How to Pronounce Knife - Souvankham Thammavongsa Page 0,18
the walls. Because it was so unusual to see a man doing nails, or simply because they enjoyed a good flirting, his clients gave him twenty- or thirty-dollar tips. They told him, “Why don’t you buy something nice for your little lady,” or “Go out and have yourself a little fun, why don’t you.” His sister, always one to notice things, said, “Fuck! I’m lucky if I get two or three dollars. It’s because you’re a fucking man, isn’t it? Even in a business I own myself and built up myself, men are still being paid more. And these are women who are doing this. They should know better!” And she’d look on angrily while he counted his tips, which often added up to more than what his sister charged for mani-pedis.
IF THERE WAS ONE THING that Raymond didn’t like about the job, it was toes. After only a few weeks of working on them, he got warts on his hands.
His sister said, “Gross! I ain’t gonna let anyone see that nasty shit while you’re working on them! You better take time off. Plus, it might be contagious, I don’t fucking know. I told you to wear gloves!”
He picked at a wart on his hand and winced.
His sister said, “You ain’t gonna quit on me now because of this, are you? You know people come in just to see you. Never seen anything like that.”
But it wasn’t the warts he was worried about. Warts were nothing compared to how bad things could get in boxing, with the bad headaches and black lights and mumbling nonsense or being dead. Warts went away eventually. That didn’t bother him. It was the smell of feet. It got into the pores of his nostrils and took root there, like a follicle of hair. It was becoming a part of him, the smell—like spoiled milk. He could never forget what he did for a living because it was always there. He was beginning to taste the smell of feet at the back of his throat. Soon he stopped enjoying food altogether, which made him lose weight, but his sister said this was a good thing since it meant more clients coming in to see him. She bought him tight-fitting black T-shirts and insisted he wear them at the shop. His muscles bulged out from the sleeves and the neck, the fabric clinging to him like an overstuffed sausage casing. His sister said, “Work it, Raymond. You don’t got to be shy about what you got. Tighten it up, flex. We need that for the shop. It can’t just be about the nails—anyone around here can do that.”
Raymond was sure the warts did not come from his female clients. Most women took care of themselves. Their toes were clean and groomed to begin with, after years of salon and spa visits. He blamed the men. It was the men who had never had a pedicure their whole lives and wore heavy socks and leather boots all year round. The men who had been too embarrassed to show their untreated toes to a female pedicurist. Now that there was a man working at the salon, they came to him. As a man, Raymond knew not to mention or acknowledge the mess, the years of neglect just because the feet had been out of sight. The layers of skin he had to slough off like cutting a pat of butter. His sister would say, “You know why the skin there is yellow? Well, the fucking guy pees in the shower! That’s why. Disgusting fucker!”
Still, Raymond didn’t spend much time focusing on that part of the job.
Raymond had a favourite client. Miss Emily. He didn’t have much to do when she came in. Her cuticles were already peeled back and her nail bed was long and thin and smooth. The skin on her hands and feet felt like a baby’s, plump and soft. She would always do him the courtesy of removing her nail polish before she came in so he could start right away on the filing and paraffin wax, and then lay down the three layers of polish. The first layer was to protect the nail from the polish, the second layer was the polish colour itself, and the last layer was to help protect the polish from chipping and to keep it shiny.
At the start of each shift, Raymond would check the appointment log at the front desk, running his finger down all the names. When