A Tip

2020

“Your two o’clock is here.”

I look up, and striding across the salon is the last person I’d expect to see.  He does a double take, as if I’m the one who shouldn’t be here.  As if it’s such a surprise the queer kid he picked on in high school ended up a struggling actor, working in a nail salon back home to pay the bills.

By appearances alone, he’s the one who doesn’t belong.  After all these years, he’s still the teenage tough guy, ripped jeans, Axe body spray, and all.

“Clear coat, none of that fairy stuff,” he mutters, settling stiffly in the seat across from me.  With a scowl, he adds, “Get over yourself, Tommy, it ain’t like that.  Can’t play guitar with my nails cracked all to shit.”

He had always talked about starting a band – back when we still spoke, that is – and the calluses on his fingertips corroborate the story.  I nod, unable to bring myself to start the usual small talk, and we finish the appointment in silence.

He’s barely out the door, the bell on the doorjamb still tinkling in his wake, when Shelly waves me over to the reception desk.  “That guy left you some tip,” she reports, arching her eyebrows as she extends the receipt in my direction.

As I take the slip of paper from her outstretched hand, I feel my stomach turn itself inside out. 

Seven digits.  Two words.  Call me?