The south side didn't seem like home anymore, and he couldn't decide if it was him or it that had changed more. He'd started out here, a petty criminal, but he'd escaped thanks to the army.
He'd changed. This place changed.
Hell, the Sox won the World Series while he'd been gone. Where was he then? He'd moved around so much it was hard to remember. He'd escaped from the army too. Became a mercenary. In the end, the army had just made him a more dangerous criminal, hadn't it?
He'd decided to come home during some down time, but it wasn't home anymore. He wasn't the person who'd called this place home.
"Baird? Baird Jackson?"
He'd hoped no one would recognize him. He should have covered up his hair. It was a dead giveaway.
He turned to see the old man who'd called him. "Who wants to know?"
"Ha! I knew it was you! Not to many redheads in this neighborhood."
He smiled a little in spite of himself. "You used to run the barbershop, right?"
"I still run the barbershop. Not too old for that, yet. I remember you used to get into all kinds of trouble. Looks like the army made a man out of you, though. You back from Iraq?"
"Something like that."
"Heh. Looks like Baird Jackson became a man of mystery. But nobody called you that since you were a kid, right? What's that nickname? Redjack?"
"Yeah, that's the one. Still go by it, in fact..."
Redjack's cellphone went off and he flipped it open to check the message. "Shit, I hate New York. Rather be back in Costa Rica," he muttered under his breath.
"What's that? You getting deployed?"
"Something like that. But I could use a haircut before I go. Know a place I can get that done?"
"Yeah. I know a place." They headed toward the barbershop. "I always knew you'd turn out OK, even though you got into a lot of trouble when you were a kid."
"Things change. I don't get caught anymore."
The old barber laughed as they went inside.
