Skinheads

Published in Pilot Illustrated Literary Magazine #4.

Have you ever
had a dry scalp? he asked.
Have you ever
had a dry scalp
and it’s itchy?
I could hear him
scratching his head
under my
open window.

At first, I thought
it was a dream
or the radio,
and then I realized
it was one of the hundred
skinheads that had
been surrounding
my house
for three days. 

I can feel it on my hands, too.
My hands are dry, he said.
Maybe you have eczema?
someone said.
No, it’s just my scalp
and my hands.


You need some kind of cream,
someone else said.
Yeah, I think I do.
You should see
a doctor about that.
I think I will, he agreed. 

A noise that sounded
like a firecracker
went off, and then
I heard the cheers
of the skinheads.
They did this routinely
every hour on the hour.
They were trying
to ferret me out.

I stared at the ceiling.
What was I going to do?
I had things I had to get done.
I had to be somewhere.
Or did I?
I couldn’t remember.
Everything
had been a blur
since the skinheads arrived.

Yes,
I had to be somewhere.
I remembered.
A meeting.
It was a very
important
meeting with
very important people.
And they couldn’t start
until I arrived.

The skinheads were
stationed
at every window
and every door.
Each time I tried to escape,
they escorted
me back inside—
firmly, but gently.
They weren’t rude about it,
but they were strict.

When I asked
one skinhead
if I could go
to the meeting,
he said no
right off the bat.
But the other
skinhead said
he would look into it.

They were playing
good cop, bad cop;
I just wanted
some answers.
We don’t want
any trouble,
one skinhead said.
Trouble? I asked.
We don’t want any trouble,
he said again.
That was yesterday.
I tried almost
everything I could
think of yesterday.
Today was a blank wall.
I had no
ideas or scams.

I looked out the window
and saw the skinhead
scratching his head.
Stop scratching, I said.
He looked
up at me but didn’t
say anything.

I went to the bathroom
to take a shower.
I thought
if I proceeded as if
nothing was wrong,
then nothing could go wrong
or could prevent
me from going where
I had to go. 

When I turned
on the shower taps,
nothing came out.
That’s strange,
I thought and sat
on the edge of the tub
with my head in my hands.
Then I flushed the toilet
to see if there was a serious
water problem,
but the toilet wouldn’t flush.

It was clear
they had turned off
my water supply.

So here I was trapped
in the house with no water
and food supplies
quickly dwindling.
I didn’t panic though.
I had to focus
on the meeting,
not on this
minor inconvenience.

I looked out
my bedroom window
and sure enough
there was the skinhead
scratching his scalp.
Only, his scalp was now
a bloody,
pus-filled mess.
He had blood on his hands
and down
the back of his neck.

His scalp even
had a stench
that wafted
up to my
bedroom window.
It smelled just like
rotting eggs.
I think your scalp is
infected, I said.

It’s a dry scalp,
and it’s itchy, he said.
You’re bleeding.
He touched the back of his neck
and then examined
the blood on his fingers.
I don’t have any water, I said.
You don’t? he asked.
I shook my head.

I guess they’re getting
impatient, he said.
Did you put
some water in reserve?
No, I said.
You should have.
If you get me some water,
I’ll get you
some alcohol for your scalp.

He thought about it
and then said: I’ll see.
I had to close the window
because the stench
from the skinhead’s scalp
was making me
dizzy.

Since
I couldn’t prepare
for my meeting,
and I had lost my appetite,
and I couldn’t even make coffee
because there was no water,
I decided to take a nap. 

A few moments later,
I woke up to a strange noise.
It wasn’t a firecracker.
It was somewhere between
a howl and yelp.
I wanted
to look out my window
but was afraid
because I knew
I was about to witness
blood and guts.

But I looked
out the window
anyway.

On the ground,
two skinheads I had
never seen before
were tackling the skinhead
with the itchy scalp.
He was yelping and howling,
but from where I was,
there was nothing
I could do.
I told them to stop,
but they ignored me.

Then one of them said,
Mind your own business.
This is my business, I said.

One of the skinheads
took a roll of gauze
out of his pocket.
He started wrapping
the gauze around
the head
of the skinhead
with the itchy scalp
who was making the job
difficult by fighting and kicking
like a trapped animal. 

It’s for your own good,
the skinheads hollered.
Once they got the gauze
tightly wrapped
around the wound,
they continued
to hold him down.
The skinhead
with the gauze
took a pair
of red mittens
from his other pocket
and put them
on the hands
of the skinhead
with the itchy scalp. 

They tied
a thick rope
around the mittens,
to keep them in place,
and then tied the rope
to the skinhead’s
ankles.

After what seemed
like forever,
they got off the skinhead with
the itchy scalp
and walked away,
whistling
and passing a cigarette
back and forth
between them. 

The skinhead stood up.
He was a little shaky
and a little off balance.
He tried to lift his hands
above his head
to itch his scalp,
but couldn’t
because of the rope
tied to his ankles.

He tried
to kick at the rope
and slip it off with his shoe,
but it was no use—
the rope was knotted
tightly.

The skinhead
looked at me helplessly.
And with tears in his eyes
he said: Have you ever
had a dry scalp
and it’s itchy? 

I looked at the mittens
and the rope they were tied with;
it was a thick rope,
the kind of rope used
to lasso calves
at the rodeo
No, I said.
I’ve never had
a dry scalp.