Wig Shop

I had chosen the most obnoxious alarm tone I could find and I had purposely left my phone on the far end of the room to force my sorry ass out of bed and into my running clothes at 5:30am, but all that seems to do is infuse my day with an off-centeredness that lasts well past my run. It works, but damn. As I threw on the nylon jacket and pants (it was March and still blustery and petulant outside), I didn’t have to squint back at the other side of the bed to know that it was still empty. Two days now. Not that this was an altogether rare thing—Jenna had left in a huff before, starting a fairly predictable cycle in our relationship: small nuisance leads to volcanic blowup leads to increasingly larger and heavier things being thrown about, a number of doors slam, the last of which she goes through, off to mom for a day or two, someone texts (usually her), she comes back and things are ok again for a bit. This is love, I guess, in the way it was always modeled for both of us in our respective shitty childhoods.

But this time didn’t really follow the pattern. Yes, we had sniped at each other over the dishes left out the previous night on the coffee table and had let the stresses of our professional lives bleed over into projective snarks, but somehow, we skipped the “volcanic blowup” part (and everything else) and went straight to the disappearance. And no word, no text. Both Jenna and I are league champions when it comes to passive-aggressiveness but even this was a little much for her.

My fragile ego had thus far prevented me from directly calling or texting her (gotta “win”, you know) so I did the next best thing before I stepped out of the apartment for my run—I texted Jenna’s best friend Rhonda who hated me about 12% less than Jenna’s mom (a text to whom would only result in receiving back three dozen “middle finger” emojis) and whose place was from time to time a comfy place for Jenna to land after one of our “things”.

ME: Rhon-have you seen or talked to Jen?

Saying a quick prayer that the ding on Rhonda’s phone wouldn’t wake her at now…5:42am, I carefully closed the apartment door, zip-zopped my shiny pants down the corridor and stairs and out into the jaundiced sodium-vapor blare of the complex parking lot. Puddles abounded, lumps of brown leaves cluttered the windshields of the glum regiment of automobiles and swirled into a snarl where Jenna’s Subaru usually sits, flurried by a wind which now frantically undulated the tops of trees like panicked, waving hands trying to get my attention. With a shudder I put foot to pavement and began my morning plod.

Usually I head toward downtown. My apartment sits halfway up a rather steep hill which overlooks the valley where the city sits (though not with the view promised by the Cliffside Estates brochure), and most mornings I switchback my way down the sidewalks until I reach the bottom on Elling Street. A lazy man’s run, downhill all the way. If I’m particularly lacking willpower I’ll even stop at The Grounds Crew for a sugary coffee and a scone (negating the run entirely) and then take the bus back up the hill. Usually. But not today.

This morning I decided to go in the opposite direction, up the hill above the apartment into the so-called Heights. This is rare because one, running uphill is a lot harder and two, the Heights can be a bit sketchy in places. I save it for daylight runs and rare days when I actually feel like challenging myself. This was one of those days (except the “daylight” part). Maybe a little extra exertion will burn off the added stress from the Jenna situation and besides, the Heights was undergoing a kind of haphazard gentrification and now had more of a reputation of being hip than scary. The hill gets quite steep right behind my building such that in places there are sets of cement stairs (another reason to avoid it) that will take you from one tier to the next—all ladders, no chutes.

Between the stairs and the street angles threatening to become obtuse, my run quickly segued into a walk. I hadn’t been up here in a while. It did look better. Fewer boards on house windows. Looks like the city had been collecting garbage regularly. Even the graffiti seemed less offensive, even oddly (maybe?) inspirational—“THIS WAY YOU KNOW IT IS ON!!!”—followed by a deictic arrow replete with whimsical squiggly line guiding me all along the concrete retaining wall, on and up around the curve. At last I rounded the highest bend where it levelled off into a small commercial district undergoing a bit of a renaissance. I’d read about this—a new theater, some stupid artisanal cheese place, too many cafes. But it was murky and even with the distant streetlights it was hard to make out much detail here on the far end.

My phone vibrated in my pocket. Text from Rhonda. She’s up.

RHONDA: Dammit what did you do now?

ME: So that’s a no?

RHONDA: Called her yesterday. Strt to v-mail.

ME: Will you let me know if you hear from her?

ME (again a few seconds later): Please?

Ghost dots. Then, nothing.

I considered writing more, defending myself in some fashion but I shoved the phone back into my pocket. It wouldn’t do any good. Then I pulled the phone back out and with a “fuck it” and plosive exhalation I tapped a message to Jenna.

ME: Where are you? You ok?

Immediate regret. She’s at her mom’s. Why am I doing this? I’d stopped walking. Dazed, with phone in hand, I took stock of my surroundings. With a smile and a snort, I found myself standing right in front of the sagging storefront of Guillen’s Wig Shop. This forlorn establishment, this apparent last holdout against urban renewal had always amused me. Though admittedly I did not get to this part of town very often, I had never seen anyone go in or out of it or seen anyone working there. It looked like it had been built in the 1940s or so and had never seen an update of any kind. Peeling grey paint, brown film on the window glass; damp, rotted wood at the bottom of the door frame. The u-shaped depression in the roof right above the entrance sending broad trickle of rain water onto the sidewalk, the worst beaded curtain ever. Seems like every town has one of these places, right? So strange. And who wears wigs anymore?

I smiled because the shop was the source of shared joke between me and Jenna. There it was—still propped up against the inside of the large plate glass show window was a crude, faded, hand painted sign that excitedly announced, “WIGS INSIDE!”. Well, yes, Mr. (or Mrs.) Guillen, where else would they be? Jen and I found this to be (probably too) hilarious and would often use it as an add-on to any advertisement we saw while out driving which would immediately render it deliciously absurd. “All Frames Half Off Through Saturday—WIGS INSIDE!” “Try Our New Picante Bowl—WIGS INSIDE!”. It was even useful in defusing arguments. Once I was rummaging through our overfilled refrigerator stupidly accusing Jenna of hiding the Dijon. After I yelled something like, “Is it even IN HERE?!” she, with a pause and perfect timing came up behind me and whispered, “WIGS INSIDE.” I think I do love her.

This was far enough. I turned around for the descent. Maybe I’ll take the stairs. I got about ten yards back down the sidewalk when I heard a faint buzz and a percussive click. Instinct shot my hand to my phone. Jenna? But that wasn’t it, the sounds came from behind me. Turning around my eyes locked on the shimmer now emanating from the wig shop window. An “OPEN!” sign had clicked on at the top of the show window (right above “WIGS INSIDE!”)—the word and punctuation in a bright, cheery red and an animated oval of lime green dots chasing each other around it. That was new. Or was it? Odd, certainly. I never get up here. Must be on a timer. I looked at my phone—6:19am—odd time to set a timer to. Odd time to “OPEN!”. No accompanying lights on in the shop, at least that I could see from this angle. Maybe not so open? I smirked—gotta unlock bright and early for those hordes of wig-hungry consumers! Plus, there are…wait for it…WIGS INSIDE! I shuffled one foot toward the shop but then stopped. No. Time to hit those stairs.

***

The next morning, I woke up expecting to find my quads and calves cursing at me for yesterday’s angry inclines, but no, I actually felt great. I found myself bushy-tailed well before the alarm went off and I was out—spandexed and ready—on the threshold at a record 5:13am. The uncanny physical exhilaration was almost enough to offset the nagging stomach-pit gnaw from continued Jenna radio silence. Deep breath. Back up the hill, new leaves a-turning, let’s make it stick this time! I think I may have made it a couple of hundred more yards up the slope in “jog mode” than I did yesterday. Not great but I will take it. As I shifted into a kind of aggressive march I noted that it was decidedly more still this morning. A dead calm that almost went too far—no birds skittering in the branches, no tree drips onto the pavement (though it had clearly rained overnight), not even the stray honk or acceleration whir from the early bird go-getters down in the valley. Just the echoed, wet eeetch of my cross-trainers as I leaned into the incline.

I rounded the highest, sharpest bend and lurched through the gauzy brown-orange cone of the last streetlamp for at least a quarter mile. I prepared for the temporary gloom by narrowing my eyes and keeping them on my feet in case of divots and detritus on the sidewalk, but as the ground levelled out I was immediately distracted by a familiar gleam up ahead and on the right. The wig shop “OPEN!” sign was on again. I checked my phone—5:32am. It’s on even earlier. Or it just stayed on all day yesterday and all night till now, right? That made the most sense. I slowed my pace as I approached and I swear the thing was humming a lot more loudly than yesterday morning. Almost soothing in its tone and cadence.

I found myself in front of the large window again. The entryway drips had stopped. Above the roofline two very tall maple trees looked like they were bending in to listen or get a better look. The interior of the store was completely dark. Certainly not “open” by anyone’s definition. Curious, I bent down, made a shield with my hand against my forehead, and peered in between the “OPEN!” sign above and my favorite sign below. The red and green glow afforded the grasping of some umbral detail. On the wall to the left, hanging on hooks of some sort (I guess) were a number of neatly arranged, tangled, tendrilled lumps of varying size. Fairly clear proof that there were, indeed, wigs inside. As my eyes adjusted, it was clear that the shop was one large square room and was dominated by a long, central, rectangular countertop on which sat twelve (I counted them) of those styrofoam mannequin heads used for displaying, well, the obvious.

With some patience I began to ascertain some more details. Each head was facing me, stone-faced with that expressionless, thin-lipped, horizontal mouth you always tend to see on those things. Which never made sense to me—why wouldn’t you want your wig heads to actually be excited about what they were wearing? Anyway, what was really interesting was above the mouths. Again, it was exceedingly dim, but it appeared that someone had taken the pains to paint oversized, saucer-like eyes on each of them. Like a child who defiantly refuses to color within the lines, the “artist” went well beyond the circumference of the blank, almond-shaped ocular impressions standard-issued by the fake head factory. Each one was radically different—from giant irises to thick ovals circumscribing pinprick pupils to enraged, Pollock-like splotches which ran down the cheeks like tear-stained mascara, leering out from between matted ringlets of wigs that clearly had been forced upon them as almost an afterthought. Looked like the same hurried, careless hand that scrawled the “WIGS INSIDE!” sign. I slow scanned from left to right, and though each face looked straight ahead, there was present that voyeuristic I’m-watching-you illusion we associate with severe oil portraits hanging in tapestried halls of Gothic mansions. God, what a place.

Eyes strained and aching I pushed back from the window and paused a moment to muse upon my goblin-esque, red-green reflection. Jesus, you need more sleep, dude. I shook myself back to the present and decided to push further up the street a ways as I had a bit more time due to my early start. Down the block the streetlights became more regular and the refurbished atmosphere grew warmer as well. But I suddenly found this to be at odds with the icy chill that abruptly penetrated my wick-away layers, the kind you feel when you make a sharp descent into a foggy valley—damp and consumptive. It seemed to get worse as I pressed on so I decided to head back. Still early, so maybe explore some new side streets this time? As long as the ground was sloping downwards I knew I’d be generally going in the right direction.

I chose the next streetlight as a terminus, took a glance left and right, and lumbered my way across the avenue aiming for the next residential stretch which appeared to loop back towards downtown. The moment my foot struck the far curb my phone buzz-dinged in my pocket. Did she finally…? Wait, “Unknown Caller” …and this:

UNKNOWN: See you soon! 😊😜😁

What th-? I stood there fixed to the ground. I have, of course, Jenna’s contact info in my phone, but, I don’t know, maybe…she changed her number? And she’s using emojis now? I looked around—the deep chill sat like a cinder block on my chest and the street ahead of me was oppressively quiet and dark. The tunnel of unlit houses looked cavernous and menacing. You know, it would be a lot easier and efficient to simply go back the way I ca—forget it, I’m going down this side street. For the whole next block, I shivered and stared at the sprightly message before finally stopping and rapidly tapping:

ME: Jen? That you?

I paused, waited and stared. Nothing. Dammit.

***

That night I stayed in (not that I ever really go out) on the couch and ping-ponged between distractedly checking on the “Unknown Caller” in my left hand and with my right wading through the garbage streaming options on my television. I settled on one of the 3,000 “True Crime” options and tossed the remote over onto the poofy chair to prevent more doom scanning. Then, with one last glance at my phone, I tossed that thing over onto the poofy chair too. Enough already. Probably just some bot or meaningless SPAM. Oh great, my smart-ass phone decided to land upright against the back cushion with the screen facing right back at me. Why isn’t it going to sleep mode? Piece of shit. Should upgrade anyway.

I don’t exactly know what time it was, but at some point, during the deep witching hours I sank into a couch-clinging slumber only to be jolted awake by a jarring, aggressive THUD. I nearly rolled off the couch, but foggily gathered myself and sat bolt upright, wiping the drool at the corner of my mouth with the heel of my hand. Had I dreamt it? Was it simply a regular “apartment noise” that the liminal state of sleep had shaped and exaggerated into something el—?

THUDDDD.

Ok, no. That was real. And it came from the front door of the apartment. Sounded like someone making a single, visceral fist-pound against the wood, but what was weird was that the couch was close enough to the apartment entrance that I could tell that sound came from the bottom of the door. Like someone kicked it with a heavy boot? I was paralyzed and sweat-beaded, but after a few minutes and no more thuds, I slowly stood up, glued to the floor. Clock on the thermostat read 4:32am. Television screensaver cycling through vistas from rural Europe. Faint wind chime from the balcony below. Muted thrum of the refrigerator. I must have been frozen there for more than 20 minutes before I finally screwed up the courage to make my way to the door. Looking through the peephole all I could see was the fish-eye, globular distortion of my weirdo neighbor’s door across the hall. I put my hand on the knob—warm?—and slowly eased the door open a crack. Nothing. No one. I examined the base of the door but there were no dents or scuffs of any kind. I looked up and down the hallway—just the happy glow from the too-bright wall sconces that flanked each apartment entrance.

DING! BUZZZZZZZ.

I jerked my head around to see that the incoming message had jounced my phone from its vertical perch and face-planted it onto the poofy chair seat cushion. I slammed the door (sorry, weirdo guy) and hurdled the ottoman to pick it up. Unknown Caller with a message and video link.

UNKNOWN: You’ll love this!!!! 🤣😂😍

The attached video was a grainy, three-second looped clip from an ancient, asinine ‘80s sitcom. I recognized it (something like "It’s Your Turn!") and actually remembered the episode. The lame gag showed the dimwit, older brother about to exit his bedroom not knowing that his lil’ scamp, trickster of a kid brother had balanced a bucket full of shaving cream above the door. The loop showed the older brother jumping off his bed and reaching for the doorknob over and over again. That’s it. And the only sound was some canned, repeated soundbite from the laugh track that needlessly foreshadowed the impending prank:

Uhhhh ohhhhh…ha ha HA!

Uhhhh ohhhhh…ha ha HA!

Uhhhh ohhhhh…ha ha HA!

Uhhhh ohhhhh…ha ha HA!

I dropped the phone and jerked my hand back like the thing was a coiled rattlesnake. What the hell was going on? Not funny, Jenna, if this is you. If it is, this is some nuclear-grade, psycho-ass trolling. Jeepers. I went back to the door (even darkly glancing up to make sure there was no bucket up there) and took another peek into the hallway. All quiet. Still nothing. I stiffened against the involuntary shudder that rippled through my frame. I’ve got to get out of here. Run, run, run.

I hurriedly threw on the rank, floor-strewn get-up I’d worn yesterday morning. I delayed for a moment over my discarded phone, now nestled face-down in the beige carpet. I should just leave the damn thing behind. Then again, this run will require the distraction of some high-volume synth-pop injected straight into my brain via my ear-pods. I gingerly picked up the phone as if my hands were a detective’s tweezers gathering case-related minutiae and crammed it down into my pocket without looking at its face. Heart already thudding and skipping I began my run the second I stepped out my apartment door.

Outside I was taken aback by how pleasant and balmy it was. And the smell—lilacs? Here? In mid-March? Intoxicating. Off at full tilt. Up the hill, and when I turned the corner around the east side of my building, a warm—gentle but insistent—tailwind ushered me on faster and faster. The shuffle feature on my music app always seemed to have a sardonic sense of humor of its own, and this morning was no exception as it blared forth, oh so fitting and not a little bit mocking—WHAT IS LOVE? BABY DON’T HURT ME! DON’T HURT ME! NO MORE! The wind continued on, seeming not only to push but to coil and dance around my body—knees up, the soles of my shoes not slapping against the asphalt as they usually did, but silently arcing and blending with the ground like I was running on a hamster wheel. Last bend—push it! This was going to be an absolute record-breaker. WHAT IS LOOOOOOVE (love, love, love)? That wind, that wiiiiind whispering come on, come on, COME ON! There’s that fucking shop. Light is off. GOOD. Stop again? Oh, hell no. I’m blitzing past that fucker full speed, eyes closed. DON’T HURT ME! NO MORE!

In a frenzied, blind fury of piston legs and staccato steps, I blazed past the wig shop…ten yards, twenty yards, thirty…NO MORE! The tailwind died like someone had thrown a switch. My body had had it. Wheezing, stutter-stepping to an awkward stop, I bent over with my hands on my knees, willing my leg muscles to cease their quivering and my heart to just give it a rest already. On the sidewalk in front of me was a cluster of shattered green glass. A lot of it. Like someone had hurled not one beer bottle, but a whole case. The music had stopped as well. Replaced by cricket triplets somewhere in the weeds—ha ha HA! Quick check to the music app—*connection problems—restart?*.

I hesitated. No, no. Hell no. Wait, wait, wait a minute now, wait just a—yes, I need to. Still bent over, panting, with a deliberate listlessness, I craned my neck to have a look behind me. As if the movement of my head tripped some sort of electronic eye, the “OPEN!” sign clicked on with that same sound you make when you crook your forefinger in your mouth against the inside of your cheek and trigger it out to produce a cartoony puuppp! And then right on top of it—the phone again. My tremored hand switched from the dead music app to the text box:

UNKNOWN: WIGS INSIDE. 👍👍👍

I carefully set the phone face down in the green glass salad and proceeded to viciously grind it into the cement with the heel of my shoe. I slow-pivoted and made my way back down the block. Lilacs. The hummmmmm from the “OPEN!” sign seemed to be filtering through my ear pods as I drew closer to the window. Nice beat, you could dance to it. After watching the green dots do a few laps, I squinted once more into the shop. There was the long table again, but this time all the wig heads were gone. Wait…except one. One remained, dead center of the table, black-haired (I think?), and now facing away from me toward the back of the store. And more—I could also now see a bit deeper into the room, past the table. There was a thin vertical strip of light cutting its way through the amorphous sludge that made up the rear of the shop. I stood up. The back door was open. Finally.

My heartbeat was steady now and my whole being was flush with generous dollop of those welcome post-exercise endorphins. God, I feel good. With just a few more steps I was around the side of the building and standing in the inky black of what must be a tiny, four-space or so parking lot. I felt my way along the brick to the back door. A feeble trial poke revealed what I expected—ajar. But just a millimeter. High above and to the right there was some distant porch light (I presumed) which prevented the area from being completely swallowed up in pre-dawn murk. Because of this, as I pushed the door fully open, I was able to make out the curved silhouette of a large, low lump to my right. Subaru?

I stepped into the truncated hall and immediately the room was awash in the queasy glare of several silver, ceiling trays of fluorescent tubes which irritably crackled to life. I winced and the sudden infusion of light blinded and smarted for a brief moment. When it passed, I saw it. The head was directly in front of me on the table. The hair was greasy and matted and from behind the pendulous coils large, lidless eyes bugged out in an expression of utter madness. And this—there was no mistaking who—or what—it was. My knees jellied as the ghastly thing proceeded slowly to tilt, to crank unnaturally to one side—the lipstick spattered mouth quavering, puckering silently, trying in vain to form words or gasp—fish-like—for breath.

Then they were upon me. From the sides and behind me, a low, huddled mass, bobbing and careening against each other, fighting to get at my ankles, shins, and calves. A last look up revealed a tilt forward now, a narrowing of the brows, and the crimson-streaked mouth settling into what could only be described as a grim rictus of…satisfaction. Down.

They have TEETH?

My god, JENNA, they have TEETH?!