The Complete Stories - Flannery O'Connor [16]
He walked slowly, thinking what he was going to say in the shop and now and then stopping to look absently at a store window. Block’s Feed Company had a display of automatic chicken-killers—“So Timid Persons Can Kill Their Own Fowl” the sign over them read. Rayber wondered if many timid persons used them. As he neared the barber’s, he could see obliquely through the door the man with the executive assurance was sitting in the corner reading a newspaper. Rayber went in and hung up his hat.
“Howdy,” the barber said.” Ain’t this the hottest day in the year, though!”
“It’s hot enough,” Rayber said.
“Hunting season soon be over,” the barber commented.
All right, Rayber wanted to say, let’s get this thing going. He thought he would work into his argument from their remarks. The fat man hadn’t noticed him.
“You should have seen the covey this dog of mine flushed the other day,” the barber went on as Rayber got in the chair. “The birds spread once and we got four and they spread again and we got two. That ain’t bad.”
“Never hunted quail,” Rayber said hoarsely.
“There ain’t nothing like taking a nigger and a hound dog and a gun and going after quail,” the barber said. “You missed a lot out of life if you ain’t had that.”
Rayber cleared his throat and the barber went on working. The fat man in the corner turned a page. What do they think I came in here for? Rayber thought. They couldn’t have forgotten. He waited, hearing the noises flies make and the mumble of the men talking in the back. The fat man turned another page. Rayber could hear George’s broom slowly stroking the floor somewhere in the shop, then stop, then scrape, then “You er, still a Hawkson man?”
Rayber asked the barber.
“Yeah!” the barber laughed. “Yeah! You know I had forgot. You was gonna tell us why you are voting for Darrnon. Hey, Roy!” he yelled to the fat man, “come over here. We gonna hear why we should vote for Boy Blue.”
Roy grunted and turned another page. “Be there when I finish this piece,” he mumbled.
“What you got there, Joe?” one of the men in the back called, “one of them goodgovermint boys?”
“Yeah,” the barber said. “He’s gonna make a speech.”
“I’ve heard too many of that kind already,” the man said.
“You ain’t heard one by Rayber,” the barber said. “Rayber’s all right. He don’t know how to vote, but he’s all right.”
Rayber reddened. Two of the men strolled up. “This is no speech,” Rayber said. “I only want to discuss it with you—sanely.”
“Come on over here, Roy,” the barber yelled.
“What are you trying to make of this?” Rayber muttered; then he said suddenly, “If you’re calling everybody else, why don’t you call your boy, George. You afraid to have him listen?”
The barber looked at Rayber for a second without saying anything. Rayber felt as if he had made himself too much at home.
“He can hear,” the barber said. “He can hear back where he is.”
“I just thought he might be interested,” Rayber said.
“He can hear,” the barber repeated. “He can hear what he hears and he can hear two times that much. He can hear what you don’t say as well as what you do.”
Roy came over folding his newspaper. “Howdy, boy,” he said, putting his hand on Rayber’s head, “let’s get on with this speech.”
Rayber felt as if he were fighting his way out of a net. They were over him with their red faces grinning. He heard the words drag out—“Well, the way I see it, men elect…” He felt them pull out of his mouth like freight cars, jangling, backing up on each other, grating to a halt, sliding, clinching back, jarring, and then suddenly stopping as roughly as they had begun. It was over. Rayber was jarred that it was over so soon. For a second—as if they were expecting him to go on—no one said anything.
Then, “How many yawl gonna vote for Boy