Ever since I was a teenager, Barry cut my hair. He was a man with cornrows and a grey goatee. Through the years, the places he cut my hair changed. But now, he set up shop at his mom’s garage. So, on a Sunday afternoon, I pulled up to his mother’s house for my haircut. Malcolm stood in the driveway, firing up a Black & Mild cigar. Smoke slid down his grey beard and onto his white t-shirt. Beside him stood Quinton. He was a heavy-set man sporting a black hat, glasses, grey hoodie, and black jeans. They smirked at me hesitating to park in the driveway.

After shutting off my car, I grabbed my book, Tiny Nightmares. Coincidentally, I didn’t know Malcolm and Quinton were living a nightmare. Pretty soon, I would.

Whenever I came to get my haircut, I brought reading material because Barry got off task easily. Because of his inability to focus, he usually had many customers waiting. Though, he was a master at his craft. So, it balanced out, in the end.

Malcolm and Quinton said, “Was up, man.”

“Was up,” I said.

The faded, purple van reflected fragments of myself. Potted plants gathered near the garage. Blue, crystal balls stuck out of them. Unfolded tables stood against the bricked, beige house. Barry lifted the garage door and presented himself. He wore a stocking cap, a dark grey shirt and jeans.

“Was up, Jerome.”

“Was up,” I walked through the side door. “Those two guys getting a cut?”

“Nah.” Barry placed a chair in front of me. “Malcolm’s sidepiece put a tracker on his car. I’ll be right back.”

“Alright.”

Later on, I was caught up to speed through eavesdropping and good, old Barry, who had the gift of gab. Here was what I pieced together.

Malcolm had a sidepiece. He fucked the shit out of her. He gave her anything she needed. Because he was so good to her, she got attached and clung to him. But he distanced himself, especially after changing jobs. For eight hours straight, he shoveled and spread asphalt. When she wanted sex, he couldn’t provide it. He was exhausted from working. Eventually, he cut her off because she forgot her position. She responded by placing a tracker on his car.

For a while, Malcolm didn’t know, until she showed up to a restaurant he was at with his wife and kids. She slid beside him and said, “Hey, babe.”

Malcolm nudged her away from him, then his wife said, “Go take care of it.”

Malcolm tried to take care of his sidepiece in the parking lot, but she flattened one of his tires. She cursed at him. She followed him to the tire shop, where he almost knocked her head off. All these situations brought him here with his homeboy, Quinton. He had his own run-ins with the sidepiece while he was out with his wife.

“Oh, hey! I’m going to eat at this restaurant with my friend,” The sidepiece said.

But Quinton didn’t believe it was a coincidence. So, he used an app on his phone and something under his car beeped. After removing the tracker off his car, he informed Malcolm, who, at certain intervals, recounted hearing pings while driving. It didn’t completely set in for Malcolm, until he caught his sidepiece following him to Barry’s mom’s house.

Barry moved lawn chairs and glass tables off the grassy space near the driveway. He came back into the garage and retrieved two mini ramps. They were made of durable plastic. His phone rang. From what I heard, it was someone named Pastor. He said, “I’m at momma house. Come in an hour.”

Barry laid the ramps out and curled his fingers towards an approaching silver vehicle. It resembled an Acura. I didn’t know the year or model. Quinton walked up the driveway and said, “The tracker is in the back. Not the front.”

“You sure?” Barry asked.

“Yeah.”

After coming up as far as possible, Malcolm reversed onto the ramps. He stopped when Barry told him to.

Barry retrieved an undercar roller and said, “I’m coming in a minute, Jerome.”

“Alright,” I said.

A boxy clock hung on a pegboard behind me. It dinged over the radio positioned somewhere near the closed garage door towards the right. A pile of bags filled with clothing cluttered the opened garage door, but they didn’t reach the ceiling. So, they didn’t restrict my vision too much. A bookshelf rested on a dingy drawer and a flat-screened television leaned against a dirty refrigerator. The subtle scent of gasoline creeped in and out.

Malcolm got out of his vehicle and stood out of my sight. Quinton did too for a while. And Barry hid under the car, after turning down the radio. But their voices rang like the clunky clock.

“Aye, Quinton…. This like some Fatal Attraction shit.”

“Ain’t no like, Barry. It is Fatal Attraction! Can you see the tracker?”

“Nah. Use the app again.”

“Alright.” Beeps erupted from the vehicle. “It’s under there somewhere.”

“You can’t use the app, Malcolm?”

“Nah, my phone too old.”

“Hold up, let me get my flashlight.”

Barry went into the house and came out wearing a head lamp. He slid back under the vehicle and continued his search.

“Did she put the tracker in the trunk, Malcolm?”

“Man, hell nah. How she gonna get in my trunk?”

“It can happen easily. When you sleep, she drop it in there.”

“I ain’t never fall asleep around her, Barry.”

“Might have dropped it in the gas tank with her crazy ass.”

“I fucked up. That’s all it is.”

Malcolm mentioned his sidepiece told him she was pregnant. But it couldn’t be his, since he stopped messing with her months ago. Of course, she matched her length of pregnancy to when they last screwed. His wife didn’t leave him. Maybe she rationalized it as he didn’t love the sidepiece. Maybe she believed her spot was secured. I imagined the thought of starting over seemed daunting as well. Who wanted to be a single mother? And she didn’t just have a kid with him. She had kids!

How did kids process the sidepiece sitting beside their father at the restaurant? Or how their mother just told him to take care of it? From what I heard, Barry made some progress.

“There go the tracker.”

“That’s a part of the bumper, Barry. It stop the water from leaking out.”

“There ain’t no part on a bumper to stop water from flowing out.”

“No, you’re right. That’s it!”

“She glued it up there.”

“Is it in a case?”

“Yeah, to keep it dry. Let me get a screwdriver.”

Barry got a screwdriver and took the tracker off.

“She really glued the shit up there.”

“She’s a freak, Malcolm,” Barry said. “She tried to keep you by saying she was pregnant.”

“A baby don’t keep no nigga.”

“She won’t the dick. She won’t the dick!”

Quinton no longer stayed out of my sight. He stood in front of the car, scrolling through his phone. He shook his head and said, “This some psycho shit, man.”

“I’m gonna ride in Barry’s van and sling the motherfucker. Matter of fact, I can put it on a bus at one of the bus terminals. By Popeye’s.”

“She bought four trackers for a hundred dollars. Because you can’t just buy one from that brand. I researched that shit.”

“I’ll put it on somebody else’s car in Norfolk.”

For a few minutes, Malcolm and Quinton devised a plan. After all, the sidepiece was nearby, waiting for Malcolm to leave. What if she eased closer to the house? She could have done so while they located and removed her tracker. What if she considered me a friend of Malcolm and planted a tracker on my car? No, I was overreacting. I’d probably remind her of her eighteen-year-old son. Malcolm mentioned him and his whereabouts. Maybe having her only child leave the nest pushed her over the edge. It couldn’t have been money. According to Malcolm, she had her own. But I guessed more didn’t hurt, right?

Then again, what if the sidepiece actually loved Malcolm? I’d never been with a woman long enough to produce those feelings. No woman ever fought for me like she did for Malcolm. Therefore, I suspected he knew what to say and how to act to evoke such a strong emotion.

“Barry, hold onto the tracker for me,” Malcolm said. “I’ll come back and get it.”

“Alright. You’re good with your wife?”

“Yeah, man. She know what it is.”

“Because you take care of everything at home.”

Malcolm pulled out the driveway. Quinton followed with the van. I didn’t know their plan, but they put it into motion. Barry put the ramps, roller, and screwdriver up. He took off the head lamp, as a burgundy car parked. He ambled into the garage, where I patiently waited for an hour and some change for my haircut. I was his first customer of the day.

“The sidepiece came to the restaurant.” Barry unfolded two white chairs and placed them in front of the bookshelf. “And sat with his wife and kids.”

“That’s crazy,” I said.

“They done made two, three movies about this.”

A boy in a blue hoodie rushed towards the garage. His locs were in a stiff ponytail. He tripped over the doorway. His phone clacked across the cement floor. I asked him if he was okay, but he didn’t say anything. Barry picked up his phone and handed it to him. He turned and twisted in the chair, staring at the colorful screen.

Pastor walked into the garage. He was stocky. Tattoos covered his arms. His black hat hugged his head. His glasses seemed tinted. His white shirt gripped his beefy torso. He wore joggers and Brooklyn Nets flipflops. He sat beside his son and watched the Cowboys and Cardinals game on his phone. His knee rested inches from mine. Barry decreased the distance when he told me to get up. After moving the chair over the marble mat, he patted the chair for me to sit. He covered me with a striped cape.

“Aye, Pastor,” Barry brushed my hair. “Malcolm’s sidepiece put a tracker on his car.”

“Tssh.” Pastor rolled his shoulders. “That’s wild.”

“She couldn’t give it up.” He cleaned his clippers. “She was supposed to play her role until she found her a man.”

“I mean….” He sucked on his vape pen and exhaled. “She got too attached.”

“Loneliness. It made her go crazy.”

“Yeah, man.”

Barry ran the clippers over my hair, running his mouth like always. He said something about the sidepiece not wanting to give up a good man. But how could Malcolm be a good man for taking care of a woman other than his wife? A good man’s responsibility was to pay the bills, satisfy a woman sexually, and spend time with her, even if it meant cheating on his wife? I didn’t bring up this point for a couple of reasons. One: I didn’t want to further distract him from cutting my hair. Two: I didn’t want to debate with him or Pastor. Three: It wasn’t my business.

Although I disagreed with these men, they were older than me. And I wasn’t exactly a ladies’ man. Where I was born and raised, many women went for the guy who ran the streets. Barry used to be one of those guys. And I didn’t doubt if Malcolm, Quinton, and Pastor made money illegally in their younger days. Did earning money, whether legally or illegally, play a significant role in being a good man? Sadly, my experiences pointed to yes.

And I fretted over presenting myself as a good man. Why else would I get a haircut every two weeks? If I looked homeless, I’d be judged negatively. Most likely, by most women, I’d be seen as someone who didn’t keep up with himself. I’d be deemed a bad man. And bad men rarely achieved companionship, unless they disguised themselves as good men. I enjoyed being a loner; however, I wouldn’t mind having someone by my side.

Compared to the real world, my definition of a good man seemed fantastical. To me, a good man didn’t do good for a reward. He strived to do what he believed was right. And his financial status didn’t determine his goodness. Empathy wasn’t something bought in a store. He gained it through his hardships, through his victories.

“Malcolm was taking away her cake and ice cream.” Barry edged me up. “He should have known she was gonna fight for it.”

“Yeah,” Pastor eyed the game. “She was.”

“That’s why I just hit and run.”

“Did Malcolm take the tracker with him?”

“It’s under the tire.” Barry trimmed up my mustache, my goatee. “He’s gonna come back and get it. You can’t be a good man to every woman.”

“Yeah,” Pastor thumbed the turf-filled screen. “You can’t.”

“The monster comes back to its maker.”

Barry rubbed alcohol over my head, my cheeks, my razor line. It subtly burned. He handed me a small, pentagonal mirror. I was sharper than the rakes hung up near the doorway. After dusting excess hair off my neck and face, he untied the cape and shook it out. I rose from the chair and stretched. While I pulled twenty dollars from my wallet, Barry placed a portable safe in the chair. The boy climbed up and sat on it. I paid Barry, shook his hand, and, as always, he said until next time.

Next time. I doubted it would involve a sidepiece determined to keep a good man who was married with children.