Good Thing I Got Mo
This isn’t the Mo of the story below, but for all intents and purposes, he could be the Mo of another one.
(The following is a fiction, but if you will, we’d like to consider it something more. With October being Mental Health Awareness Month and all, we thought we’d do our part to remind you that if you’re unwell — or know someone is — don’t keep quiet about it. Just don’t.)
“So, what you want today, sarge? I guess — short and neat!”
Mo’s the best. That guy could keep a client for life with a single handshake, never mind his haircuts. And he’s a wizard with giving advice. In fact, you’d think he were a shrink he’s so good. But Masao Tanaki Jr. is one better — he’s my barber. He has been since 2012, when he opened the shop. After Fukushima levelled his joint out there, he packed up and bought a one-way to the States.
He does his thing out of this tin can of a place not far from mine. “Mo’s Cuts & Shaves.”
Don’t ask how he got ‘Mo’ from ‘Masao.’ No one cares, really. You go to Mo for a simple haircut. And if it’s Friday, he gives you whisky. Well, he gives the other guys whisky.
Mo’s place is a two-seater. It’s just him and his apprentice, this Irish kid, Dorian.
Doe’s a cool kid, but his pants are too tight. And he smokes too much.
Mo’s cuts are good, but I won’t lie, Doe’s catching up.
Mo always did go shorter on the sides than I liked, but you pick your battles with him. Mo might be 5’6 and built like a tree branch, but he’s tough as shit.
And yeah, his cuts are good.
“You always ask what I want, Mo, but you know it’s gonna be a two on top and a zero on the sides, come on.” The leather on his chair armrest felt cold. But then so does everything now.
“No, sarge,” laughed Mo. “You always say one on sides. But trust me, zero better.”
Yeah, leather’s cold as ice. It’s not just me.
“How’s business, Mo? I know it ain’t easy for you these days with this “thing” flying around.”
Mo’s face went stiff like a rock, and he furrowed his eyes. “People scare, sarge,” he whispered while he sprayed his clippers with alcohol. “People scare and don’t come like before. But is ok. Cycle. In life, always there is cycle. This one of them.”
Mo knows we’re balls deep in 2020 and he still shakes hands with a corpse’s grip. He likes that about where we live. He always said they don’t do it a lot where he’s from.
“Sarge, this time I go zero on sides, ok?”
I looked up and caught Mo’s grin in the mirror. “All right, big guy, zero on the sides. Let’s try something new.” I look down too much. I ought to look up more.
Oh yeah, Mo calls me ‘sarge.’ He says it’s out of respect. Respect. The guys that fought in Europe? Those guys earned respect. You knew who you were killing back then.
Us? We got dropped into a shit show with no plan. There were kids.
I never liked plans.
Besides, once you get used to crazy, life gets less, you know, loud.
I mean, they fly planes into buildings, so we act. Simple. It was supposed to be a month. They said it’d be a month. “Two tops,” they said. They promised.
“Sarge, wake up. You look white, too lazy.”
“Hey, I’m all right, big guy,” I muttered. Why does everyone keep saying that? Why did my wife always say the eye thing? “It’s just black in there, honey. I can’t see you in there.”
Fuck that. I’m here. She’s the one who’s not.
“No,” he pressed. “You no good. I sa - -”
“Not now, Mo. I just… look, not today.”
Then, Mo did the first of three things in this story. I’d never seen him do any of them ‘till today, and let me tell you, I’ve been seeing Mo for nine years: He turned off his clippers, folded his scissors and placed both down before sitting in the chair opposite mine.
“You stink rike whisky. Four months, no smile. Always 1-800 number call phone.”
“Mo, I - -”
“And you fat, too.”
Mo means well, I swear.
A tall, lanky fellow walked into the place and took a seat on the waiting bench Mo had built himself out of Rosewood. You could tell he wasn’t a usual ‘cause all of us usuals know each other. We don’t always say hi, but we know each other.
Mo didn’t even register the guy’s presence. That was the second thing he did that he’s never done before. I’ve been here a million times and he’s never done that.
“Mo, you got - -”
“You remember day you save my life, Matthew?” Mo never says my name. Never.
I just did what had to be done. It’s not like I was some bystander with secret fuckin powers. You do that shit precisely because you do what needs being done. They called “Operation Tomodachi.” I was assigned to Sendai. Had to help clean up.
I’d never seen a real nightmare in my life ‘till I saw that shit. I remember seeing these ghost white hands sticking out of 10-foot stacks of dried up, bloody mud. Mountains made of cars and broken glass. And just like in Kabul, there was always noise. Alarms. Sirens. All day. All night. Noise, noise, and more noise.
“Do you think man who doing this should feeling like you? Looking like sad animal, like you”
Mo was getting angry. You could see it on his face. It was hard not to laugh when Mo used words the wrong way. Wait… Son of a bitch, he knew that.
“Ahhhhh, see, smile! Good, good.”.
“Whatever.”
“Matthew, you strong.”
“How do you know, Mo?”
I mean, what kind of tough guy loses his mind the second he’s in hot shit? My guys were counting on me in Kabul. What kind of soldier blacks out when his buddies need ‘em?
“You served well, Sergeant. This is a new chance to serve people in need.”
My buddies were in need when they got shelled. No one cares about that. But I do.
“I hate this shit, Mo. All of this. Life ain’t got anymore flavour. Everything tastes the same. Everything looks the same. Every - -”
“No,” he said while staring at my right hand. “You hate you for what you father did, so you join war to die.”
Seriously, now, don’t listen to this guy. Really, you guys reading this right now, just get rid of this page. Yes I can break the fourth wall. Go someplace else. I heard that Batma - -
“You want to die because you father hurt you. You not kill you. Too scary. So, you go to war."
How? How does he do that shit? I only ever told him my dad was a deadbeat. And he was.
That’s all.
Or was it? It’s so cold these days. It’s too damp. You get numb. You forget things.
I didn’t want to tell you guys about “him.” And you know what? I won’t. I don't tell anyone this shit. But if there’s one person in the world I’d tell, it’s Mo.
But why say his name? He wants that. That’s why I haven’t said that shit for 21 years.
Ten grand worth of shrink visits did zilch, so, cold turkey. You know?
Hey, look, I’m good.
But I hate when my hands shake, and that only happens when…
“Matthew, you father gone. Long time. But you here.” Mo grabbed my hand. His felt like a goddman vice grip. He’s built like a branch. Son of a bitch.
How does he do this? How does he pull shit out of a hat like that?
“Maybe you’re right, Mo. Or maybe I just saw the world for what it is as a kid. Fast tracked.”
I tried laughing. Mo knew it was fake.
And he wouldn’t let go of my hand. If it were any other dude, I’d have probably knocked his teeth in by now. But Mo? Mo’s the best.
“No, Matthew. You must learn to serve.”
“I did a lot of that,” I laughed. Crying’s for pussies. “I did my serving.”
“Matthew, listen to me,” said Mo. “Your soul. If you no serve your soul, you will serve ego. Ego protect when man healthy. But ego kill when man is bad. Hmm.”
Mo’s great at that, that proverb shit. I got to admit, half the time I didn't get any of it. But they always sound nice, like five-second poems. The ones that aren’t boring, anyway.
But that one… that one hit me in the gut good.
“You try to die, Matthew,” said Mo. This time the black in his pupils shone like stones, and the whites glared like the spotlights. “But if you dead, I not be here today.”
I remember the first day I saw Mo. He cut hair steps away from Sendai’s Airport, right on the east coast of Japan, where the tsunami did its worst. By the time we got there, the place was a write-off (even though we brought it back to life, but that’s another story). But even then, there were survivors.
Mo and two other men (both clients of his) were three seconds away from getting washed out to sea if we hadn’t spotted them waving at us, like that waving woman from the North Tower on 9/11. But we were told not to help.
“Japanese SDF’s on survivors, Sarge! We don’t have that kind of clearance here. We can’t do anything for them. We’re airport-bound.”
I looked at Mo in the eye while flashes of him waving at me that day played through my head.
“You remember, Mathew?”
“The fuck we can’t, Stephens. We got people out here who are still alive! We’re getting him.”
“Sarge, we have fuckin orders!”
“Yeah I know.”
“Yeah, Mo,” I said. “Yeah, I remember.”
“Good, Matthew, good. And what I say to you?”
“You said, ‘Sarge, I’ll pay you back. One day, I’ll pay you back.’”
My hand stopped shaking… for once.
Now you all know why Uncle Sam gave me the boot.
Now you know why I wash skyscraper windows. Pay’s good, and no one bothers you up there. No one makes empty promises up there. “An unceremonious, yet honourable way to end a career,” they said.
‘Unceremonious,’ I like that word.
“You remember, sarge? You say, ‘All right, sir, my name Matthew Petri.’ You come visit me in Philadelphia, all right?”
The guy was soaked, and he hadn’t eaten in four days. You could tell, too. He looked gaunt, and half dead. What was I supposed to say?
The craziest part is a year later, I get a letter from the son of a bitch.
Well, technically it got sent to the U.S. military, but those assholes were nice enough to forward it my way.
‘Hi Matthew, is Masao. Time for change, no family, I go to USA. Maybe one day we have a whisky. American whisky good, but Japan whisky better! This my cell: 215-…’
I couldn’t believe it. I still can’t believe.
I knew the perfect place for the guy, too. It’s not far from mine.
Or did I already say that?
Two chairs. It’s small, but nice. Did I say that part, too? Whatever, the young punks around here needed some competition. Those guys aren’t barbers. And all the touring put some cash in the bank, so I thought what the hell. What are the odds, anyway? This guy lost everything in a flash. I didn’t think I’d ever see ‘em again.
When we left him with the rest of Miyagi’s survivors, all I gave him was a card. A card.
But knowing Mo now, I’m not surprised. What’s that word for guys who don’t stop? Aud — auda. ‘Audacity.’ Yeah, that’s Mo.
“Yeah, Mo. Trust me, I remember.”
“And?” He got up, turned his clippers back on, and started cutting.
“And, Mo?”
“And now I pay you back.”
“Yeah?”
“Yea! I never have friends. You have no friend.”
“Hey, shut up, you. How do you know.”
Mo laughed a deep, guttural laugh. The kind that’ll make you laugh when you hear it.
I couldn’t. But I think one day soon I’ll do that again… laugh.
“Matthew, you come here every week. We talk.”
“But I gotta watch the budget, Mo. This pandemic and everything, I gott - -”
“No, I do free. Best shave in Philly. Best advice, too,” he said with that cocky grin of his. I’d bet this guy’s grandad flew a Zero. Mo’s got balls.
I won’t lie, Mo and I don’t always get anywhere when we “talk.” But if there’s one thing I do know, I always feel a little less shitty after we do.
Oh, and don’t tell anyone this, but, Mo barely charges me. Actually, Mo just won’t charge me.
“But Mo, I know how things are these days, I - -”
“No!,” he barked. He was pissed now. “You not pay.”
I looked down at my wallet, then I looked up at Mo. His eyes welled up.
That was the third thing. His eyes never well up. “Please.”
I looked back down and slipped my wallet back into my right shirt pocket.
I look down too much. I looked back up.
“All right, Mo. We’ll see you in a week.”
“Wesday!”
“Yeah, Mo. Wednesday. Hey, how ‘bout just one little ounce of that golden Japanese single-mal- -?”
“No.”
“Worth a shot” was all I could muster. “See ya, Mo.”
“Ha! See you, sarge.”
I might not have her, or the big house. I might not have the guys anymore.
I might not even have a mind that’s whole. Not like the kind you might have, anyway.
It does strange things, like it’s its own Matt.
Funny, right?
I don’t have a lot of nice things.
But good thing I got Mo.
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