Walk-In

by

Phoebe Donovan

My phone quacks in my pocket: a personalized ringtone from a moment of immaturity. I am about to answer it, but instead I press “decline call” when I see who it is. My sister’s weekly attempt at a phone call will never make up for her mistakes. Our sibling relationship is in a million little pieces, and all the king's horses and all the king's men couldn’t put it together again. I slip my phone back in my pocket and clean up my chair from my last client. 

The aging front door squeaks, announcing the arrival of a tall spindly man. He has long, greasy hair and a nose that has clearly been broken more than once. 

“Good morning,” I say. “Are you here for an appointment?”

He takes off his oversized sunglasses, and I see that his eyes are a deep syrupy brown. 

“I haven’t scheduled one, but I think you can fit me in,” he says. 

His voice is cracked and raspy, yet somehow utterly confident. 

His arrogant demeanor irks me. I am tempted to turn him away, but he’s right; I have almost three hours before my next client. 

“Okay, follow me.” 

I lead him over to the chair. He stands awkwardly next to it, looking at me for direction.

“You’re welcome to sit,” I say, forcing my voice to be relaxed and pleasant. “Would you like me to take your jacket?”

He shrugs his ancient ratty coat off of his shoulders and wordlessly hands it to me. The rough fabric itches my skin. I set it down quickly. 

I paint on my professional smile. 

“What would you like to do today?”

“It doesn’t really matter what one wants; everything that will come will come, no matter if we wish it to or not.”

I blink a couple times, trying to think of a polite response. The man’s intense eyes are penetrating even through the mirror. 

“Right. How would you like me to cut your hair?” I ask again. 

“A little off the top, three on the sides.”

I start at his neck and work my way up. The little snips of hair fall, littering his shoulders and the floor. Like broken glass or tiny needles. 

I always get a little nervous when I am cutting a thicket of overgrown hair. What am I going to uncover? What are they trying to hide by letting it grow so unruly?

“What was your name again?” I ask.

“Flynn.”

“What do you do for a living, Flynn?” 

People always expect hairdressers to be great at small talk, and I guess I should be; it’s practically written in the job description. I struggle with it though. I’ve always been more of an introvert. Making conversation is difficult.

“I work at a hardware store,” Flynn responds, “but that’s not my real job.”

“Is that so?”

“It’s true. My one true purpose is to be the messenger between the future and the present.”

“Oh really?” I ask, trying to hide my skepticism. 

“Everyone ignores the future. Sure, people talk about it all the time, but they ignore the clues and the signs that it sends. These signals from the future may be easy to ignore for most people, but not for me.”

He must be joking. Or high. Or just insane. 

“You don’t believe me,” he chuckles. He adjusts himself slightly under the barber’s cape. The pieces of hair that dust his shoulders fall to the floor.

“I mean–” I begin, trying to think of something to say.

“It’s okay,” he reassures me. “Many people are skeptical at first.” 

I nod slowly, unsure of how to respond.

“Your name is Emerson, right?” he asks. “Emerson Jane Luthor?”

I am so startled that I nearly drop the razor. This is starting to be incredibly creepy. I don’t remember telling him my name — I definitely didn’t tell him my full name. I pull my hands away from his hair like it’s electric. 

“How did you know that?” 

“The future told me,” he says with a grin.

This is clearly a lie, but I am still shaken by the fact that he knows my name. Did he look me up? Is he stalking me? I stare at him in the mirror. He stares right back. 

“Is something the matter?” he asks, inquiring as to why I’ve paused his haircut.

“No,” I say, and resume cutting. 

The shop is quiet, apart from the steady buzz of the electric razor and the jumbling whirr of the old heater; the sounds are magnified in the distant silence between this strange, creepy man and me. 

“Is that your coat over there?” Flynn asks suddenly, pointing at my purple jacket. 

“Yes,” I reply warily.

“All the buttons are still attached, are they not?”

“I think so, yes.”

“As of now,” he corrects me. “When you get home later this evening, you will be missing two.”

“Sure, okay,” I say sarcastically, no longer trying to contain my skepticism. 

“You don’t believe me now, but check later. You’ll see I’m right.”

“I’ll make sure to pay close attention to my coat buttons then.”

“Oh and also your bird, Poppy,” Flynn continues. “I hope you said a nice goodbye before you dropped her at your neighbour’s house this morning, because she’s about to escape.”

I look at him incredulously. I have no idea how he knew the name of my bird. How is he coming up with this madness? Has he been watching me? Am I in danger?

“I’m serious,” he says. “Don’t worry, I’m not stalking you. I just know things. I hear what the future tells me.”

I’m not convinced. I remain silent, my mind racing. Do I kick him out? Call the police? Or just finish his haircut and avoid a big scene? 

I decide it’s best to just steer the conversation back to meaningless small talk. 

“So, are you married?” I ask, “Do you have any kids?”

“I live alone. Sometimes my sister comes to visit though.”

“That’s nice.”

Flynn grunts. “Speaking of sisters, you should probably start talking to yours again. Before it’s too late.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” I ask.

He watches me in the mirror. 

“You’re all done,” I say, unwrapping the haircutting cloak from around Flynn’s shoulders. 

He inspects his hair in the mirror. “It’s alright.”

He gets up from the chair and pays at the front, then waves a hand and disappears through the door. 

Snowflakes drift into my boots as I stand on the cold sidewalk, waiting for the bus. I suspiciously take in the strangers surrounding me. I shiver, unable to rid myself of the strange feeling that Flynn left on my skin. 

I step into the warmth of my apartment, grateful to finally be home. I slide my boots off and begin to unbutton my coat. To my surprise, I find that two of the buttons are missing. Only thread remains as a reminder of where they used to be. Just as Flynn predicted. 

I change out of my work clothes, then head to my neighbour’s apartment to pick up my bird. I knock loudly on the door.

“Who is it?” a voice calls from inside.

“It’s Emi!” I shout back. 

“It’s unlocked.”

I push open the door and find my neighbour hunched at her little table. Her eyes well up with tears at the sight of me. 

“Oh Emi,” she says, “I’m so sorry. I’m so, so sorry.”

“What happened?” 

“Poppy’s gone,” she says miserably.

“What do you mean ‘gone’?”

“She escaped. I was just sitting out on my little balcony and there was a crash inside. I opened the door to go back in and see what happened, but before I could, Poppy came flying past me. I tried to stop her, I really did, but it was too late. She was already flying well out of my reach. I’m so sorry, Em. I really am.”

I stare at her, unsure of what to say. Never again will I see my bird, my friend. I pick up Poppy’s cage from where it still rests on the floor and walk out of the apartment. 

After locking the door of my own apartment behind me, I sink down into the comfort of my sofa. I let the tears flow freely down my face. But there is something more than sadness that eats away at me. There is the gnawing realisation that two of Flynn’s predictions have already come true. I can’t help but wonder; what if the third one does too? You should start talking to your sister again, before it’s too late. What does that even mean; ‘before it’s too late’? Is she in danger? 

Sitting in my puddle of grief and thoughts, I begin to think. If my sister died tomorrow, how would I feel? Sadness; yes. Anger; maybe a little. Relief; definitely not. Regret; with every fibre of my being. I would be gutted by the years we have wasted over long-ago feuds. Maybe she has changed. I think of the call I ignored earlier in the day. Was she calling to tell me she’s in critical condition? Is it already too late?

With quivering hands, I pick up my phone and call her back. It rings once, then twice, then three times. I am starting to change my mind. I am about to hang up the phone, thinking she isn’t going to answer, when I hear her voice on the other end of the call. 

“Sunny?” she asks.

Her voice is gruffer, more tired than it was the last time I heard it. Her childhood nickname for me is unfamiliar to my ears, but somehow it makes me feel safe.

“Hey Cass. It’s me.”

I can hear her emotional sigh at the end of the line. “Oh, Sunny. I’ve missed you so much.”

“I’ve missed you too,” I reply, and as soon as I say it I realise it’s true. I begin to cry, though I’m not really sure why. Maybe because a burden on my heart has been lifted, one I didn’t know was even there. 

My sister and I talk late into the night, catching up on the years we’ve been apart.

At some point, she says “I’m sorry.”

I listen, waiting for her to continue. This is all I ever needed; for her to apologise. For her to recognise that she hurt me.

“I’m sorry for always taking the credit and assigning the blame. I’m sorry for always putting my own needs above yours. I’m sorry for turning the family against you, and stopping you from getting the help you needed. I’m sorry for kicking you while you were down, and not being there for you when you needed me the most. I’m sorry for everything.”

“Thank you,” I say, my voice cracking. “It’s okay, I forgive you.”

I wake up feeling happy for the first time in a while. For once, the bustling noise of the city is musical rather than irritating. Getting dressed and tying my hair up, I enjoy the sensation of feeling comfortable in my own skin. I feel fresh. Free. Happy. 

I pull on my favourite purple coat, leaving it unbuttoned. After locking the door of my apartment behind me, I walk down the creaking flight of stairs and step out onto the busy street. People hurry around me, always in a rush to be somewhere. Someone in a navy suit walks right into me.

“Watch it,” he says angrily.

“Sorry!” I call after him, because what’s the point of a confrontation? 

After spotting a coffee shop on the opposite side of the street, I head over to the crossing and press the button to activate the pedestrian signal. I wait a few moments, then press it again. And again. I remember when my sister and I were children, and we would race to press the button before the other. We would hit it over and over again until the light changed, thinking that we could trick it into letting us go sooner. I would give anything to go back to that feeling of power, however deluded it was. 

The walking signal flashes, and I step out into the street. But the cars haven’t stopped. A white minivan hurtles towards me, horn blaring.