Uncle Frank and the Angels of Avalon
I had a very good vacation. First came four great days on Catalina, or great for the most part. I saw Clint, now finished with his master's in anthropology and actually looking at a probable published thesis; saw J and her father also. In fact, her dad hooked us up with several tours, very cool. S and I celebrated our fifth wedding anniversary (nine years as a couple, though) at the country club with a full dinner. I hadn't eaten up there; it aims to be the best restaurant on the island. In fact, the food was generally good, truly excellent lobster bisque with a sprinkling of roe (not true caviar) though the chef overcooked my wild boar in my opinion (I asked for chef's choice regarding doneness). But the environment up in the canyon where the Club is located, the lack of crowds and noise, the excellent martinis, made up for any defincincies. I only say deficincies because once a meal passes a certain cost, it seems fair to expect pretty high performance. S and I only spend that much on dinner a couple times a year. Overall, the Club did alright.
But I said my time on the island was great for the most part. I know I'm getting old, but it's so damned crowded now, with giant express catamarans running in and out at the mole more than once an hour (I remember the days of the red and white fleet, chugging away under diesel fumes and watching boy scouts chum over the side). Two cruise ships a week anchor off the island now also. S says she's seen it worse in the summer, and in fact the numbers are down a bit this year according to official reports, but still...I found myself wanting to be away from the mob. We mostly went where locals go: Pebbly beach, Buffalo Nickel, the Country Club, Pete's Cafe, the Dockside Cafe, the new (not really yet named) Boar's Nest. We didn't even dive, only snorkelled at Pebbly, though I saw some of the most amazing things I've ever seen under the water: huge schools of top smelt and mackerel, running in the unusually warm currents from the storm to the south, even a trigger fish swimming away, a tropical fish almost never seen on the island.
There was some true darkness, though.
I've written before about Lolo's barbershop. Lolo and his brother Frank. Getting a shave from either of them is a yearly ritual for me. I'm glad I heard the news the night before I showed up for my shave, but Lolo's brother Frank died this winter; in fact, he hanged himself. He shaved me and cut my hair last year, and his loss to the island is enormous.
From what I hear, nearly everyone on the island attended his funeral one way or another; shuttles ran up to the cemetary and the local cable channel broadcast the ceremony into every church. I found out from J and her father almost incidentally on my way to visit the cemetary which I'd never seen; they were talking about 'Uncle Frank,' or 'the Mayor,' and it took me a minute to understand. Frank would burst into song walking down the street, and when he was off he dressed in what I thought to be impeccable old school style. I knew there was some darkness in Frank, that he had spent years off the island when his brother was still cutting in the number one chair, had heard he had gotten sober from alcoholism a few years back, but I was still very shocked. Some said he succumbed to old demons; others, and probably better sources, said he had cancer and was in pain and chose to end his own life (though in a violent manner, I have to say, hanging...of all things). I wasn't sure if those who looked at his death as pure euthanasia were perhaps unwilling to look at what else might have been going on, but then this is none of my business, really.
We made it to the cemetary in J's father's golf cart, but we were unable to find his grave before dark.
The next day when Lolo shaved me I didn't bring it up. I saw the empty chair with the footrest in the seat, all the pictures still on the mirror behind. Someone, perhaps Lolo himself, had cut out part of the movie post for Barbershop 2 and it was taped to the glass door: Barbershop 2/Back in Business. Mr. Tony came in as he always does in the mornings before I was even in the chair. Tony is mentally limited, though as someone who has only met him and a non-specialist, I couldn't say if he is 'retarded' or autistic or something else. He speaks like a child, however, and with the same open nature, though he must be in his thirties at least. I know he runs the siren one Friday a month, the test, which any other time would bring the volunteer firefighters out of every corner of the valley. And I tell you the truth: if I had a tape recorder in my pocket that morning I would have dialogue for an award winning story. As it is, I can only remember some things, and I don't think I want to recreate it all here. What happened in the shop that morning is worth more than all fiction.
Tony brought Frank up only once. He said 'I miss Frank, Lolo, I miss Frank.' And Lolo said, 'me too, Tony, me too.' I muttered something about, yes, I heard I'm sorry, through the lather. But during my entire shave Lolo and Tony continued talking. And what struck me about the conversation was that Tony shared his feelings quite openly: his sister, if I understood, had miscarried the day before, a little boy lost, and he was very sad. Not only did Tony talk to Lolo freely, but Lolo spoke back, a comforting father. He took Mr. Tony very seriously. He said of course it was sad about his sister, anyone would be sad, and they moved from topic to topic, Lolo always comforting, parenting, nurturing. It was exquisite, enormously beautiful. As Lolo had his hand over my nose, so close, pulling and scraping my heavy beard into a clean shave I breathed deep, inhaled the scent of his hand, a father's hand, as I listened to his gentle and attentive tone. When Tony said he was being picked on by some kids, Lolo got very serious, what kids, what exactly and when; when he said he was looking forward to running the siren, Lolo listened as if it was the most important thing that would happen that day. Tony comes into that shop nearly every morning I'm told (he recognized me before he sat down, though he doesn't know my name and sees me exactly one morning a year: the long stare out from cloudy eyes, and then, 'I know you, you come here every summer,' and 'yes, you're right, I do'). I can understand why he comes in. Why I myself come in, though Lolo and I speak only a little.
When I was in last summer and Frank did my hair and shave he told me he thought I was in a movie he'd seen. No. He knew Huell Howser, a true Catalina and Lolo's Shop fan by the way, and we talked about him a bit. Frank, such a strong singer, told me he sang the national anthem before every little league game, a fact I heard from many. For Lolo, the loss of his brother must have been and continue to be enormously hard, yet he continues to embrace the living, or did that morning at least. I thought of Steinbeck and the heroes of Tortilla Flats and Cannery Row and I felt, again, he chose the wrong people to canonize. There are real Angels in Avalon, but they're not the guys drunk in front of the Marlin before noon, hustling the odd job; they're men like Lolo, like Mr. Tony, and like Uncle Frank.
I'd be very embarrased if Lolo knew I was writing this. All I can do is continue to overtip him, tell him he is the best barber I know, and make small talk. Next year maybe I'll try to talk to Tony more myself. But the natural comfort, the simple domesticity of their conversation, the sweetness, the human breath of it...I still ache.
And again, rushed with my draft (our house is a monumental mess) I have to hurry through a topic which deserves more time. I felt a calling sitting there in that chair that morning: to write about Avalon, to write stories like Steinbeck but without his naturalism and love for the comic irresponsible and tragically aberrant. Considering I visit Avalon less then ever, this will be a tough task; maybe, though, some day I will. My snippets here are notes for later recall, and beginnings of the process. Clint wants to do the same, though neither of us has shared anything.
***
Also, since I now know my brother and sister in law read with some regularity (they handed me an ad for a sharper image mouse repeller when I walked in) I must say that my brother and his wife are heroes also. Two sick children, one seven months and one just shy of four, yet continual patience with their illness and shifting moods. Beautiful, beautiful children, but so much work I was amazed to see it up close. My brother, with no decent earthly role model at least, is an impressive father in many ways. I must get some pictures of those babies up. Wonders beyond wonder. When I look at his home, his family, his new job...it's hard not to believe God is rewarding his committment to his faith. But however it has happened, he has become a true man, and he, along with his wife, are raising two beautiful little people. I saw it up close, and I know it to be the case. Best to them and their hospitality. How I miss my little nephew and niece already; it's enough to drive me out of the mountains if I didn't have a son who is so integrated here.
Peace to all,
t
But I said my time on the island was great for the most part. I know I'm getting old, but it's so damned crowded now, with giant express catamarans running in and out at the mole more than once an hour (I remember the days of the red and white fleet, chugging away under diesel fumes and watching boy scouts chum over the side). Two cruise ships a week anchor off the island now also. S says she's seen it worse in the summer, and in fact the numbers are down a bit this year according to official reports, but still...I found myself wanting to be away from the mob. We mostly went where locals go: Pebbly beach, Buffalo Nickel, the Country Club, Pete's Cafe, the Dockside Cafe, the new (not really yet named) Boar's Nest. We didn't even dive, only snorkelled at Pebbly, though I saw some of the most amazing things I've ever seen under the water: huge schools of top smelt and mackerel, running in the unusually warm currents from the storm to the south, even a trigger fish swimming away, a tropical fish almost never seen on the island.
There was some true darkness, though.
I've written before about Lolo's barbershop. Lolo and his brother Frank. Getting a shave from either of them is a yearly ritual for me. I'm glad I heard the news the night before I showed up for my shave, but Lolo's brother Frank died this winter; in fact, he hanged himself. He shaved me and cut my hair last year, and his loss to the island is enormous.
From what I hear, nearly everyone on the island attended his funeral one way or another; shuttles ran up to the cemetary and the local cable channel broadcast the ceremony into every church. I found out from J and her father almost incidentally on my way to visit the cemetary which I'd never seen; they were talking about 'Uncle Frank,' or 'the Mayor,' and it took me a minute to understand. Frank would burst into song walking down the street, and when he was off he dressed in what I thought to be impeccable old school style. I knew there was some darkness in Frank, that he had spent years off the island when his brother was still cutting in the number one chair, had heard he had gotten sober from alcoholism a few years back, but I was still very shocked. Some said he succumbed to old demons; others, and probably better sources, said he had cancer and was in pain and chose to end his own life (though in a violent manner, I have to say, hanging...of all things). I wasn't sure if those who looked at his death as pure euthanasia were perhaps unwilling to look at what else might have been going on, but then this is none of my business, really.
We made it to the cemetary in J's father's golf cart, but we were unable to find his grave before dark.
The next day when Lolo shaved me I didn't bring it up. I saw the empty chair with the footrest in the seat, all the pictures still on the mirror behind. Someone, perhaps Lolo himself, had cut out part of the movie post for Barbershop 2 and it was taped to the glass door: Barbershop 2/Back in Business. Mr. Tony came in as he always does in the mornings before I was even in the chair. Tony is mentally limited, though as someone who has only met him and a non-specialist, I couldn't say if he is 'retarded' or autistic or something else. He speaks like a child, however, and with the same open nature, though he must be in his thirties at least. I know he runs the siren one Friday a month, the test, which any other time would bring the volunteer firefighters out of every corner of the valley. And I tell you the truth: if I had a tape recorder in my pocket that morning I would have dialogue for an award winning story. As it is, I can only remember some things, and I don't think I want to recreate it all here. What happened in the shop that morning is worth more than all fiction.
Tony brought Frank up only once. He said 'I miss Frank, Lolo, I miss Frank.' And Lolo said, 'me too, Tony, me too.' I muttered something about, yes, I heard I'm sorry, through the lather. But during my entire shave Lolo and Tony continued talking. And what struck me about the conversation was that Tony shared his feelings quite openly: his sister, if I understood, had miscarried the day before, a little boy lost, and he was very sad. Not only did Tony talk to Lolo freely, but Lolo spoke back, a comforting father. He took Mr. Tony very seriously. He said of course it was sad about his sister, anyone would be sad, and they moved from topic to topic, Lolo always comforting, parenting, nurturing. It was exquisite, enormously beautiful. As Lolo had his hand over my nose, so close, pulling and scraping my heavy beard into a clean shave I breathed deep, inhaled the scent of his hand, a father's hand, as I listened to his gentle and attentive tone. When Tony said he was being picked on by some kids, Lolo got very serious, what kids, what exactly and when; when he said he was looking forward to running the siren, Lolo listened as if it was the most important thing that would happen that day. Tony comes into that shop nearly every morning I'm told (he recognized me before he sat down, though he doesn't know my name and sees me exactly one morning a year: the long stare out from cloudy eyes, and then, 'I know you, you come here every summer,' and 'yes, you're right, I do'). I can understand why he comes in. Why I myself come in, though Lolo and I speak only a little.
When I was in last summer and Frank did my hair and shave he told me he thought I was in a movie he'd seen. No. He knew Huell Howser, a true Catalina and Lolo's Shop fan by the way, and we talked about him a bit. Frank, such a strong singer, told me he sang the national anthem before every little league game, a fact I heard from many. For Lolo, the loss of his brother must have been and continue to be enormously hard, yet he continues to embrace the living, or did that morning at least. I thought of Steinbeck and the heroes of Tortilla Flats and Cannery Row and I felt, again, he chose the wrong people to canonize. There are real Angels in Avalon, but they're not the guys drunk in front of the Marlin before noon, hustling the odd job; they're men like Lolo, like Mr. Tony, and like Uncle Frank.
I'd be very embarrased if Lolo knew I was writing this. All I can do is continue to overtip him, tell him he is the best barber I know, and make small talk. Next year maybe I'll try to talk to Tony more myself. But the natural comfort, the simple domesticity of their conversation, the sweetness, the human breath of it...I still ache.
And again, rushed with my draft (our house is a monumental mess) I have to hurry through a topic which deserves more time. I felt a calling sitting there in that chair that morning: to write about Avalon, to write stories like Steinbeck but without his naturalism and love for the comic irresponsible and tragically aberrant. Considering I visit Avalon less then ever, this will be a tough task; maybe, though, some day I will. My snippets here are notes for later recall, and beginnings of the process. Clint wants to do the same, though neither of us has shared anything.
***
Also, since I now know my brother and sister in law read with some regularity (they handed me an ad for a sharper image mouse repeller when I walked in) I must say that my brother and his wife are heroes also. Two sick children, one seven months and one just shy of four, yet continual patience with their illness and shifting moods. Beautiful, beautiful children, but so much work I was amazed to see it up close. My brother, with no decent earthly role model at least, is an impressive father in many ways. I must get some pictures of those babies up. Wonders beyond wonder. When I look at his home, his family, his new job...it's hard not to believe God is rewarding his committment to his faith. But however it has happened, he has become a true man, and he, along with his wife, are raising two beautiful little people. I saw it up close, and I know it to be the case. Best to them and their hospitality. How I miss my little nephew and niece already; it's enough to drive me out of the mountains if I didn't have a son who is so integrated here.
Peace to all,
t
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