Harold stood proudly in front of the mirror. Carefully combing several strands of hair from one side of his head to the other. A futile attempt the hide his shinny, pale noggin. He was as bald as a cue-ball, but in his own, time warped head he was beautiful. No he was more than beautiful, he was a stud.
He made a quick inspection of the small black comb to be sure that none of his precious locks had been sent down the proverbial drain.
"Damn, I'm fine," he thought.
Harold winked at himself and flashed his fifty-cent smile before proceeding cautiously out of the bathroom. He checked down the hall. All clear.
The soles of his white dress shoes barely touched the green shag carpet as he hurried down the hall. He almost touched the front door knob before the shrill stopped him dead in his tracks.
"Harold?"
That voice... It sent quivers of pain straight down his back, his butt clenched, his knees locked up and there was a strange itch on his big toe.
"The witch," he thought. "No, not the witch, she will not ruin this for me."
"Yes, dear," Harold answered with a hint of a squeak in his voice.
"You're, not going out are you?"
God, that voice. It was like dragging a shovel across the pavement; annoying at first, but after a few minutes it just plain pissed you off.
"Well, uh. I was supposed to, uh, go golfing with the, uh, fellas."
"Today?" The voice echoed through the house. It seemed to come from nowhere and everywhere at the same time.
The thought of just saying "yeah, see ya," and bolting quickly out the door passed briefly through Harold's mind. But the itch on his big toe was getting worse. Tiny beads of sweat started to form on his head.
"It's, uh, Monday, Hon. We play every Monday."
"I thought you were going to take me to the store."
"Every flippin' Monday, it's the same thing! Are you trying to kill me?" He would have loved to say those words. Instead he always said; "Can't we do it when I get back?"
"You know I hate to go the store after six."
Where the hell was that shrill coming from? It was as though the walls were sonic amplifiers. Reverberating the raspy shriek into a 120 decibel car alarm with Harold's unprotected ears taking a beating.
A bead of sweat rolled slowly down his forehead, pausing briefly on the bridge of his nose before gaining speed and shooting of the end of his shnoz. It floated through the air for a moment and then splattered on the yellow linoleum.
One day he would stand up to the witch. He would swipe the sweat on his sleeve, thrust out his chest and declare to the world, "I am going golfing right now and that's the way it is!!"
The thought passed through his gray matter over and over. Could he finally stand up to her? Could he take on the witch? Could he win?
He knew that he couldn't win. He hadn't won once in twenty-nine years five months and thirteen days. The witch was powerful. She had her curses down better than a pregnant mother with a craving for pickles. No he could not win. Even if he just took off and went golfing he would lose in the end.
It was the thought of delaying the defeat, the thrill of getting in a round before being confined to the arm chair with the witch taking over the remote control. God, he hated when she took the remote. It really made the big toe itch.
"Uh, Hon? I really want to go, uh, golfing."
"Fine, go then."
Could it be? Was she giving him permission? Something was amiss, but what?
The voice. There was something in the tone. The shrill was still there, the tightening of his butt muscles confirmed that. No, it was as though something were missing.
An etcetera. That's what it was. There was more to it. Then it came.
"Just leave me here and go. But don't expect your dinner to be ready when you come back."
Was that all? Dinner? That was no loss. Monday was meatloaf night, and if there was one thing that Harold hated more that the voice, it was the meatloaf. It was a cruel cross between burnt straw and dry dirt with a hint of stale grass.
Harold was free. He could golf. The club in his hand would feel good. Grip it and rip it.
"And Don't expect me the be here either!!"
Oh, dear Lord. She had reared back and kicked him hard in shins and still he could not see the witch. The sweat began to flow like a shower. She used the biggy. The ultimate threat. The low blow that questioned his manhood.
Harold's face grew red as the anger boiled in his head. The veins looked as though they might burst. The carefully combed strands of hair washed aside in the sweat.
Then, from out of nowhere, a calm came over him. He was at peace. He wiped the sweat off his brow and took in a long deep breath.
"I am going golfing and that's all there is to it."
Had he really done it? He stood in shock for a moment disbelieving what he had just said.
There was an eerie silence in the house now. The walls did not echo with the sound of the witch. There were no clenched muscles and no strange itches. He had stared into the eyes of Medusa and nothing happened. He had won.
With that he popped through the front door and closed it behind him.
"Harold?" The witch's voice was muffled now, but it still shrieked. But Harold did not care.
He hit the ball well, but not great. And every time he putted there was a strange itch on his big toe because Harold could not keep his mind from wondering: "Will I get the remote control tonight?"