Swayze's barbershop

08 Swayze's barbershop Second edit 2/29 11:00 AM

Richie and I were mostly quiet on the ride down the hill.

“Van Schoonhoven?” asked Richie.

“Would you mind dropping me off in the village?” I asked.

“No, not at all. I'm headed that way anyway.”

We approached St. Mary's church. Still impressive, I thought. What a beautiful building.

“Right here by the church is fine,” I said. Richie pulled over to the curb.

“Thanks for the ride, Richie,” I said. “I really appreciate it.”

“Any time, man.”

I opened the door and slid out with some difficulty, cane in hand. I stepped onto the terrace and shut the door. Richie pulled away and tooted his horn. He stopped at the intersection and took a right towards North Side. North Side is on the south side of Waterford. I think that's funny. Why it's called north, I have no idea. I need to google that. I need to know. Someone might ask me one day.

I had to wait a bit for traffic, but I soon made it across 6^th Street to St. Mary's without getting run down by a darn kid. That really is a beautiful church. I need to go one day. The cornerstone says it was built in 1911.

I shuffled on, over the canal bridge. I've got a mule and her name is Sal... I walked down the small hill past the sign shop and a couple of beauty parlors. I got to McGreivey's pub. This used to be Camp's bar. My dad's Uncle Graham was a bartender there. As a kid, I stopped in a couple of times to visit. It always smelled like cigars. I decided to stop to see if anything changed.

I remember two entrances, one for men and one for women. This was the men's entrance because it entered the tap room. The other, for women and children, opened into the restaurant. I stepped inside. Everything changed. The bar was on the left. It's still on the left. Why move a bar? So that hadn't changed. But it felt different. Maybe it's just the lack of cigar smell. Or all of the new tables and chairs. What ever it was, it wasn't Camps.

The restaurant room was the same, I guess, but with new furniture.

The bowling alley over to the far left was gone. If I remember right, there were four lanes. It must have been very old because it didn't have pin setting machines. Camp's used kids as pin setters. The kids would set up the pins, hop up on a ledge so they didn't get hit, and raise a protective bar in front of the pins. Bowlers would toss coins down the lanes for tips.

I sat myself at the end of the bar and hung my cane off it.

“Hi. I'm Terry. What can I get you?” asked Terry. He had on black shirt and pants and a necktie. Uncle Graham always wore a white shirt and a bow tie, and he parted his hair down the middle too.

“What do you have on tap?” I asked. Terry rattled off a list of beers I never heard of. All micro-brews. I didn't hear the familiar Schlitz, Rheingold, or Utica Club.

“I'll have that Lake Placid what-ever-you-called-it,” I said.

Terry turned and went to the taps. He returned with a small plastic cup of beer.

“Here, try it,” said Terry.

I downed it. It was very good. I love dark beer.

“Great,” I said.

Terry went back to the taps and returned with a pint of Lake Placid what-ever-you-call-it. I tended bar for a short time in Florida as a volunteer for our local AmVets, and I saw that Terry poured a good beer. Just about a quarter to a half an inch of head. That's a talent. Most novice bartenders pour with too much of a head. You have to stick the spout right in there while tilting the glass. It isn't as easy as it seems. It takes practice. Jackie Gleason's character Joe the Bartender would stick two fingers in a beer he was pouring if it started to overflow. Funny stuff. Crazy Guggenheim could sure sing. What was his real name? Frank Fontaine? I wonder why Jackie Gleason only did one season of the Honeymooners? Maybe it was as John Cleese explained why Fawlty Towers only did one season. They did it and did it well, and it would only be downhill from there. Man, Fawlty Towers was funny.

There were two couples at the bar, drinking their drinks and eating lunch, making small talk. I had eaten here a couple of times over the years. It was really good. And theirs looked good from where I was sitting. One had meatloaf. I could smell it, and it smelled great. Meatloaf. Two out of three ain't bad. Good song.

Just then a young guy walked in and sat nest to me. Terry poured him a soda without asking. He must be a regular. He was young, about thirty I figured. His sweat-shirt sleeves were rolled up and his arms were covered in tattoos. He had a knit hat covering all of his head. He had a pretty good beard growing. He certainly didn't look like a Camp's customer. I guess he looked like a McGreivey's customer.

“Sorry Terry. No soda today. I'm trying to cut back,” the young fella said.

“Sorry Joe,” said Terry as he took the soda back and dumped it down the sink. “What can I get you?”

“Just a menu,” said Joe.

“How about water?” asked Terry.

“Fine.”

Terry handed Joe a menu and then brought his water. Joe scanned the menu for just a few seconds and set it down. He must be a regular. He probably doesn't even need a menu. Terry came by and took Joe's order. I couldn't make out what he wanted because of my hearing issues. When I was a kid, if it was quiet enough, I could hear my heart beat. Now I can't hear normal conversation unless the person is looking right at me, so I can read lips. It made Pamela mad sometimes. Get your hearing checked, she'd say. I hear just fine, I'd say. She would roll her eyes loudly.

“You must come here a lot,” I said to him, trying to be friendly.

“Yeah I do. Just about everyday for lunch,” Joe answered.

“I'm Dave,” I said as I extended a hand.

“I'm Joe. I own the barber shop in back.”

“Really? Don't take this the wrong way, but you're not a good advertisement for your business,” I said with a smile.

“No, I guess not,” laughed Joe.

“The cobbler's children have no shoes,” I smiled.

“Pretty much.”

“My dad used to bring me to Swayze's barbershop when I was a kid,” I said. “It was behind here, but the little shop was torn down for the rescue squad.”

“That's the barber business I bought,” said Joe. “I bought it from Chuck.”

“Chuck? The young apprentice Hunk Swayze had?” I asked.

“Well, Chuck isn't young anymore,” said Joe. “He just turned 80. I bought the shop from him last year.”

It seems that barbers stay in business long after most of us retire. My barber in Gloversville, Mike, started cutting hair in 1947. He still does 73 years later. It must be barbering is more than a business. It must be a lot more. Maybe it's more like a social club, as patrons return regularly, and have time to chat while they wait their turn in the chair.

I told Joe the story of the first time I visited Mike's back in the 1990s. I switched from Lucky and Snake's shop when I moved my business. As I was sitting in the chair and Mike was putting that paper collar around my neck, he asked “How do you want it cut?”

There was a poster on the wall of a handsome guy with thick wavy hair.

“Can you make me look like that?” I asked, pointing.

Mike stopped, walked to the side where I could see him.

“Dis is a comb. Not a magic wand,” said Mike with his Italian accent. He grinned at me. I grinned back.

“Ya know Joe,” I said to my bar neighbor, “I remember going to Swayze's and hoped to get Chuck. Because if I got Hunk, no matter how I asked him to cut it, I always got it cut short with whitewalls over my ears.”

“That would be Hunk,” Joe laughed. “The only exception was if you wanted a crew cut or a flat top. And Hunk would even cut a flat top DA.”

DA. Duck's ass. I hadn't heard that in years. We both laughed.

“I have some of the old bowling alley in my shop,” said Joe.

“Really? I'd like to see it,” I said.

“Follow me over,” said Joe as he finished his lunch.

“I would, but not today,” I said. “It was a tiring walk for me, the half mile from where I live to the village. I need to build up my endurance.”

“OK, some other time then.”

Joe got up and walked out the side door to go back to his shop. Nice kid. Too bad about the tattoos and stuff. But I guess that's what kids do today. I don't have any tattoos. I did have an earring that my ex-wife goaded me into getting. I took it out when I was having an MRI and the hospital promptly lost it. I wonder if I should get another? I'm not a respectable businessman anymore. I'm now an author and photographer. Being artsy-fartsy now, I should look a little eccentric. Maybe I should wear a beret. No, that would be too French avant garde. Maybe if I lived in New York City. Not Waterford. I did wear an Irish style cap, with an Irish clover and Polish flag pins on the side. That's edgy enough. I might even have to get a Giants baseball cap. Everyone in Waterford talks Giants and Yankees.

I ordered one more pint of Lake Placid what-ever-you-called-it. Good stuff. This is a good place to do research for my book. Just chalk it up to research.

I heard a distant noise. It sounded something like bowling pins. Must be a truck.