Green Hair
Have you ever felt like killing someone? I think most have, maybe four or five times in a lifetime. My number’s higher, maybe twelve times a year. I don’t consider myself a sociopath or psychopath. I don’t know the difference. Is there a difference?
In 2005 I was on an elevator in the Prudential Building, glad to be out of the cold of late February, on my way up to the thirty-seventh floor. The elevator was empty except fore me. It glided silently up at a good clip. I was thinking about how much it would cost to heat this entire building in one Chicago day. Maybe more than I made in one year. The elevator stopped on the fifth floor and a young man got on board. He was skinny, dressed all in black, and his hair was dyed green.
The young man rode the elevator to the seventh floor. When we got there he stepped half way out, leaned his left arm on the door and gave me a big smile. Then he hit all the buttons on the elevator going up to the top by running his fingers across the panel. That meant the elevator doors would open and shut on every floor till I got to the thirty-seventh.
Anger flared through every muscle of my body. I rose up on my toes and slapped the now closed door with open palms. The anger management class had not prepared me for such a sudden show of hostility from a young stranger. When it came to the young, my anger made few distinctions. They seemed egotistical and took their comfortable world for granted. They had no respect for those who had sacrificed to serve their country.
I felt in my left inside suit pocket for the piano wire I’d had since my tour in the Vietnam in 1970. I kept it because Chicago is no longer a safe city. Even in the loop area, this close to Lake Michigan, a person might attempt a robbery. Now I felt immediately that I was justified in killing that smiling green gutter snake.
My plan was to come up behind the guy and strangle him with the wire quietly and quickly. Before that green dude got off the elevator, he was probably seeing as fat and out of shape. No threat to him. Just an old man.
I got off two floors above where green dude got off on the nineteenth floor, took different elevator down to his floor. I walked all the quiet hallways but I could not find him. I opened all the doors on the floor and looked in. Mostly they were law offices. No sign of green hair.
How can anybody be so stupid as to dye their hair green? Must be a lonely, attention-seeking dude. A narcissist. Pathetic. No women will ever love him. Leave green to the trees and plants.
I forgot my job interview on the 37th floor and went back down to the lobby to wait for the green guy. His hair was pasty like a green avocado, only shiny. I waited an hour, trying to look busy on my cell phone, but he never came down. Could the bozo actually have an office in this place? Maybe he had a company that sold hair color for men.
I decided to walk around the area near the lake and then over where the big department stores were, hoping I’d catch sight of him on the street. After an hour I gave up in the cold and ducked into a bar on Wabash to warm up. I was ordering a beer when I look down the long bar I see that the second bartender has green hair and wears black.
“That’s an unusual hair style,” I say to the guy standing next to me at the bar.
“That’s Pete,” the guy responds. “His father owns this place, or did. He died two weeks ago.”
“Well, I guess somebody has to run this dump,” I mumble.
“Yeah, I think the family has to sort it out. Does it go to Pete or to the brother of his dad? His uncle helped run it. The dad died at fifty-five and left no will.”
“I’m not a lawyer,” I add. “I used to sell cars. It seems right this place should go to the son.”
“That’s what the regulars think. We remember Pete when he was a kid pushing a toy truck between the tables.”
“I didn’t play with toy trucks. I had toy tanks, soldiers and fighter jets. My dad was killed in World War 2 at nineteen when I was two. My parents were from Alabama and got married at sixteen. I don’t remember much of my dad.”
“Hey Pete, come down here. This guy’s a lawyer.”
“I said I was not a lawyer.”
“Pete, this guy can help.”
“Great, tell him he gets free beers.”
“Pete, I’m sorry,” I say. “Your friend here got it wrong. I’m no lawyer but don’t mind a few free beers.”
“You look familiar. Haven’t we met? Didn’t I see you earlier?”
“No, I just pulled into town. I live in Wheaton over an hour away.”
“Sorry about the mix-up. Things are always noisy in my bar.”
“No problem.”
“What do you think of my hair? Odd, huh? My customers here can now always spot me.”
“It’s a bit odd by Wheaton standards.”
“I did it for Saint Patrick’s coming up. I thought I’d do more this year than green beer. It’ll give folks a laugh. We can all use some cheering up.”
Green Hair goes to get me a beer on tap. As he walks back toward me with the mug of beer I study his face. Is this the guy from the elevator? He’s the only green hair guy I’ve seen all day.
“Sorry about your loss,” I say. ‘Your dad left you something wonderful, and thanks for the beer.”
“You’re welcome,” the green-haired bartender says. He gives a quick smile as he walks away to help another customer.
