Dad's The Man Ch. 01

I never thought to ask Gina what she did for a living. It must be a good job to have a Vette and those nice clothes. Probably an executive, or something. I have to wonder why she'd want to hang out with me, too. Maybe I'm just being paranoid, or down on myself, but I wonder why someone like her would bother. She must have all kinds of cool friends and I'm just a nerd girl/loser/slut who can't even remember how to do long division.

Sept. 29/08

It was a pretty eventful day today, starting off with the weirdest dream last night.

It was about Daddy and Gina. In the dream, I walked in my room to find them making out and playing with my vibrator. I was shocked. I cried and shouted at her to leave. She got up to go, smiling at me, but stopped and started talking about things I couldn't understand. She started pointing at Daddy, who's thingy had somehow turned into a giant Pixie Stick, smiling and putting her hand on my shoulder.

Then she was back at him, pushing him down to the mattress and somehow morphing into Sheila in the process. She grabbed his pixie stick, turning back to smile at me, the smile from the pictures with those devious eyes to back it up. In the dream, however, there was also another quality to her 'essence', for want of a better term. It was almost as if she felt amused by me.

I know it was just a stupid dream, but it was one of those ones that seem so real, you just know it has to have some real meaning. I'm still thinking about it.

I had to run out to Aunt Peggy's house with three fifty pound bags of potatoes that my father got on sale, so I got a chance to talk to her while we had coffee. I asked her if she could teach me how to use her sewing machine and if I could come over and use it to alter some of my stuff sometimes and she said yes.

I'd been pondering whether or not to bring up her ex husband the next time I saw her, but I decided not to. Not after her letting me come over to do up more of my clothes. Another time.

But, here's where things get interesting.

I'm on my way home, still in Aunt Peggy's side of town, and I see a sign in the window of a shop, a 'help wanted' sign. Well, I jumped on the brakes without even thinking, (luckily, there was nobody behind me) locking up all four tires in a screech, just what Daddy told me to not be doing, and came to a complete stop that way. Of course, the few people on the sidewalk turned and stared at me, which really didn't help, but I got parked and out in less than fifteen seconds, anyway.

I didn't even realize what the shop was until I got standing in front of it. Barb's Salon was written across the plate glass window in big red, fancy script. I took a deep breath and opened the door, hoping the people inside wouldn't know it was me who'd just been screeching down the street.

Inside the slightly grubby feeling establishment, a strangely familiar, middle aged woman looked up from the curler covered scalp of an elderly lady, pausing in her work, her expression changing from boredom to blinking surprise at the sight of me. At the time, I figured she'd seen my little street display out the window.

" ...... Can I help you, Ma'am?"

"Yes, thank you, I'm here about the 'help wanted' sign in the window."

She stared at me, actually looking me over as the elderly lady casually looked, her eyes going a little wider and staring as well. This was pretty weird.

" ... Oh, Baaaarb!" the stylist called, still looking at me.

She finally turned her attention back to her customer in favour of quick, furtive glances as the elderly lady continued to just stare as I stood waiting, increasingly uncomfortable. I'd been looking at the floor for about twenty seconds when another voice, an old, raspy one, asked me if it could help me.

I looked up, repeated that I was there about the sign in the window to another elderly lady. She was about sixty, as I could tell. She was somewhat of a heavy woman, a bit short and wore a yellow 'moo-moo' kind of thing with colourful little flowers all over it. Her gray hair, pulled back in a tight, spherical bun at the back of her head, lent her an air of stern demeanor, but at the moment, her jaw sagged.

This was really just too weird.

" ... I'm Barb Sutton. Your name is?" she asked, slowly regaining composure.

"Kathleen Hale, Ma'am."

"Uh huh," She said, nodding slightly as if this information satisfied her on some level. "Come on back to my office, this way."

I followed her to the back of the salon, past hair wash sinks and through a door at the end of a short hallway. It was a small office with a filing cabinet, piles of boxes lining the bottom of one wall and room enough for one chair in front of the small, beat up old desk. She sat behind it, picking up a lit cigarette from a large, full ashtray and began as soon as I was seated.

"I'm retiring soon and I want to sell this place, so I'm looking to spruce things up. I need someone to paint the entire place, first of all, then do some other things here and there. I was expecting a man would apply,... You ever paint before?" she asked, studying my face while inadvertently exhaling a lungful of smoke into it. (EW!)

"I can paint. I've done it before at home, crack fill, too," I said politely, earnestly.

"I wouldn't doubt your expertise in crack filling for a second. Can you start tomorrow?"

I couldn't believe it. I got a job, just like that. I didn't even stop to ask how much it paid, only nodded and said, "Yes," trying to keep an idiotic smile from my face.

"Good, be here at nine AM sharp. The pay's five bucks an hour."

I thanked her politely and promised her I'd do a good job, not caring that she seemed a bit mean. Hey, she gave me a job, didn't she? I got up to leave as she watched me, looking me over again. I had my hand on the doorknob when she spoke.

"How's your father?"

I stopped right up, coming around to face her again, my turn to have a confused expression, and asked, "Uh-h,... you know him?"

"Yeah. How is he these days?"

"He's fine."

She smirked about this, bludgeoning the remains of her cigarette in the ashtray, displacing the overloaded contents around her yellow stained fingers, and commented, "Knew your mother, too. Used to work for me. Good stylist."

I was silent, completely unable to think of anything to say and hoping she'd continue instead.

"You look almost exactly like her. When I first saw you, I actually thought you were her. Then, of course, I realized you must be her kid. I heard she had a girl."

I could only nod, as though this required my endorsement. She continued to look at me for another few moments, then spoke a final time before I left.

"Tomorrow morning. Nine Am."

I told Daddy I got a job painting a hair salon on the east side and he was so happy for me. I felt bad about not including any details, but for some reason, I just didn't want to do that.

I don't think I like Barb, but that doesn't matter, neither does the low wage. It's better than nothing.

So, Sheila was a good stylist, huh? Somehow, it doesn't surprise me. It seems to fit the woman in the pictures. I wonder what else Barb knows about her?