There’s no business like show business
Mr. Holliday shot through the crosswalk like a starving hound unchained, his neon vest billowing in the dry wind. He could have passed for an aging superhero if only he didn’t pant slack-jawed and his sprint didn’t scream dodgy knees.
The lollipop shaped stop sign that bore his grip marks lay unattended by the raised concrete sidewalk. Most days it stayed glued to his side, but today was different. A most miserable and confounding day.
Ipoh’s scorching afternoon sun had as usual heated the tarmac into Satan’s barbecue party and it singed his feet. He blocked out the stench of screeching tires and the deafening honks, but could not ignore the travesty across the road — his own face.
Bystanders whispered in shock and a cohort of little kids nearby howled in the manner of worn bagpipes. Not that Mr. Holliday gave a rat’s backside.
Leaping the last few steps with the grace of a waddling duck, he clawed at the metal pole to rip off a large poster.
There must be hundreds dotting Ipoh’s rolling greens, he feared. And many more in the mail, but those he could safely ignore given the snail speed of the postal service. No one got mail on time in this city, ever.
He held up the poster for one last disapproving glare, before crumpling it beyond recognition. By the fiery pits of hell, he fumed, the monkey crew responsible for this dishonor would pay.
#
Earlier, Mr. Holliday slept in to celebrate his half-day off. It was rare for his blood sucking boss to grant toilet breaks, much less vacation. Perhaps he feared a coup was around the corner. He couldn’t fault the man. Dictatorships by definition were paranoid and depraved.
BZZT BZZZT! BZZT BZZZT!
He cursed the cell-phone with eyes half shut.
“Yes?”
“Son, that you? Hello?” a distant, reedy voice asked.
“Dad? Yes, it’s me. Everything okay?” Anxiety rose in him at light speed.
“No, son. Nothing is okay. I can’t believe you did it.”
“Did what? I don’t get you.”
“Don’t play clueless with me. First, you limp through life as a measly crossing guard. I mean, why can’t you be more like your cousins, huh? A respected police inspector or…”
He rattled off a list of acceptable professions. Mr. Holliday could recite them from memory, yet the talk down did not despair him any less.
“Why on God’s green earth did you shave off your mustache? Haven’t I told you a million times that a man without one is like an anteater without a snout?” His voice trailed for effect.
Wait, what?
“Nonsense. Who told you I shaved it?”
Silence.
“Now you can lie to me without so much as a quiver in your voice, huh? Your shameful face is all over the city walls.”
Panicked, Mr. Holliday thought hard why anyone would plaster his likeness around town. And then it hit him.
“Oh, you mean the pedestrian safety posters?”
“What else? Fat chance of you starring in a major motion picture.”
He sulked. Dad had a gift for seeding suicidal thoughts in him.
“No, no, there must be a mistake. Nothing happened to my mustache. It has to be someone else.”
“You think I don’t recognize my own son? I even threw a few bucks to those wretched beggars after hearing the news. But your posters about knocked me into an early grave. You disappoint me.”
Beep and quiet.
Mr. Holliday blinked and stared at the dead cell-phone. He patted his upper lip and ran its length. The mustache still stuck there with its gravity-defying twirls. Where else would it be?
There were two possibilities here, neither appealing. Either the lunatic needed to vent or there was a grain of truth to his macabre act.
#
After confirming his suspicions, Mr. Holliday sped to the lawyer’s office. He was furious. It was one thing to diss him, another to drag his toxic family into the fray.
Yet he wasn’t eager to seek counsel. A real weasel, his lawyer. He had once convinced a judge his client’s tummy ache was in fact terminal cancer to shorten the sentence. The man made you question Satan’s casting as the ultimate evil.
Since crashing into the Mayor’s office didn’t seem much of a choice, Mr. Holliday bit the bullet. Weasel, a head taller, ran into him at the door huffing and holding a suitcase. His usual reptilian cool showed cracks from worry.
“Hey, I have to jet. Can this wait?” His voice strained from fake friendliness.
“No, no. Hang on. This won’t take long!” Mr. Holliday forced him back into the office. He noticed the lawyer’s shiny dome showed random patches of stubble that peaked over skin. Scoundrels had rough days too.
Weasel fell into a plush leather chair behind the desk and clasped his hands across a bulging belly.
“How can I help you today?”
“The city posters. My missing mustache.” He vomited the tragedy in one breath and balled his bony hands into a tight fist. “What did I ever do to deserve this shame?”
“Get a grip on yourself, man. And explain the problem without giving me a migraine.” Weasel said, certain the man would ignore his request.
Mr. Holliday began pacing the office. “I have given this town the best two decades of my life” — his voice squeaked at every vowel — “I even gave my finest hankies to sneezing little runts who smeared boogers over my pants. What more can I offer these ingrates? What more?”
Weasel stared at him, tapping the tips of his thumbs together to a beat. “Hard to believe they only found the mustache offensive. Your Shrek-like nose is the bigger problem if you ask me.”
A hysterical Mr. Holliday missed the mockery.
“Do you plan on paying for my services in installments again?” Weasel asked.
“Well, yes.”
“I see. In that case I must insist you sign over your soul.”
Mr. Holliday froze mid-stride. “Why?”
“Simple. I don’t foresee you ever paying in full” — Weasel leaned closer and began drumming his fingers on the desk — “besides, you can never have too many bargaining chips for Beelzebub.”
“That’s insane.”
“Don’t worry, if push comes to shove, they won’t throw you in with the general population. I hear Satan has a special hell for those who sign over their souls. Better plumbing, a parking spot and tastier worms.”
Mr. Holliday could not fathom a hell worse than another phone call from his father over the mustache and so he caved.
“What do I do?”
Weasel beamed and produced a standard contract distinguished by another signatory to the deal — the devil. Then he rubbed his hands and reached for the drawer.
“I’ll assign an associate to your case, don’t worry. You’ll have your day in court and a successful one at that. Just don’t get carried away.”
“I only want justice,” Mr. Holliday said in a solemn voice.
“Don’t we all” — Weasel pulled out a small pistol and leveled it at him — “and now I must leave, get out.”
#
Three days later, Mr. Holliday showed up in court with a baby-faced trainee lawyer who could have bawled his way through law school in a crib.
He peered around and wondered how a ramshackle hall that reeked of smelly socks could pass for a courtroom. He had seen soup kitchens with more personality. If this was the so-called long arm of the law, it needed the chop.
Mr. Holliday ambled to the plaintiff’s table over the thin gray carpet that tattered in the manner of a cheap flour sack. He curbed the urge to break off big chunks of the cracked wood paneling on the near wall. This place must be reserved for society’s bottom feeders.
Perched high on the bench, the judge massaged his enormous forehead in slow, broad circles below strands of wavy hair. It was clear he wanted to be anywhere but here.
The defendant was a dour-looking woman with freckles that resembled an alien moon. No lawyer? A smattering of people lazed in the backbenches beyond the rail. They could be the press given their shabby demeanor.
Forehead banged the gavel. “Ladies and gents, I warn you not to test my sense of humor today. What do we have here?”
Mr. Holliday sprang up before Baby could stop him. “Your Honor, I demand these scamps restore my mustache on the city posters.”
It was worth taking the initiative, he felt, having binge watched courtroom dramas two nights in a row. He bucked and heaved and flailed.
“They persuaded me I could help those wretched teens stay sharp while crossing the road. Instead, I have fallen prey to the highest of public humiliations!”
Forehead held up a hand. “Don’t screech, goddammit. It makes my head hurt” — he addressed the defendant — “what say you, miss? Where did your lawyer disappear?”
Freckles rose and spoke in a rough, whisky-soaked voice. “Your Honor, I speak for both the city and its top ad agency. You must jail this man for vandalism. He’s been going around destroying city property.”
“I must stop you here. Sue him later, but stick to the legal question at hand. Why did you edit Mr. Holliday’s likeness on the posters without his consent?”
Freckles threw him a bored look. “Well, judge, I don’t care for the legal question at hand.”
The courtroom livened with stunned whispers and reflex choking.
Forehead stroked his cheek as if a tennis racket had smacked him in the face. “Say what?”
“Does the plaintiff appreciate how famous he’s become? How many people stop and add ogre ears to the poster? And paint his nose green? The campaign was a super hit.”
Freckles eyeballed Mr. Holliday. “Now, instead of signing a book deal and buying some joy into his miserable life, he wants to sue us? His golden geese? What utter crock.”
She facepalmed for effect and let it linger. “The posters made pedestrian safety trend on social media. Why else did he sign up?
Forehead scratched his temple. “You’re saying the ends justify the means?”
“Without a doubt. When we save lives through humor, no matter how ridiculous looking, the means justify themselves.” Freckles thundered on command like a seasoned actor and the courtroom hushed in awe.
Not one to cower before reason, Mr. Holliday again slid through Baby’s butter fingers and thrust an accusing finger. But he had nothing to say. They’d never taught this on TV.
Freckles glanced up from her unauthorized cell-phone. “Good news, City Hall has ended the campaign early for lack of funds” — she turned to Mr. Holliday — “so, congratulations, your highness. Enjoy your return to the no-one-cares crowd.”
He sat speechless and squirming. He’d won. He should be happy, right?
#
Two weeks later, Mr. Holliday stared at a random dot in space while manning the crosswalk. A gnawing sensation in the pit of his stomach refused to go away. It stole his sleep and made the greasy swill that passed for food at his local diner ever more unappetizing.
He was a serious man and so he was at work. Yet today, students jaywalked and toddlers almost turned into roadkill without him moving a muscle. Mr. Holliday stood rooted to his spot, scratching the itch under his pampered mustache.
Recognition? Validation? What if he shaved the mustache? Would people covet him? Would he move up in life? Pleasing dad had proved pointless and it always would. Perhaps it was time to wrest back the wheel.
As for his dad, he would forever be second rate in the man’s eyes. Perhaps it was time to wrest back the wheel.
Mr. Holliday jogged to the ad agency’s office after lunch, hoping to meet his nemesis. Outside the upscale bungalow, a gaggle of dog-walking grannies accosted him.
“Hey. You’re the one from the posters, right?” one asked. “He looks even better in person,” another said. They twittered and snapped selfies with him. And then bade their goodbyes though he yearned for more.
Grinning like an April Fool’s joke, Mr. Holliday saw Freckles viewing him from a distance inside the gate. She wore a wry smile and blew halos of cigarette smoke.
He strode up, bashful but bright-eyed.
Freckles flicked the stub. “Look who crawled out of the sewer. What do you want?”
Mr. Holliday had agonized over the answer for days. “I want to be a star.”
His pithy statement caught her off guard, but she recovered in an instant. “Why should I help you of all people?”
“Because I work hard and learn fast.”
Freckles chortled. “Does it look like I train mechanics?” She spun to walk away.
“Hey, wait” — he gripped the gate — “I’m happy to start on scraps.”
Freckles paused and moved toward him. “Let’s take a walk. What do you say to playing a giant dog on TV?”
“Do I get free dog food?
“Why the hell do you care?”
“I may need to feed a three-headed dog.”
