Jerry Krajnak
All too rapidly approaching octogenarian status. Jerry Krajnak is a Vietnam veteran who later survived forty years in public school classrooms and earned degrees from UW Eau Claire, Wichita State, and Kansas University. He shares an old North Carolina mountain cabin with rescue animals and, when lucky, a grandchild or two. Recent work appears in numerous journals such as Eclectica, The Great Smokies Review, Book of Matches, and I-70 Review. A Pushcart nominee, he is shopping publishers for his first collection.
After My Senior Discount at Great Clips
Nature magazine in his hand,
my tender-hearted neighbor Erv
calls to me from his porch. A million!
he shouts. Red-legged frogs in Oregon,
all those deer and racoons right here.
Even goddamn alligators down South!
As I approach, he notes my puzzled look,
clarifies: All killed by cars when they just need
to get across the road. He continues on
about selfish people, always in a hurry,
highways built for them alone,
carving up God’s work with concrete.
He shakes his head, answers his phone,
passes the magazine to me.
Just an hour ago, cosmetologist Bev
and I had paused our own conversation
while she turned on the razor to shave my neck.
I watched a young purple-haired stylist
remove the sheet from a woman in her chair,
walk to the register, pocket her tip,
disappear to the break room before the doorbell rang.
Which left just Bev and me and an old man cutting
the hair of a fragile, even older woman.
Makes me feel young, I told Bev when she shut off the razor.
That’s Pete, she said. He’s eighty. We call him in
when we’re short-handed. I don’t know her
but think he does. I bet no tip for him today.
Pete powdered the lady, lowered her chair,
helped her stand. She placed a quivering hand
on his arm, let him escort her all the way to her car.
The bell rang again when he returned, frowning,
Bitch his only word as he swept up her hair.
The word shocked Bev and me into silence.
I paged through his magazine while Erv talked.
Learned about bridges over freeways,
underpasses for migrating turtles and panthers,
ways for God’s creatures to cross the road safely,
follow the instincts He gave them to migrate,
find food or a mate. That’s when my daughter
shouted from home, Dad, I’m late
and my damn car won’t start! I nodded to Erv
and headed across the drive, went inside
to toss her my keys, blow a kiss.
Finally get her old Honda running,
am washing its dents and between the rust spots
as Erv steps across the drive. Time for our walk.
I share my barbershop story with him.
He looks at me strangely, thinks he knows Pete
from Wildlife Fund committee work.
Doesn’t sound like him at all.
He pulls out his phone, makes a call.
Saddest damn thing, he says a bit later.
He remembers that woman. “Bitch” was not meant
for her, but her daughter who no longer will take her
for haircuts or shopping. Wants to put her away
in one of those places where someone else is in charge.
Grumbling together, we head out,
decide on the path beside the creek,
needing to hear its song today.
We talk about Erv’s magazine,
hear the distant rumble of the freeway,
imagine new tunnels for frogs and wild turkeys
and bridges built over Interstate 40
where bears and elk safely can cross in the night.
About places where children grow up safely,
where seniors thrive in their silver years.
I stumble over broken pavement,
but Erv has my back, stops my fall.
We curse the fractured infrastructure.
Then stop, reconsider our rash words,
turn silently toward our homes.
