The Shave

“My princess,” Gerry says with a dramatic sweep of his hand, “Your throne awaits.” Sheila sits on the toilet, the palms of her hands rubbing against her pants, trying to get the sweat off. It was an honor to be in his bathroom, sitting on her make shift throne, watching him perform his ritual.

This moment was hard for the both of them. Each had made sacrifices, pushing through their fears and handicaps in order to reach the second story bathroom. The narrow stairs were cramped, peeling yellow wallpaper brushing against some of the wooden steps. Sheila’s large frame and lame leg made it difficult to reach the top. She was afraid her knee would buckle and imagined herself tumbling backwards down the stairwell with no one to catch her.

Gerry had not let anyone in his house in the ten years since he found his mother dead on the couch. He never forgot the way her head lolled back like she was snoring, a book of large print crosswords in her lap. It taken him hours to pick up the phone and call an ambulance. When they came, he played with the doorknob and deadbolt for fifteen minutes, clicking the cold metal back and forth before letting them in. There was no way the gurney could be rolled through the labyrinth of papers, cups, and magazines Gerry had so carefully placed around the house. The paramedics had to carry her limp body rolled in an afghan out the door, knocking down a stack of newspapers on the way out.

They ran into each other in the middle of the night at the 24-hour store. She haunted the aisles when she was sleepless and lonely, looking for small items to rip-off, slipping them into her calico cloth purse. He was there only out of necessity, stocking up on toiletries, Styrofoam cups and gummy bears. If there was ever a moment where Fate’s hand pushed them together, that was it. Gerry hadn’t been to the store in over four months.

His shopping cart was full. Sheila’s was empty except for a lamp shaped like a wagon wheel she considered buying every time she was there. She shuffled around the store with it in her cart, but neglected to get it because it wouldn’t fit into her purse.
They had a shared history before she was crippled and overweight, before he looked like a homeless train hopper, wearing three flannels at once over his thinning overalls. They dated for a few months thirty years prior, making it once in the back of Sheila’s Honda hatchback at the drive-in. The drive-in closed and became horse ranch, but the tall white screen remained like a ghost.

What was said was unimportant. Gerry had never forgotten her, was able to see her younger face hidden behind the fat. She had been his only lover and could still feel the warmth of her body in his mind. She somehow was able to recognize him underneath his untrimmed beard as the strange man she dated before her crappy marriage.

He opens the old medicine cabinet and begins removing the necessary items: shaving cream, a new razor blade still in the package, miniature Band-Aids, after-shave. He pulls an old towel from the bottom of the bathtub, a place he uses as a closet since he never takes baths or showers. He fears large quantities of water, hates the feel of water streaming out of the showerhead like blunt tipped spears against his skin. He only uses folded washcloths dipped in a bowl to clean up.

Sheila watches him prepare like a meticulous doctor before heart surgery. His hands are steady and smooth as he begins to cut his beard with the silver scissors. His coarse hair falls into the sink, onto the ceramic floor in loose piles, mixing with the hair leftover from his last shave. His face tells time, not by the crisscrossing lines but by which stage of growth his beard is in. Every six weeks he shaves clean.
She watches him, feeling guilty and turned on like she is peering into a strangers window while they have sex.

She sees Gerry in all of his vulnerability, narrow strips of flesh exposed like an airplane runway. One smooth line cascading upon another until the light from the naked bulb overhead reflects against his wet skin.

He sees Sheila’s image in the mirror as he shaves, fleshy and fat. He dips his razor into the bowl of water, shaving cream and stubble rising to the top like cream. He wonders how the paramedics will get her out if she ever dies. He doesn’t want anymore newspaper towers tumbling, scattering his life’s work all over the hardwood floor.