A Piedmont Porchlight Story
There are certain things a person can depend upon in Piedmont, Alabama.
The sun will rise over Dugger Mountain.
The freight trains will come through town at the least convenient possible moment.
And Curtis Pope will open his barber shop at seven o’clock every morning, except Sundays, when he attends church and spends the afternoon criticizing the preacher’s haircut.
For more years than most folks could remember, Curtis had been standing behind one of the two barber chairs in his little shop across the tracks from the depot, cutting hair, trimming beards, and listening to enough foolishness to fill the Library of Congress twice over.
He’d cut the hair of three generations of some families.
He’d given little boys their first haircuts, young men their wedding-day trims, and old men their last respectable appearance before the undertaker took over.
He’d cut hair through wars, recessions, elections, tornado warnings, and the time Earl Ponder accidentally backed his pickup through the plate-glass window of Mr. Blackwelder’s hardware store.
And never once, in all those years, had Curtis failed to open his shop on a regular working morning without giving somebody an explanation.
Until Tuesday.
At precisely seven o’clock that Tuesday morning, Earl Ponder arrived at Curtis Pope’s Barber Shop.
He was carrying a newspaper, a paper sack containing two sausage biscuits, and a complaint about the government that he’d been saving since the previous evening.
Earl reached for the door.
Locked.
He frowned.
Tried again.
Still locked.
He stepped backward and looked through the window.
The lights were off.
The barber chairs were empty.
And taped to the inside of the glass was a handwritten sign.
CLOSED TODAY.
GONE FISHING.
DON’T ASK.
Earl read it.
Then read it again.
Then looked up and down the street.
“Well, I’ll be damned.”
Now, Earl was not opposed to fishing.
He’d been known to spend entire afternoons sitting beside Terrapin Creek with a pole in his hand, accomplishing absolutely nothing and describing the experience as productive.
But Curtis Pope did not fish.
At least, Earl had never seen, nor heard tell of him doing it.
And the idea that Curtis would simply close his shop on a Tuesday without warning was sufficiently disturbing that Earl felt compelled to investigate.
He walked across the tracks to Elevated Grounds.
Mabel Jane was sitting at the counter when Earl came in.
She was eating toast, drinking coffee, and explaining to Brandon why the church ought to replace its carpet before somebody caught a disease from it.
Earl dropped his newspaper onto the counter.
“Curtis is gone.”
Mabel Jane stopped chewing.
“Gone where?”
“Fishing.”
She stared.
“Curtis Pope?”
“That’s what the sign says.”
Mabel Jane set down her toast.
“On a Tuesday?”
“Yes.”
“Without telling anybody?”
“Apparently.”
She looked toward the window.
“Well, something’s wrong.”
Brandon, who was pouring coffee, glanced over.
“Maybe he just wanted to go fishing.”
Mabel Jane gave him a look ordinarily reserved for people who suggested serving store-bought potato salad at a church supper.
“Brandon, Curtis Pope hasn’t gone fishing since Eisenhower was president.”
Earl nodded.
“That’s what I thought.”
Brandon shrugged.
“Maybe he decided to start again.”
Mabel Jane shook her head.
“No. Something’s happened.”
“What?”
“I don’t know yet.”
And with that teaspoonful of words, the trouble began.
By eight o’clock, Mabel Jane had telephoned Beulah Mae.
By eight-fifteen, Beulah Mae had called Lorene.
By eight-thirty, Lorene had informed three women at the beauty shop that Curtis Pope had disappeared under suspicious circumstances.
By nine, somebody had added that his shop was locked, his car was missing, and there was a note on the door.
By nine-thirty, the note had become a farewell message.
And by ten o’clock, half the town believed Curtis Pope had suffered a nervous collapse.
The other half believed he’d run off with a woman from Anniston.
Nobody could explain who the woman was, or where she came from.
But once she entered the story, she proved remarkably difficult to remove.
Sheriff Lyle Booker was eating a ham sandwich in his office when the first call came.
It was Mabel Jane.
“Lyle, I think you ought to do something.”
“About what?”
“Curtis Pope.”
“What about him?”
“He’s missing.”
Lyle set down his sandwich.
“How long?”
“Since seven this morning.”
“Have you called him?”
“Yes.”
“Did he answer?”
“No.”
“Did you leave a message?”
“Of course.”
“What’d you say?”
“I told him everybody was worried sick and he needed to call somebody before we started dragging the creek.”
Lyle closed his eyes.
“Mabel Jane, has anybody checked his house?”
“Earl went by. Curtis’s car wasn’t there.”
“Well, he claims he’s fishin’.”
“That’s what the sign says.”
Lyle opened his eyes.
“There’s a sign?”
“Yes.”
“What does it say?”
“‘Gone fishing. Don’t ask.'”
The sheriff sat quietly for a moment.
Then said, “Mabel Jane, I do believe we’ve solved the case.”
She was not amused.
Meanwhile, Curtis Pope was sitting beside a little pond on his cousin’s property outside Jacksonville.
He wore an old straw hat.
His shoes were off.
His trousers were rolled up.
And a fishing pole rested loosely in his hands.
Beside him sat a small cooler containing sandwiches, lemonade, and two bottles of cold Dr Pepper.
He had not caught a fish.
He had not even seen a fish.
And he was having the finest Tuesday he’d enjoyed in at least forty years.
The morning was cool.
The trees were turning.
A breeze moved across the water.
Somewhere nearby, a mockingbird was conducting a one-sided argument with the rest of creation.
Curtis leaned back.
Closed his eyes.
And smiled.
“Lord, this is nice.”
His telephone buzzed.
He looked at it.
Mabel Jane.
He let it ring.
A moment later, it buzzed again.
Beulah Mae.
Then Lorene.
Then Earl.
Curtis studied the screen.
Fourteen missed calls.
He turned the telephone off.
And went back to fishing.
At eleven o’clock, Earl Ponder announced that he intended to find Curtis himself.
He recruited Mr. Blackwelder, who agreed to accompany him on the condition that Earl stop talking about the government.
They drove out toward Terrapin Creek.
Checked the usual fishing spots.
Stopped at the bait shop.
And questioned a man who was cleaning catfish beside his truck.
“Seen Curtis Pope?” Earl asked.
The man looked up.
“Who?”
“Barber. Little fellow. Gray hair. Talks a lot.”
The man considered this.
“That describes half the men in Calhoun County.”
Earl sighed.
Mr. Blackwelder folded his arms.
“He’s got a point.”
They drove on.
At noon, Earl called Elevated Grounds.
“No sign of him.”
Mabel Jane gasped.
“Lord have mercy.”
Brandon took the telephone.
“Earl, did you check his cousin’s place?”
There was a pause.
“What cousin?”
“The one outside Jacksonville. Curtis mentioned him last week.”
Earl frowned.
“Well, why didn’t you say something?”
Brandon looked at the telephone.
“Because nobody asked.”
By one o’clock, the rumors had become so elaborate that even the people spreading them were beginning to lose track.
Beulah Mae claimed Curtis had been seen purchasing a suitcase in Gadsden.
Lorene insisted he’d withdrawn all his money from the bank.
Mabel Jane had heard that he’d sold his barber chairs to a man from Birmingham.
And somebody at the pool hall announced that Curtis was joining a traveling gospel quartet.
This last rumor caused considerable excitement because Curtis Pope couldn’t carry a tune in a galvanized bucket.
Nevertheless, it was repeated enthusiastically.
At two o’clock, Sheriff Booker received another call.
This time from Earl.
“Lyle, I think we found him.”
The sheriff sighed.
“Where?”
“His cousin’s pond. Brandon gave us the address. We’re fixin’ to head out there.”
“Is he all right?”
“Far as I know.”
“Then what’s the problem?”
Earl hesitated.
“Well, he claims he’s fishing.”
Lyle looked at the ceiling.
“Earl, I’m going to say this once, and I want you to listen carefully.”
“All right.”
“Leave that man alone.”
Now, you might reasonably wonder why Curtis Pope had chosen this particular Tuesday to close his shop.
There was a reason.
A perfectly good reason.
And it had nothing to do with fishing.
At least, not entirely.
The previous Friday, Curtis had been cutting the hair of a young man named Tommy Wilkins.
Tommy was twenty-seven, worked at the Goodyear plant over in Gadsden, and had recently become the father of twin girls.
He’d been talking about how tired he was.
How he never had time to do anything.
How he couldn’t remember the last time he’d slept through the night.
Curtis listened.
Trimmed around his ears.
And finally said, “Son, you better enjoy them babies while you can.”
Tommy laughed.
“Enjoy ’em? Curtis, I ain’t slept more than four hours in six weeks.”
Curtis smiled.
“Well, they’ll grow up.”
“Not soon enough.”
“Yes, sir. They will.”
Tommy looked at him in the mirror.
“You got any children, Curtis?”
Curtis shook his head.
“No.”
“Well, then, you don’t know what it’s like.”
Curtis stopped cutting.
Not because Tommy had offended him.
He hadn’t.
The boy was tired.
Young.
And speaking without thinking, as young people sometimes do.
But something about the conversation stayed with Curtis.
That evening, he went home and sat on his porch.
He thought about the years.
About the people he’d known.
About the thousands of heads of hair he’d cut.
About the weddings he’d attended, the funerals he’d sat through, and the birthdays he’d forgotten because somebody needed a haircut before a job interview.
He thought about the little pond outside Jacksonville where his daddy used to take him fishing when he was a boy.
He hadn’t been there in years.
Not since before his father died.
And suddenly, he wanted to go.
Not next month.
Not when business slowed down.
Not after the holidays.
Tuesday.
He wanted to go Tuesday.
So, he called his cousin.
Borrowed a fishing pole.
Packed a lunch.
And wrote a sign.
CLOSED TODAY.
GONE FISHING.
DON’T ASK.
It was the last line that caused all the trouble.
At three o’clock, Earl Ponder and Mr. Blackwelder arrived at the pond.
Curtis heard the truck before he saw it.
He opened one eye.
Watched them climb out.
And sighed.
“Well, hell.”
Earl approached.
“Curtis!”
Curtis looked up.
“Earl.”
“You all right?”
“Was.”
Earl frowned.
“What?”
“I was all right until you got here.”
Mr. Blackwelder chuckled.
Earl looked offended.
“Curtis, the whole town’s worried about you.”
“Why?”
“Because you disappeared!”
Curtis looked down at his fishing pole.
Then at Earl.
“Earl, I left a sign.”
“That’s what started it!”
Curtis stared.
“Started what?”
“The rumors!”
“What rumors?”
Earl hesitated.
“Well…”
Curtis waited.
“Some folks thought you’d had a nervous breakdown.”
Curtis blinked.
“Because I went fishing?”
“Yes.”
Mr. Blackwelder leaned against the truck, stifling a chuckle.
“Somebody said you ran off with a woman from Anniston.”
Curtis turned toward him.
“A woman?”
“That’s what I heard.”
Curtis looked at Earl.
“Was she pretty?”
Earl frowned.
“What?”
“The woman. Was she pretty?”
Mr. Blackwelder burst out laughing.
Earl sighed.
“Curtis, this ain’t funny.”
Curtis grinned.
“Well, I reckon it depends on the woman.”
Earl sat down beside him.
Mr. Blackwelder remained standing.
For a while, the three men looked out over the pond.
Then Earl said, “You could’ve told somebody.”
Curtis nodded.
“Could’ve.”
“Why didn’t you?”
Curtis considered the question.
Then said, “Because I didn’t want nobody coming with me.”
Earl looked wounded.
“Well, that’s not very friendly.”
Curtis smiled.
“Earl, I’ve been friendly for sixty years.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“It means I’ve listened to everybody in Piedmont tell me about their troubles since before Kennedy was president.”
Earl nodded.
“So?”
“So today I wanted to listen to the birds.”
Mr. Blackwelder smiled.
Curtis continued.
“I wanted to sit here and watch the water. I wanted to eat a sandwich without somebody telling me what the mayor ought to do about parking. I wanted to drink a Dr Pepper without hearing about somebody’s gallbladder operation.”
Earl looked thoughtful.
Curtis leaned back.
“And I wanted to spend one whole day doing absolutely nothing without having to explain myself to anybody.”
Earl considered this.
Then said, “Well, why didn’t you just say so?”
Curtis stared at him.
Mr. Blackwelder laughed so hard he had to sit down.
They stayed another hour.
Not because Curtis invited them.
He didn’t.
But because Earl had brought a thermos of coffee and Mr. Blackwelder had found an empty bucket to sit on.
At first, Earl talked.
About the rumors.
About the sheriff.
About Mabel Jane.
About the woman from Anniston.
Curtis listened patiently.
Then, without looking at him, said, “Earl?”
“What?”
“Shut up.”
Earl stopped.
Mr. Blackwelder smiled.
The three men sat quietly.
The afternoon sunlight moved across the pond.
A dragonfly hovered above the water.
A fish broke the surface near the far bank.
And for the first time in years, Earl Ponder discovered that silence wasn’t nearly as uncomfortable as he’d always believed.
After a while, he leaned back.
Closed his eyes.
And said, “Well, I’ll be switched.”
Curtis smiled.
“What?”
“This is nice.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Real nice.”
Curtis nodded.
“That’s what I’ve been trying to tell you.”
The following morning, Curtis opened his barber shop at seven o’clock.
Earl was waiting.
So was Mabel Jane.
And Beulah Mae.
And Lorene.
And three men who didn’t need haircuts but had come to find out what happened.
Curtis unlocked the door.
Turned on the lights.
And hung up his hat.
Mabel Jane marched inside.
“Curtis Pope, you ought to be ashamed of yourself!”
He looked at her.
“Morning, Mabel Jane.”
“Do you know how worried everybody was?”
“Reckon I heard.”
“People thought you were dead!”
Curtis raised an eyebrow.
“Well, I ain’t.”
“They thought you’d run away!”
“Didn’t.”
“They thought you’d joined a gospel quartet!”
Curtis stopped.
Looked at her.
Then said, “Now, that’s just malicious.”
Earl laughed.
Curtis walked over to his barber chair.
Picked up his comb.
And smiled.
“Who’s first?”
Nobody moved.
Mabel Jane folded her arms.
“Curtis, I think you owe this town an explanation.”
Curtis considered that.
Then walked to the window.
Removed the old sign.
And taped up a new one.
It read:
CLOSED NEXT TUESDAY.
GONE FISHING AGAIN.
STILL DON’T ASK.
Now, I reckon there’s something to be said for a man who spends his life taking care of everybody else.
There’s also something to be said for knowing when to stop.
Not forever.
Not because you’ve quit caring.
But because sometimes the world gets so full of noise that a person forgets what his own thoughts sound like.
Curtis Pope had spent sixty years listening to Piedmont.
On one Tuesday afternoon, he decided to let Piedmont listen to itself.
And judging by the commotion, it didn’t particularly enjoy the experience.
But something good came of it.
The following Tuesday, Curtis returned to the pond.
And this time, Earl Ponder came along.
Mr. Blackwelder, too.
They brought sandwiches.
Cold drinks.
And three fishing poles.
They sat beside the water all afternoon.
Nobody caught anything.
Nobody complained.
And nobody mentioned the government.
Well, almost nobody.
At one point, Earl opened his mouth.
Curtis looked at him.
Earl closed it.
And the three men went back to fishing.
Now, I don’t know whether Curtis ever caught a fish.
And I don’t know whether Mabel Jane ever forgave him for causing what she described as “the most unnecessary emotional disturbance in the history of Calhoun County.”
But I do know that every Tuesday afterward, Curtis Pope’s Barber Shop remained closed.
And beneath the sign announcing his absence, he added one final line.
IF YOU NEED A HAIRCUT, COME BACK TOMORROW.
IF YOU NEED PEACE AND QUIET, FIND YOUR OWN POND.
Because sometimes, the most important appointment a person can keep is the one he makes with himself.
And sometimes, the finest thing a man can do for the whole town is give it one blessed day without him.
Especially if that town is Piedmont.
And especially if his name is Curtis Pope.
