Channing's Run

His gaze came to rest on Channing Van Reed’s hazy figure in the waiting chair furthest to the right and next to the brass spittoon separating the chairs from the shoeshine platform. Virgil’s glasses were sitting on the shelf behind the lavatory and, without them, he could distinguish objects only in the vaguest sense: splashes of color, movement, lace-edged form without definition.  

Amazing, he thought, how Channing gets his way every time. None of the others even recognize it and, even though I know he’s getting us to do what he wants, I always go along. And he’s not even the smartest.  Hell, I’m the one who’s about to graduate from law school. Channing’s always on the look-out for an adventure, though, for things we can talk about later. And I’m the one to cover the details: that’s my role.

            “But, why do you guys want to go to Monterrey?” he persisted hopelessly without even addressing the other two. “I mean, we know all about Mexico.  Heck, we’re in Laredo at least once a month as it is!”

            The white cloth draped over his front was covered with wisps of brown hair.  The practiced snip of the scissors in old man Burns’ hand was coming from over his right ear.  Virgil got a mind flash of himself as a king addressing his court, omnipotent on his raised throne, but he knew better.  Maybe he was the figurehead, but Channing was the boss, the manipulative bastard.

            “Virg, we’ve only been to the border, for Chrissake!  Not all Mexico’s like Laredo. Monterrey is a big city; and there’s Horsetail Falls and mountains to see.”   Channing, slim and tall, rose to make his point.  “And we can all afford it. We’ve got a whole week off, and besides, where else would you want to go?”

            Virgil pursed his lips as Burns worked across the nape of his neck.

“Everybody pays their share of the gasoline?” he queried.

            “Sure. That’s a deal.”  Johnny Van Reed, Channing’s brother, fielded Virgil’s question from his chair next to where Channing stood.

            Virgil, keeping his head perfectly still for the barber’s sake, sought the third companion on the left edge of his peripheral vision.  “What do you think, Hershel?” he asked.

            Hershel Foist smiled back devilishly. “Shucks, Virg, a bigger town’s got more booze and a better supply of women. Don’t forget the League of Nations.  I think we oughta go,” he declared as he scratched at his thick mop of wire-like black hair, a devilish grin twisting his lips.

            “There, you see?” Channing set his hook, “Even Hershel wants to go.  Now, how about it, Virg?”  Channing sat down and began tapping his foot softly to an unheard melody as the barber’s scissors snipped their way around Virgil’s left ear.

            Channing turned to Mister, the shoeshine boy, and winked.

“Don’t you think we should go, Mister?”—not that it mattered.

            The old man’s ebony face broke into a mass of wrinkles as he smiled back. “Yessah, mista Channing. Thas a fact.”  His stark-white teeth glistened as he backed up his favorite of the four. Mister sat on the base of the stand, leaning against the metal shoe supports, closely following the boys’ conversation.  

Mister Washington was the first son born to his parents after their being freed from slavery.  In commemoration of their freedom, his father named him Mister, to ensure that he would always be addressed with respect.

He especially liked Channing, the younger Van Reed boy, who made it a point to include the black man in the Saturday conversations that were often lively.

            Mr. Burns sprinkled some of the contents of the red bottle into his palm and rubbed the liquid into Virgil’s scalp, its fruity aroma drifting across the room.  Channing traced the row of variously colored bottles of hair tonic along the glass shelf behind the barber, his eyes coming to rest on the green one. The scent of mint was his favorite, but, until now, he’d never thought to question Mr. Burns’ selection. The barber always, by some mystical divination, applied lavender, strawberry, mint, or spice rum to his customer’s heads without asking for a preference. This time, though, Channing would make the choice himself, he decided.

 &n