Paper Tiger (Short Story‪)‬

Troy Dent returned to Goodwater one cool Sunday night while everybody was at church. The shiny red Eldorado cruised up the hill into town. With the top down, Dent's blond pompadour stood firm against the chilly breeze flopping the upturned collar of his suede jacket. He parked slantwise in front of the movie house, got out, and leaned back against the door of the car, one boot crossed over the other. He rolled a tight cigarette, licked it, twisted the ends, and then chinked open a lighter and spit out a few flakes, pinching the tip as the paper singed. He squinted up through the fog of breath and tobacco at the clear night sky, the sharp stars, and the waning moon. Everything was just as he had left it. Woodsmoke lingered on the crisp night air. Second Avenue was empty. The businesses lining both sides of the wide road had been closed since five o'clock the day before. The fiat brick storefronts lay hidden beneath the shadowy covered sidewalk. Dent drew a comb out of his back jeans' pocket, a habit he was still struggling to give up now that his elbow tingled and ached any time he lifted his pitching arm above his chest. He bent to the side, leaning his head over till his left ear rested on his shoulder, and then reached across the top of his head to comb the other side. Across the street at Mr. Haywood's Barber Shop, the same sign hung in the window, the writing nearly illegible in the soft glow of the streetlight: "Trims and Flat-Tops ONLY," and under that, "NO COLORED."