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Lundy Man
By Jay Wexler
___________________
My name is Jackson Dunbar.
My revelation came in the summer of my twenty-first year, in the living room of
a rundown apartment in Cleveland where I was living with several housemates,
some of whom were my friends. One of my housemates was a man I will call
Rudolph. Rudolph wore his hair slicked back with Vaseline or some other
oily ointment. He was friendly and had dynamite vision. He could read
signs from very, very far away. Farther away than any of the rest of us. He
had the best vision of anybody in the house that summer, without any doubt.
I was lying on the living room rug, basking in the late afternoon sunshine that
was beaming through the front window. Rudolph was sitting on the
couch reading a magazine. I do not remember what magazine he was reading. It
could have been Redbook. Also in
the living room were: Diane, Marty, and Castillo. Diane and Castillo were
my friends. Marty was not, and for good reason, but it's not really
necessary at this point to explain why we were not friends.
"I've made up my mind," Rudolph blurted out, slapping the magazine
down against the frayed reddish fabric of the couch. "I'm going to
wear my hair just like Jackson this summer. Parted in the middle and long
in back. That's what I'm going to do. And nobody can stop me."
Guffaws all around.
"That's so sweet," said Castillo.
"That is so wicked," said Marty, who was from the Boston suburbs.
"Then it is settled," said Rudolph. "Parted in the middle
and long in back."
I looked around the room with some confusion. I touched my hair. I
realized that I was being made fun of, but I didn't understand why. I had
been wearing my hair like this my entire life. Why was I being mocked? I
wondered. Why were they laughing at me?
"Are you guys making fun of me?" I asked.
"No, your hair is great," Rudolph said. "It's a great joke
that you wear it that way."
"What joke?" I responded. "I'm not trying to make a joke. I've
worn my hair this way my entire life."
"You mean you don't do it on purpose? You're not trying to look that
that, are you?"
"Oh crap," I said, realizing suddenly that I had been a laughing stock
because of my hair for my whole entire life. I knew I was ugly-everyone
told me so-but I had no inkling, not until now, that it was because of my
hairdo. "You mean this is not a good way to wear hair?"
"Well, look around," said Rudolph. "Do you see anyone else
with their hair parted in the middle and long in back?"
"No."
"Do you see how everybody has their hair parted on one side and short in
the back?"
"Yes."
"Then do you now understand that you wear your hair in a ridiculous manner,
which would be OK if you were making a joke but not OK if you are not intending
to make a joke?"
"I guess I do."
"Then what are you going to do about it?"
"I'm not sure. I guess I better go right away and get a haircut. A
new style."
"I don't know if that will be sufficient."
"Then what should I do?"
"You may just have to pay a visit to Lundy Man, the man who controls all of
the hairdos in the Midwest."
"Oh no, not Lundy Man!" I screeched.
"Oh yes," said Rudolph.
***
I had heard stories of Lundy Man-everybody had-but like with all mythical and
obscure figures, the details surrounding his existence and purpose were shadowy
at best. According to the rumors, he had been a haircutting prodigy like no
other in the history of haircutting. It is said that he performed his first
Mohawk at the age of two, his first perm at four-and-a-half. He had
graduated from the Cleveland Academy of Haircutting at the age of six with the
highest grades in the history of the Academy, and he twice won the haircutting
nationals before the age of ten. He opened up a world-wide chain of hair
salons when he was eleven, and customers would flock to watch him cut hair in
New York, in Paris, in Milan.
Money came in hand over fist, and Lundy Man
bought a large house and several Porsches, even though he was not yet old enough
to obtain a driver's license or tall enough to see over the dashboard. For
several years, Lundy Man enjoyed abundant success-success theretofore unheard of
in the field of haircutting. One day, though, Lundy Man suddenly
disappeared. Gone, goodbye, poof.
Some say he forgot how to cut hair, got a sex
change operation, and now works the boulevards in La Jolla, California. Others
say he has been working for the last ten years trying in solitude to develop the
perfect hair style. And still others, including Rudolph, believe that he
lives in a cave somewhere near Cleveland and from that cave exerts his magical
powers to control all of the hairdos in the Midwest. It was Rudolph's
theory that I had to go visit Lundy Man and ask him to help me get a better
hairdo. I didn't have any better ideas, so I agreed to go. Rudolph
provided me with a map of where he believed Lundy Man lived. I packed my
bags.
***
"Are you sure about this, Rudolph?" I asked, on the day of my
departure. "Shouldn't I be worried?"
"What is there to worry about?"
"Well, what is there not to worry
about?" I responded.
"Good point," said Rudolph, pushing me out the door.
I consulted my map and compass, and although I am not much for orienteering, I
was able to find the mouth of Lundy's cave after only a week of excruciatingly
painful hiking through bramble bush and other uncomfortable terrain. I
suppose the going would have been easier had I worn shoes, but Rudolph told me
that the one who truly seeks the one who controls all the hairdos in the Midwest
walks without shoes. Also, the night before I left Rudolph took my shoes
out of my closet, and hid them, and wouldn't tell me where to find them.
The cave itself was a rocky cave, and also a scary cave. It looked
dark inside, and I admit that at first I was afraid to enter the cave. I
thought to myself: Why the hell am I going into a cave to seek the one who
controls all the hairdos in the Midwest? But then I happened to look at my
reflection in a puddle of stagnant water that had collected in a small crevice
between the rocks on the outcrops of the cave, and I thought to myself: I look
like a jackass! And so I entered the cave.
Although Rudolph had given me the map to find the cave itself, he had provided
little helpful information regarding how to find Lundy Man once I entered the
cave. For this I was basically on my own, so I looked for clues, but I
didn't really know what to look for. I didn't know anything about Lundy
Man, like what clothes he wore or what kinds of hobbies he had, so it was hard
to know what kinds of clues there might have been on the floor and walls of the
cave. I looked anyway, just in case, but I didn't find a thing. Nothing,
that is, until I met up with the Noodle Whore.
When first I set eyes on the woman who I would soon learn was the Noodle Whore,
I saw a woman like many other women-nice, lovely, with an egg-shaped face and a
knee-length dark red wool skirt. To complement the skirt she wore a pink
turtleneck and complementary shoes, without bows or ribbons of any kind. In
her ears she wore earrings made of a stone that looked like emeralds, except
that they were clearly fake, and in her hair she wore a purple flower made of
silk that, frankly, clashed with her earrings. In fact, this was the first
thought I had when I saw the Noodle Whore, and instinctively I wondered whether
she was in the cave to consult with Lundy Man as well, assuming, on a
subconscious or preconscious level, of course, that the one who controls all the
hairdos in the Midwest might, as an incident to that greater power, have at
least some control, however abbreviated, over all of the hair-related
accessories in the Midwest as well, or at least in some geographical subset of
the Midwest.
I was taken by the Noodle Whore, I would have to admit, but I also knew that it
was important to keep hold of my senses. I was in the cave on a mission,
and I had to stay focused on the goal at hand. My hair had made me a
laughing stock throughout at least ten Midwestern states. I couldn't let
the Noodle Whore divert me from my overwhelmingly important task.
Yet, on the other hand, this fox was hot to trot! She was a real looker, a
tall glass of water, with thighs up to here, if you know what I mean, hubba
hubba, and I think you do.
"Hello," I said.
"I am the Noodle Whore," she answered, hiking her knee-length red wool
skirt up just a notch with both hands to reveal a couple of knobby, yet
delicious, kneecaps. "I put out for noodles of all shapes, sizes, and
types. If you happen to have a bag of soba, you might just get lucky
tonight, big boy."
"Big boy?"
"For a box of ramen, I'll give you a hummer like you wouldn't
believe."
"Hold on there one minute," I commanded. Now, I'm no prude. I've
had my fill of low class call-girls, hookers, and other sundry ladies of the
night, not even counting my Aunt Gloria, but this was just too much to handle
all at once. I said: "My name is Jackson Dunbar, and I have come
to this cave in search of Lundy Man, the one who controls all the hairdos in the
Midwest, or so they say. What did you say your name was?"
"I am Lundy Man!" she exclaimed, swinging her hands up into the air
like a maniac.
"You are?" I asked, astonished that Lundy Man might in fact be a
woman, and, for that matter, a woman who had previously referred to herself as
the "Noodle Whore."
"No of course not you asshead," she replied, resting her hands back on
her shapely hips. "Do I look like a man to you? Now, hand
over some udon, and pronto. I'm freaking hungry as shit, and you clearly
haven't gotten any in months."
"Hey," I said, my feelings hurt. "How do you know
about my recent drought in the sack?"
"Oh, come on. Look at that hairdo. Are you a circus side show
freak or what?" Then she hiked up her skirt once more, a little
higher this time, so I could see just a little creamy thigh. "Now, you
got any Pad Thai?"
We went on like that for a while, too long probably, me trying to figure out who
this woman really was, she trying to get me to cough up some long, stringy,
doughy substances in return for sexual favors. After a while, though, it
became clear to us that we had reached a standstill. I simply had no
noodles. Had I possessed any noodles, I explained, I surely would have
given them to her, perhaps not even demanding anything more than a light backrub
in return. But noodles I did not have, nor was there any possibility of
manufacturing any noodles in this clammy cave.
I explained all this to her, but she was unsatisfied. She wanted noodles,
and she wasn't going to let up until she got some.
And that's when I came up with my brilliant idea. "Maybe,"
I said to her, "Lundy Man has some noodles."
Her eyes brightened. "Do you think?"
"I don't see why not," I answered. "I mean, he's got
to eat, doesn't he? And if he has to eat, perhaps he eats noodles. And
if he eats noodles, then he probably has noodles. Unless he gets his
food delivered to him on a daily basis or something, so that he doesn't store
any food, in which case he probably wouldn't have any noodles. But that
seems unlikely, given that he lives in a cave that most likely isn't served by
Peapod or any of the other major food delivery services. And, moreover,
even if he doesn't eat noodles, he still might know where we could get some, or
perhaps he has a friend who has a bag of noodles, or a box of noodles, or a
pouch . . ."
"Oh for god's sake please shut the fuck up already!" interrupted the
Noodle Whore. "You're giving me a migraine." Then she
took my hand in hers, and we headed off all pie in the sky to find the man they
called Lundy Man.
We walked for what felt like hours, hand in
hand, skipping and humming and occasionally talking about what it means to
"be alive," but we had come no closer, it seemed, to finding Lundy
Man. At the Noodle Whore's insistence, we sat down on a smooth, broad rock
to take a break.
"NOW GIVE ME SOME NOODLES!" she suddenly screeched, pinching my nose
tightly between her fingers and twisting.
"I hab do doodles," I muttered.
***
Well, it took us a couple of days, during which we almost met our death several
times, but we finally found Lundy Man. Funny thing, though, he didn't
really seem like any kind of prodigy. In fact, he seemed kind of like a
halfwit. When we found him, he was wandering around a claustrophobic, unlit
chamber talking to himself about crustaceans.
"My favorite crustacean is the Spiny Pacific Lobster. No, no, that's
not right. My favorite crustacean is the North American Anemone Crab. Well,
that is also not quite accurate. In fact, my favorite crustacean is the
Caribbean Rock Boring Sea Urchin, which isn't even a crustacean at all."
"Excuse me, sir," I interrupted. "Are you the man they call
Lundy Man?" I asked this out of politeness only. I knew he was
Lundy Man. He was wearing a pair of greasy mechanic's overalls with a
badge on it that said "Lundy Man" in ornate red embroidered script.
"Huh? What? Who? What the crap?"
Lundy Man sputtered, spinning around in place and putting his hands on top of
his head to keep his balance. Lundy Man was a small man, with kind of a
plump, gerbil-like face and fat little hands that looked like blocks of pork
tenderloin.
"Hello there. Are you Lundy Man?" I repeated.
"Yeah, who wants to know?" Lundy Man barked, clearly irritated by the
interruption.
"I am Jackson Dunbar," I answered. "And this is my friend
the Noodle Whore."
"I put out for noodles," added the Noodle Whore.
Lundy Man looked at us quizzically. He took his meaty little hands down
from his head and let them rest at his sides. Then he brought his hands up
and placed them back on his head. Then he spun around two times.
"And what do you want?" he grunted.
I had prepared my speech for this moment long ago. "Well, as I said,
my name is Jackson Dunbar, and I have a terrible hairdo. As you can see
from my head, I have a butthead style hairdo that is parted decisively in the
middle of my head. Moreover, my hair in the back is long instead of short,
as is the prevailing fashion. I have been told that you have the power to
control all the hairdos in the Midwest, and so I have come on a pilgrimage all
the way from Cleveland, Ohio, barefoot through this dangerous underground
cave filled with bats, to seek your expert counsel on how I might go about
fixing my awful do."
"And I want some noodles," added the Noodle Whore.
Lundy Man seemed unimpressed, even a little angry, and for a second there I
thought he was going to lurch forward and bite me. But then suddenly his
frown turned upside down, as they say, and his eyes lit up with some sort of
pleasurable notion. Transformed, Lundy Man said, "Perhaps there is
something you can help me with."
"Oh, sure," I said, "if we can help you with something in return
for helping us with our problems, we would be happy to be of assistance."
Lundy Man nodded his head vigorously in approval, which was a little weird
because his hands were still atop his head. "I've been looking for my
1976 Kansas City Royals team picture now for months," he said. "You
know, the one with George Brett and Freddy Patek on it? Anyway, I had it,
but now I can't seem to find it anywhere in here. Do you think you two
could help me locate this team picture?"
Well, me and the Noodle Whore agreed that this request was pretty fucked up, but
what could we do? We had tramped through this hellish cave for days to find
this funny little creature, and now that we had him, we figured we could go
along with this quirky little game, at least for a little while, if it would
help us achieve our ultimate objectives.
"Yeah, uhh, sure, we could help," the near-starving Noodle Whore
answered. "But once we're done, you'll help us with our problems,
right?"
Lundy Man squinted at us. "Your problems? What problems? Oh,
yeah, your problems. Umm, yeah, sure, right, whatever. Your problems. Spiny
Lobster!" he exclaimed. "Now lets get started looking for this
1976 team picture, shall we?"
Lundy Man led us into a nearby room in which he thought we might find the 1976
Kansas City Royals team picture. The room was even more
claustrophobia-inducing in its tiny-ness than the first room. Its low roof
sat only inches from the top of my head, and its rocky floor sprouted either
stalactites or stalagmites like dandelions on an untended suburban lawn. The
room was ridiculously cluttered with just about anything you could
imagine-papers, telephones, old squashes, paper bags, Bunsen Burners, riboflavin
tablets, French poetry anthologies, diamonds, marbles, statues of Eliot Gould,
stuffed marsupials of all kinds-you name it, you could find it in this room. Walking
was nearly impossible; the smell was overpowering. The Noodle Whore and I
looked at each other in disbelief. Was Lundy Man really serious about this
endeavor?
"Are you serious about this endeavor?" asked the Noodle Whore of Lundy
Man, who had shuffled ahead of us into the room and plunged head first into a
pile of stuffed kangaroos.
Lundy Man swiveled on his ballet slipper clad feet and glared in the Noodle
Whore's direction. "Do I look like I'm joking?" he asked. "Now
if you could get to work, I might be able to catch a shower before
daybreak." And with this curious thought, Lundy Man turned back to the
pile of stuffed animals and resumed his energetic search for the elusive team
picture.
For the Noodle Whore, this was an inadequate explanation. "OK, this is
bullshit," she said, pulling a very large gun out of the waistband of her
skirt and pointing it at the odd little man with the meaty hands. "We're
going to the supermarket for some noodles, Buster, and pronto."
Lundy Man turned back to face us. He was surprised I think by the sight of
the gun pointing at his head, but not really angry or scared in any way. "Can
I get my jacket?" he asked.
***
Four hours later the three of us were at the entrance of a Safeway Supermarket
on the outskirts of Cleveland. The Safeway had been quite a way from the
cave, but luckily one of Lundy Man's Porsches still worked, and so with a little
lead-footed driving on Lundy Man's part we had made the drive in exceptionally
good time. Together we got out of the car and approached the automatic door
to the supermarket. The Noodle Whore continued to brandish the gun to make
it clear that Lundy Man was under her control. What the hell I was still
doing there I had no idea. But I have to say that during the trip, probably
somewhere about halfway during our tripartite rendition of "A Thousand
Bottles of Beer on the Wall," I realized that I was falling in love with
the sweet, sweet Noodle Whore.
"Should I get us a cart?" I asked.
"There's no time," said the Noodle Whore. She poked the gun into
Lundy Man's back and forced him through the door. "OK, Lundy Man, you
have a choice. Since you've got the money, and I have no money, you can
either give me the money so I can buy six boxes of assorted noodles, or else you
can buy the noodles and then give them to me in return for sex. So, what's
it gonna be?"
Lundy Man appeared confused. What kind of choice is this, his face
seemed to ask. "Umm, I guess I'll take the sex?" he said.
"Good. Fine. The noodles are in aisle five. Get me a
variety, and be quick about it," the Noodle Whore said. "I'll be
in aisle three, looking for appropriate sauces."
Lundy Man and I made our way to aisle five and headed in search of six boxes of
assorted noodles. When we arrived there, I asked him again about my hair. "Umm,
hey, Lundy Man, do you think that after this whole noodle thing is over, you
could maybe fix up my hairdo? It's really bothering me and keeping me back
socially and such."
Lundy Man fixed his gaze upon my head, looking seriously at my butthead do for
the first time, studying it intently like a first year med student trying to
diagnose his first cadaver. "Yeah, you look really fucking
stupid," he finally said.
This I already knew. "Do you think you could do something?" I
asked. "Anything at all?"
"Well, I'd need a turnip and a rutabaga for the spell I would use," he
answered, "but if you can find those items somewhere in this supermarket,
I'd be happy to help you out."
A spell. So that's how he did it. "I'll meet you at the
register," I squawked, shooting off in search of the tuber aisle before he
could finish the sentence.
A rutabaga in my left hand, a turnip in my right, I met up with the Noodle Whore
and Lundy Man at the express register at the front of the store. I handed
my rutabaga and my turnip to Lundy Man. "Will these do?" I asked.
Lundy Man looked over the rutabaga and the turnip. He appeared pleased. "These
are terrific tubers," he said. "They will do just fine."
***
Three hours later we were back in the cave. I had offered to put everyone
up in my apartment, but the other two weren't so keen on the idea after I told
them I couldn't guarantee that Marty, who I don't like for reasons that are not
presently important, wouldn't be in the living room playing his stupid Nintendo
until two in the morning or shooting off bottle rockets while sitting on the
toilet, or otherwise acting like a total fuckup.
"Well," said the Noodle Whore, taking off her turtleneck. "I
guess it's time to exchange noodles for sex."
"Marvelous," said Lundy Man. "Shall I put on my
bathrobe?"
It was at this moment that I first realized how uncomfortable I felt with the
idea of Lundy Man having sexual intercourse with the Noodle Whore. I guess my
unease had been in the back of my mind the entire time, but now the image of an
engorged Lundy Man in a terry cloth bathrobe had brought my feelings to the
forefront. "Hey, guys," I said, as Lundy Man removed his ballet
slippers. "I'm not really comfortable with this arrangement. I
don't want you two to have sexual intercourse."
"What?" exclaimed the Noodle Whore. "Why not?"
"Hey," squeaked Lundy Man, lowering his overalls, "do you guys
like my boxer shorts? They're genuine broadcloth, which I purchased
through the J. Crew catalog!"
"Because I think I love you," I said to the Noodle Whore.
"I got them two for one, as part of a President's Day sale back in
1998," added Lundy Man.
"Do you feel the same way about me?" I asked the Noodle Whore.
"Oh, Jackson," she sighed, touching me gently on the shoulder. "I
care about you very much. You know that. You're warm, and generous,
and kind. You are so smart, and you have such a great sense of humor. But
as things stand now, we can never be together as anything more than friends, I'm
afraid."
"Why is that?" I asked.
"Well, come on," she said. "Just look at yourself! You're
ugly as hell. Have you looked at your hair in the mirror lately? That
butthead! Jesus Christ! I'm sorry, but I could never be physically
attracted to somebody as scary looking as you. It's like you came out of a
monster movie or something. Are you kidding me?"
This hurt. I mean, it's not like I hadn't heard the "out of a
monster movie" speech a thousand times before, but this was so much worse. Lost
love, and all because of a hair style. But what could I do? I couldn't
stand the idea of Lundy Man defiling the woman I loved, even if she despised the
way I looked. "Well, I don't care," I said, raising my voice
several decibels. "You two are not having sex. Lundy Man, you
just hand over those noodles and forget about having intercourse with the Noodle
Whore." I stepped in between the two of them and tried to strike a
threatening pose to make it clear to Lundy Man that I wasn't going to let this
travesty take place.
Lundy Man cackled. "Get out my way, ugly boy," he said, pushing
his way forward.
"I'm serious, Lundy Man!" I replied, placing my hands on his naked
shoulders and pressing him back.
"Hey, hands off the shoulders, you monster," he said, poking me in the
belly. "Look, here's the deal. You can stop me from having sex
with the Noodle Whore if you want, but then I'm not going to fix your hairdo. Do
you want to spend the rest of your life looking like Godzilla, or would you
prefer to look like a normal human being? Perhaps after the spell has taken
care of your do, the Noodle Whore might even be attracted to you, and you can
live happily ever after. So, what do you think?"
And thus Lundy Man had posed the ultimate dilemma. I could either stop Lundy Man
from having sex with the Noodle Whore, in which case I would remain ugly for the
rest of my life, or I could let the disgusting little troll have his way with
the Noodle Whore in hopes that he would then turn me into a normal looking man
that might ultimately have a chance with the Noodle Whore. What to do? The
vision of Lundy Man's squirming little body on top of the Noodle Whore sickened
me horribly, but even worse was the idea of never having her myself. The
dilemma was really no dilemma at all.
I backed up. "Fine. Have sex with the Noodle Whore, see what I
care."
"All right!" exclaimed Lundy Man, lowering his shorts and waving his
penis around like an American flag at a Fourth of July parade. "It's Lundy
Man time!"
***
Well, that all happened a long time ago, and you might be able to guess what
happened next. I got my better hairdo, that's true, and it's served me
pretty well all these years. For example, people don't say "oh shit
look at that!" when they first meet me any more. And it's true that
the Noodle Whore did think I looked better after Lundy Man cast his spell over
me. But I wasn't able to capture her heart. Why? Because Lundy
Man had captured it first. I should have known it. Turns out he was a
prodigy at more things than just hairdos, if you know what I mean, and I think
you do. Apparently he was "Don Juan" and "Ron Jeremy"
all rolled up into one. As she put it, she "fell for him upon
penetration." How could I compete with that?
So now, I'm a mid-level manager at a paper goods manufacturing company outside
Toledo. Life is all right; I have pretty good organizational skills and a
decent understanding of employee benefit issues, so I'm not too worried about
getting laid off as a result of the recent economic downturn. The Noodle
Whore and I exchange an email from time to time, and of course I can keep track
of Lundy Man's successes just by watching the evening news programs. The
Noodle Whore tells me that things aren't all perfect. I guess they are
having some problems with the foundation in the heart shaped pool in one of
their vacation villas in Italy. But it seems like she's pretty happy all in
all. Italy, of course, is lousy with noodles, and I don't think she needs
anything much more than that. As I told my third wife the other day when we
were driving back from the juvenile facility where our son lives, "if
you're someone who yearns for a daily dose of noodles, then the key to life is
finding someone magical who can provide those noodles." My wife,
bless her heart, had no idea what I was talking about.
____________________
Jay Wexler is an assistant treasurer in the
Richmond office of the Daughters of the Revolution and in his spare time plays
defensive tackle for the Philadelphia Eagles. He has a website detailing
all this and more at www.jaywex.com.
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