One Fifth Avenue

The proprietor, Peter, had been giving Philip the same haircut for years and was nearly finished, but Philip was trying to kill time. Peter had recently recovered from cancer and had begun to work out at a gym every day, so they talked about his routine. Then they talked about Peter’s house upstate in the Catskills. Then they talked about how the neighborhood was changing. Philip was dreading the set visit and the impending meeting of his former love and his current lover. There was a bald difference between “love” and “lover,” the first being legitimate and honorable, the second being temporary and even, he thought, when it came to Lola, slightly embarrassing.

This unpleasant reality had come to light during the dinner with the Yugoslavian director. The director, who happened to have won two Academy Awards, was an elderly man who drooled, and whose Russian wife, dressed in gold Dolce & Gabbana (and twenty years younger, about the same difference in age, Philip guessed, as he and Lola), had had to feed him his soup. The director was a curmudgeon, and his wife was ridiculous, but still, the man was a legend, and despite his age (which couldn’t be helped) and his silly wife, Philip had the utmost respect for him and had been looking forward to the dinner for months.

Lola, intentionally or not, was on her worst behavior. During a long discourse during which the director explained his next project (a movie about an obscure civil war in Yugoslavia in the thirties), Lola had attended to her iPhone, sending texts and even taking a call from one of her girlfriends in Atlanta. “Put it away,” Philip had hissed at her. She gave him a hurt look, signaled to the waiter, and asked for a Jell-O shot, explaining to the table that she didn’t drink wine, as it was for old people. “Stop it, Lola,” he said. “You do drink wine. You’ll have what everyone else is having.” “I don’t drink red wine,” she pointed out. “Besid

es, I need something strong to get through this dinner.” She’d asked the director if he’d ever worked on any popular movies. “Popular?” he’d asked, startled. “Vat is zat?”

“You know,” Lola said. “Movies for regular people.”

“Vat is regular people?” the director asked, insulted. “I think my tastes are too sophisticated for a young lady such as yourself.”

The old man hadn’t meant to be insulting, but it had come out that way. And Lola took the bait.

“What’s that mean?” she’d said. “I thought art was for the people. If the people can’t understand it, what’s the point?”

“This is zee problem with America,” the director said. He’d lifted his glass of wine to his mouth, his hand shaking so violently he spilled half the glass. “Too much democracy,” he exclaimed. “It’s zee death of art.”

For the rest of the evening, everyone ignored Lola.

In the taxi on the way back to One Fifth, Lola was fuming, staring out the window and playing with her hair.

“What’s wrong now?” Philip had asked.

“No one paid any attention to me.”

“What are you talking about?” he said.

“I was ignored, Philip. Why should I be there if I’m going to be ignored?”

“You wouldn’t have been ignored if you hadn’t made that stupid remark about his films.”

“He’s an insignificant old man. Who cares about him and his movies? Oh, excuse me,” she added with vehemence, “his films.”

“He’s a genius, Lola. He’s allowed his idiosyncracies. And he’s earned his respect. You need to learn to honor that.”

“Are you criticizing me?” she said warningly.

“I’m pointing out that you could stand to learn a thing or two about life.”

“Listen, Philip,” she’d said. “In case you haven’t figured it out, I don’t put anybody above me. I don’t care what they’ve accomplished. I’m as good as anyone. Even if they have won two Academy Awards. Do you really think that makes a person better than other people?”

“Yes, Lola, I do,” he said.

They went into the building in stony silence. It was yet another spat that ended in sex. She seemed to have a sixth sense about when he might be angry with her, and she always managed to divert his attention with some new sexual trick. That evening, she came out of the bathroom in crotchless panties, showing off the Brazilian wax she’d had that afternoon, as a “special treat” for him. He was helpless in the face of such sexual temptation, and the next morning, they went on as before.

Now, as he shook his head about Lola while the stylist brushed the clipped hair from his shoulders, who should walk by the plate-glass window but James Gooch. Was Philip always going to run into James Gooch now, too? he wondered. How had this happened? They’d lived in the same building for years and had managed to coexist peacefully, without the acknowledgment of each other’s presence, and all of a sudden, ever since that afternoon at Paul Smith, he ran into James nearly every other day. He did not wish to increase his acquaintance with James, but it was probably inevitable, as James struck him as one of those men who, knowing he is not wanted, only becomes more insistent on pushing his way in. Sure enough, James spotted him through the selection of wigs in the shop window and, with a look of surprise, came into the salon.

“How are you?” he asked eagerly.

Philip nodded, trying not to speak. If he spoke, it was all over.

“I didn’t know they cut men’s hair here,” James said, taking in the purple velvet chairs and the fringed wall hangings.

“Been doing it forever,” Philip murmured.

“It’s so close to the building. Maybe I should start coming here. I still go to a guy on the Upper West Side.”

Philip politely inclined his head.