to
a collection in the barbershop.
In the barber chair,
said Arrie, a customer faced
all of the barber’s former
china choppers, grinning at
him from the four shelves
of a glass-front cabinet.
Card games went on in
that shop constantly, with
the barber almost always
involved. He’d leave his
hand face down on the table
and watched the play while
he clipped away on a customer.
(More than a few
earlobes got snipped in the
process.) When his turn
came to play, he’d abandon
his customer and sit at the
table. Then he’d go back to
his clipping with no apology
to customer, who’d likely
been following the game,
too.
That barber, said Arrie,
had victimized himself with
drink, to the point that delirium
tremens made his
hands shake violently.
When he’d lathered up a
customer’s neck and around
his ears, he’d have to gather
himself before wielding
the straight razor. ``Men
who never prayed anywhere
else,’’ Arrie said
grimly, ``would pray in that
barber chair.’’
Sadly the barber’s D.T.’s
got so bad that they produced
awful hallucinations,
usually while he was alone
in the shop. He’d feel ants
crawling up his pants legs,
see giant spiders scooting
up the walls and dropping
from the ceiling. Neighboring
storekeepers would
hear him screaming in terror
and rush to his aid.
Like an EMT unit, they’d
run into the barbershop,
grab the hysterical man,
and throw him face down
across three chairs. Then,
as one sat on his back, a
second pulled off his shoes
and socks, and a third
fetched a wide pine board
kept in the corner for such
emergencies. The third
man would haul off with
that board and, WHAM!,
slam the barber across the
bare soles of both feet. I
guess it was a kind of primitive
reflexology that set
synapses sparking all
through his brain.
The effect was instantaneous.
They sat the nowcalm
barber up. He thanked
them, pulled on his shoes
and socks and limped over
to the barber chair, ready
for the next customer. Not
a biting ant to be felt, not a
giant spider to be seen. Until
the next time.
I hope to convince Reid
that, next Fly Creek Day,
we should stage a re-enactment
of his predecessor’s
rescue from his delusions.
This would show hundreds
of bargain-hunters (here
for the yard sales) one of
our hamlet’s great traditions:
We look out for each
other.
I figure the reenactment
should be staged at least
four times during the day.
We’ll close off the Four Corners,
and that would be the
signal for Reid, inside the
shop and dressed like a
‘30’s barber, to begin whooping
and bellowing about
ants and spiders. In turn,
that would signal staff from
Portabello, the general
store, and Harmony House
(all dressed in Depression
garb) to rush towards the
barbershop.
At that point, Reid would
burst forth, brushing imaginary
spiders from his head
and slapping his pants legs
to squash the ants, his face
a twisted mask of terror.
(The reenactment can’t be
inside the shop because the
crowd wouldn’t see.) So
Reid will burst forth, still
bellowing, halfway collapse
down his front steps, and
fall to the sidewalk on his
face. (Shuddering moans
would be good at this point,
but we’ll leave Reid to improvise.)
What drama!
Now his rescuers will be
at his side. Dirk of Harmony
House will sit on Reid’s
back. I’d thought of having
Josh of Portabello’s do that,
but we don’t want broken
bones. Instead, Josh will
yank off the shoes and
socks.
By then, Big John of the
general store, almost as tall
as Reid, will have run in
and out of the shop, bringing
with him the big pine
board. Stationing himself
south of Reid’s feet, John
will drop into a batter’s
stance (an homage to Cooperstown),
then haul off
and slam Reid’s feet. I’m
thinking we can count on a
realistic scream from Reid.
But then, wondrous to
behold, he will sit up, looking
dazed. His helpful
friends will get him to his
feet, then hand him his
shoes and socks. And a
grateful Reid, after shaking
hands all around, will hobble
up the steps and into
his shop. The cheers, the
whistles, the applause will
be deafening.
That’s when we pass the
hat.
Read about Jim Atwell’s
book, From Fly Creek--Celebrating
Life in Leatherstocking
Country, at JimAtwell.
com
