Chekhov’s Wig
This story takes place beforeAgain with Feeling.
1
“It’s not that I don’t want to do it,” I said into the phone as I drove.“It’s that I’m scared.”
On the other end of the call, Fox—nominally my friend—sighed.Heavily.
“Also,” I added, “full disclosure: I actuallydon’twant to do it.”
“Too bad,” they said.“You owe me—”
“Oh my God.”
“Youoweme, Dashiell, for getting you off the Cakery’s blacklist after you made a federal case out of that frosting debacle.”
“I wasn’t blacklisted!And it was a misunderstanding about ganache!It could have happened to anyone!”
“And when you got yourself on that International Thespian Society mailing list, who got you off it?”
“You, but only because I couldn’t find the unsubscribe button.”
“And when that seagull was bullying you, and I drove it off?Remember?”
“Yes, I remember, but in the first place, I could have handled that.”(I mean, in theory.) “And in the second place, this is not a comparable favor.This is like asking me to throw myself on a grenade because, I don’t know, you passed me the salt.”The rest of the words burst out of me: “And you know Mr.Cheek doesn’t, uh, like me.”
“Big surprise.”
“Because of Bobby!Not because of me!”
Fox made a sound that suggested this was still up for debate.
“He’s had a thing for Bobby forever, and I think he thinks—and I know this is crazy—that I’m, like, in his way.”
“Insane,” Fox said.“Ludicrous.Where would he ever get such an idea?”
“Also, I know you’re making fun of me, but I want to circle back to thescaredpart, because I swear to God, a couple of weeks ago, I was halfway through a crosswalk, and Mr.Cheek was waiting at the stop sign, and herevved his engine.”
Fox’s silence lasted one second, then another, and then another.
“Why do you need a box of wigs anyway?”I asked.“How many wigs does one person need?”
“How manydreamsdoes one person need, Dashiell?”Fox asked in what I thought of as theirtheater voice.“Besides, there are some clothes in there too, and Mr.Cheek was giving them away.”
“I really don’t think a bunch of old wigs are worth me risking my life—”
“Get.the.box.”They took a deep breath and added a saccharine, “Thank you.”
Then they disconnected.
Which left me with no other option but to keep driving.
It was a beautiful day—July in Hastings Rock was close to perfect.The weather on the Oregon Coast cleared up.Sunny days—like today—were plentiful.The air warmed nicely without ever getting too hot, and the breeze off the ocean meant jackets were still occasionally a good idea, and the evenings cooled down pleasantly.We had the beach.We had one of the 100 Cutest Towns in America (I made that up, but Hastings Rockisone of the cutest towns in America, I’m pretty sure).
Oh, and we had tourists.
They filled the shops and restaurants.They spilled out onto the streets and clogged sidewalks and intersections.They spent a lot of money, sure, and in their own weird way, they actually seemed to love Hastings Rock as much as the rest of us.One time I saw this little old man in Seattle gear kiss a seagull.(I’m not sure if that’s agreatexample, but you get the idea.) But theydidmake driving anywhere in town almost impossible.
