The R-olls Razor

By Anthony Di Martini

 

The sun was barely above the rooftops when the young man knocked on the old cherry wood door of number 16 Platt Avenue. He could hear the approaching footsteps and prepared his warmest smile before the door opened.

 “Ah right on time come in Marcus and lets go upstairs.” Marcus smiled warmly at his oldest friend and followed him upstairs to the master bathroom.

 

This was his special time to visit his friend.  The assignment had been for his Social studies class. Choose one nationality that had immigrated to the U.S in the past century. When Marcus had first knocked on Mr. Kerol’s door looking for information on his paper he had never intended a friendship to bloom with the 58 year old man. Yet the way this man talked, it was almost intoxicating when you sat and listened. So every Sunday before morning mass Marcus would  arrive to listen and question his friend. They had agreed on this time every week because this was when Mr. Kerol shaved.

 

It was odd at first to Marcus. Why the man insisted on telling him about the history of the French Canadian immigrants while shaving, but the information had been accurate and clear and Marcus had gotten an A+ on his paper.  Though there was no longer a reason to keep going, he had grown to admire the elderly man who lived alone. So two months after the paper had been handed in he still came to visit every Sunday around 6:30 before morning mass.

 

When they reached the bathroom Marcus sat on the toilet while Mr. Kerol , wearing his old thick bathrobe, would lather his neck up with a thick nice smelling shaving cream. He had a thick curling beard of snow-white hair carefully trimmed at his neck. Marcus was only now just beginning to enter manhood.  His whiskers just now began to need a trimming.

 

“Mr. Kerol can I ask you a question? He hazarded.

 

“Still full of questions?  I thought this old man answered all of them months ago.” He smiled warmly at the boy, letting him know he was ready to answer any question put to him. He had made a promise to the boy on their first day together. Any question asked him he would answer truthfully regardless of the circumstances.

 

“Well I see you using that razor all the time, it looks really weird, why don’t you use a disposable razor like my dad does?”  Marcus asked, with true interest. It was something in the boys eyes that made the old man consider what he was to say. With a mental nod he decided it was time this story was told to another.

 

Mr. Kerol finished shaving the part of his neck under his right ear before meeting the young man’s gaze in the mirror. “I use this razor to remember my past.” He said simply[MDM1] .

 

Marcus’s reflected look made the old man laugh. He lowered the blade to the hot water, rinsing the foam away before he continued.

 

“Marcus do you remember when I told you how the French Canadians migrated to Lowell Massachusetts from Quebec?”

 

“Yeah it was the opening paragraph of my paper.”  Marcus said.

 

“Well see this razor is part of a tradition passed down by the men of my family. The razor itself is called a Rolls Razor, this little gadget,” and he turned it around so Marcus could see the tool “was first made in England around 1950. It was considered one of the newest designed safety razors replacing the old fashioned straight razor.”

“My great grandfather used to shave with the old straight razors. My family was never rich and we worked at any jobs that would hire us, mostly hard manual labor. My Great grandfather before he left for work would sit my grandpa down and tell him the history of our family while he shaved. It was the only time in the day when he was home since he worked well into the evening, past anyone’s bedtime.  When my grandpa was old enough my great grandfather began to teach him to shave. To keep him from being afraid of the blade; he would make my grandpa repeat the history of our family he had been taught. So the tradition was born passed down from father to his son.”

 

“When my grandfather was old enough the straight razor was passed down to him.  Early each morning he would sit my father down and while he shaved he would tell him the history of our family and the struggles we faced when we first came to Canada from France. Knowing that one day he would pass the information to his son and keep their families lineage alive”

 

“When my father was 13, a relative back in France became ill and my grandfather used his meager savings to return to our ancestral home to tend them.  He never returned.”

 

Marcus sat there in silence letting his friend recompose himself. Mr. Kerol had begun to shake as the last part had been told. And had stopped shaving to gather his strength.

 

“Even after the relative recovered my grandfather did not have enough money to return to Canada, so he spent the rest of his life there, working at meaningless jobs, so he could support himself and his family back in Lowell. They all worked hard, my grandmother included to keep our home and put food on the table. My grandfathers only regret was he had never taught my father how to shave with the straight razor.  My father had used a more modern razor since my grandfather was afraid of the straight razors blade dulling to much without proper instruction on how to use it. And had taken it with him back to France.”

 

“After he, my grandfather, died my father received a package . Inside it were five things. The straight razor my grandfather shaved with everyday, a metallic box, the cup and brush he used, and a note. It was the final message of love from a father to a son. He wrote of how he missed his son and how it grieved him he could not be there to help his son through all the passages of manhood. Especially learning to shave. The metallic box contained a new special razor, this Rolling Razor.”

 

Marcus reached over then and picked up the metal casing sitting on the sink’s edge. It was long and narrow. There were buttons on both front and back to release the top and bottom flaps. The mechanism inside had a small handle.

 

“My father could not believe what he saw, this razor was the newest invention from Europe. He treasured this gift above all others. As he learned to shave with it, he would repeat our family story just as he had when he was with his own father. When I was old enough he sat me where you are now and began to teach me our family history.”

 

He had finished shaving his neck. The beard was as perfect as it always was.

 

“See this razor may look like a modern razor, but it’s different. Like the straight bladed kind it has to be handled differently. First the blade is supposed to be flat against the skin to cut away the hairs, so doing the neck is kind of tricky. But my father learned and he in turn taught it to me. When he was done he taught me how to care for the blade. After washing, the blade needs to be dried and sharpened. You detach the blade from the handle and reinsert it into the sliding mechanism in the case.” He the lifted the case and raised the handle. “You then push and pull the blades against the red strop letting it soak up any remaining moisture. This also sharpens the blade, if that doesn’t work you use the Gray side to hone the blade like an ax.”

 

He stopped and looked thoughtfully at the boy. “Marcus I think its time you started cleaning up that beard of yours.”  Marcus blushed.  It was the first time his fuzzy cheeks had been referred to as a beard.

 

“It’s ok, I can just use my dad’s electric razor.” He mumbled. Mr. Kerol huffed at that and motioned the boy to stand.

 

“What history does a machine hold, what would you do in the wild where there are no outlets?” Marcus smiled and stood up.  Mr. Kerol was gentle and lathered the boy’s face up with his soft, badger-hair brush. He then moved behind Marcus and handed him the razor.

 

“Careful now just place the blade flat against your lower cheek. Ok slowly pull the blade down.” He said lovingly, keeping his hand near to the boy’s.

 

The shaving only resulted in a small knick, which was dried and cleaned immediately. When they had finished Marcus cleaned the blade the way Mr. Kerol had taught him and put the blade back in its case and onto the shelf next to the sink.

 

“Mr. Kerol can I ask you something?” after hearing his friends story something had occurred to the young man.

“Go ahead Marcus we have no secrets between us.” Marcus nodded his understanding but was still afraid of how to word his next question.

“What happens now? Mom and Dad said you were never married. So who is going to remember your families history?”

Mr. Kerol looked so sad right then that Marcus, feeling ashamed, was about to take back the question.

With a long sigh the old man turned to face his friend. “My families story will end with me Marcus, I have no children.”

“Why not? Didn’t you want to get married and have kids?”

 

A small smile crossed those bearded lips then, Mr. Kerol weighed heavily what he was about to say, finally with another mental nod he decided that there would be no secrets.

“I was married Marcus, his name was Devon. We were married for 35 years. Every day with him made my life complete and when he died I decided that no one else could take his place.”

“Am sorry I pried Mr. Kerol I didn’t know…”

“That I am gay? It doesn’t really matter, after Devon died I moved here where no one knew me. I knew by accepting my sexuality I was in truth ending the bloodline of my family. But can I tell you something my boy? When you love someone, truly love someone, that will come before anything else.”

Marcus had recovered mostly from the initial shock. He had never suspected this about his friend, but as he thought about it this it mattered very little to him.  He just got up crossed to his friend and hugged him.

 

For two years following that momentous day, every Sunday Marcus and Mr. Kerol would perform a rite of manhood.  After he had cleaned the blade thoroughly with alcohol, to prevent any infection, Mr. Kerol would let Marcus trim his growing beard with his razor. Each time he would tell the story of his family and let Marcus repeat what he learned.

 

Not long after Marcus went away to school, got an education and moved to a small town in Vermont. He found a special girl and had started a family of his own. One day Marcus’ son came into the bathroom telling him the postman had a package for him.

 

The package was small and oddly heavy. Marcus went back to the bathroom, he did have to get ready for work; he opened the small package and began to cry. It held five objects, the Rolls Razor case, a straight razor, the small cup with the badger hair brush,  and a note. Gently he placed the two razors on the sink ledgeand opened the note.

 

Marcus,

 

If you are reading this then I am gone from this world to be with my Devon once more. I have no children of my own and now the only way my family will live on is through you my friend, my son. Inside I give to you the most precious treasures of my life. The symbols of the father’s bond with his sons and the history of strength and devotion that first formed those bonds. Please make an old man happy and never forget.

 

Your friend

 

Réal Kerol.

 

Marcus sat down, stunned reading the letter over and over again. His best friend was gone, if only he had gone back to check on him… If only he had called more…

Just then, his own son walked into the room.

 

“Daddy what’s wrong why you crying?” he asked innocently. Marcus wiped his tears and looked up.

 

“Sit down son, I want to tell you a story.”  The little boy helped himself up to the toilet seat cover. Marcus opened the case, sharpened the blade and assembled the tool.

 

As the blade moved down his neck trimming his beard he began to tell the story of an old family, of fathers and sons, of strength and faith and most importantly of all…

A story of love and friendship.

 

 

The end…