Varhaus No. 8
Club Haus
The whiffle balled rolled around the mailbox like someone forgot they hid it there. A message on the ball was written with old blue embossed label tape:
No Moms Allowed
Eat bugs, Play ball inside, See cool stuff
A sticker with a QR code leading to a registration page.
11:45 am
Functional family vehicles circled and parked around Varhaus. It appeared that moms were dropping their children off at a five alarm fire. Wailing firetrucks, flickering ambulances, an extended ladder above the entrance. One Dalmatian puppy held by an hulk in a hi-viz, sooted, fire coat. Next to the chaos, a graduation tent with a sign: No moms past this point.
The mothers led their ten year old boys to the registration area in the tent. No one was registered. No names were checked, nor any payments confirmed. Just a couple people welcoming boys from behind a banquet table with a t-shirt and a point to the front door.
The boys pulled on their shirts: Club Haus
Etched upon the front door: We’re all big brothers.
Noon
Doc had rigged a camera system complete with indoor flying drones, stationary cams, live feed and projected 12 views onto a screen in the tent. There was a bar, seating and a betting rail for the parents.
Inside. You’ve never seen a cooler melee of a shitshow. Varhuas was nine different cars, a batting cage, a cafe sized for 10-year old boys, a disassembled motor, a barber shop, a batting cage, the most ridiculous collection of legos ever assembled. There were men in baseball uniforms, men in mechanic coveralls, men in three piece suits, a chef, firemen and a man in a gorilla suit. There were drones flying above the heads of the boys, but beneath the danger of the sprinkler heads.
The boys moved in groups and couples that broke ranks when a particular discovery led one boy to forget the safety of his friends.
12:15 pm
Jason’s art studio was draped in athletic netting, a whiffle ball batting cage. He sat in a chair and pitched and pitched. Some boys came in whack whack whack...some boys were uncomfortable and uncoordinated. Jason had help. A man with a mustache would help the boys align their feet, pull their hands back in a ready position and say: “see the bat hit the ball”. 3 swings. Some contact...some docile misses. Next. Get back in line. Unsure misses and Violent whiffs. Big hits and foul balls.
The man with the mustache was helping a boy who’d never played baseball. The spectators talked amongst themselves as if nothing interesting was happening.
“Stop.”
He looked at all the boys waiting in a circular line surrounding cage. He made himself large.
“I need your attention on me please. Billy is trying his butt off to learn to hit a baseball. You see he hasn’t had enough practice? But guess what! Everyone can hit a baseball. I have a big problem right now. I need you to solve it. I don’t hear enough cheering for Billy. Where’s the encouragement? Do you remember when hitting was hard for you (he pointed at 3 particular good players.)? The sign on the door here says: We are all big brothers. Let’s act like it.”
“LET’S GO BILLY!” the boys responded. All sorts of encouraging phrases, 10 year old boy noises and clapping.
Miss. Bad miss. Still cheering. Really bad miss. “keep your head down”. Miss. “good swing, buddy!” Miss. “C’mon pitcher, throw strikes!”. Foul tip: eruption. “yes, that’s it!”. A little more contact, a dull roar. A shot slapped right back where it came from, smack into the chest of the seated painter.
Cheers and high fives all around.
“Billy! Billy! Billy!”
Billy, for his part, smiled and made an amazing bow like he practiced being famous in the mirror. He came out of the cage, there was no longer a line, they bunched around the opening in the net to congratulate him. Jason was lying on the floor laughing. The man in the mustache looked for the next victim of his optimism.
12:30 pm
The registration tent was now a hang out spot for grounded helicopter moms. They drank red wine blends and coffee out of varhaus coffee cups and chatted, pausing occasionally to check the monitors for the child’s current status. When his arm got tired, Jason would come out and try to stoke apprehension.
He’d approach Sara and Ruth in the tent. Just loud enough to not be a secret: “Its mass chaos in there. I though it would be a great idea for boys to get haircuts before school started, but its not what I expected. I saw three Mohawks already.”
“Sid Vicious or Mr. T?”
“I keep hoping for Sid Vicious, but more like Taxi Driver.” Jason would walk away without looking.
“You talking to me?” Sara’s best impression.
Ruth, glancing over her shoulder to the guests: “He’s kidding. They’re fine.”
The women laughed and continued talking, but many, after an appropriate amount of time, nonchalantly got up to check the monitors.
1:00 pm
A gang of boys gathered around a 1970 Sebring Yellow Cutlas 442. Above it, on a lift, the 1968 version of the same car. The wheels were removed from the ‘68 Oldsmobile and another group of boys stood below, looking up. They traced the direction of the pipes from the motor to the trunk. They looked at the fat tires stacked four high on the concrete. There was a full motor hanging from a hoist. Next to the exposed engine a man in coveralls with “Super Service” stitched on the breast.
“Gentlemen, these cars were made right here in Lansing from almost 60 years ago. Maybe your grandfather or his father assembled them. These were the baddest cars on the road when I was in school. Do you know how cars work? Do you want to learn about combustion engines-the controlled explosions that make cars go?. This car makes almost 10,000 explosions to drive a mile.”
One boy had climbed on top of the stacked tires sat crosslegged with his hand up.
“My dad drives a f-150. Its old and super loud. Is this car loud?”
Super reached into the steering column through the window and turned the key. Roar.
“Can I get in the car?”
Super opened the driver’s door and pulled forward the bucket seat. Nine boys squished into the back. He climbed in, and put his foot halfway to the floor.
“Do you think it’s loud?” He said out the window.
Every activity stopped in Varhaus. Some boys ran to the noise. Some covered their ears. Super Service had all of their attention.
Now, there were 60 boys and 2 hovering drones gathered around 10 people stuck in a ‘70 Cutlas. Some were eating sandwiches. Some clamored to get closer. A few were looking at the undercarriage of the lifted car. One boy watched intently while absent-mindedly holding a whiffle-ball bat.
Super cut the engine, the exhuast would be too much, soon. He exited the vehicle and walked to the motor.
“This is a four-stroke engine with eight cylinders. So, in eight little compartments are eight pistons that go up and down. He made a fist above his forearm and moved it up and down. The cycle is Intake, Compression, Power, and Exhaust. Can anyone tell me what intake means? Right. And what is being took in?”
“Gas!”
“What else?”
“Air!”
“Yes! Great thinking”
The men had gathered behind the boys. They didn’t have anyone to play with anymore.
One of them yelled out to Super: “air and gas are the same thing!”
Super turned to the boys. They yelled as one: “Gasoline!”
“Right! You guys are smart. We need fuel and air. What kind of Air? Oxygen. The same air we need live. What kind of fuel? Gasoline.”
Jason Leaned against a column and watched his father teach. He looked at Mike.
“There will be hundreds of lawnmowers taken apart by next Friday. We may be doing more harm than good.”
“The parents thought this party was going to be cheap. They just paid 35 bucks for the right to buy a new lawnmower.”
2:00 pm
In particular, the mothers monitored the barbershop activity most closely. A dedicated camera feed over looked the checkered floor and the six men backing their chairs. There were two televisions near an old, but operational Barber Pole. Ruth had borrowed pole from one of the professionals volunteering his time. One of the televisions was set to Animal Planet-wild predators. One played a 4-hour long ‘worlds greatest fails’ compilation that Jason, Mike and Doc had watched beginning to end for ‘research’. It was not the four hours spent watching the video that annoyed Ruth and Sara; it was the two days spent watching hundreds of similar videos trying to find the right one.
The barbers took their time, careful to explain the finer points of men’s hair and style. They presented example photos and talked about fades, tapers and sideburns. They showed them famous people with different hairstyles. Ryan Reynolds to LeBron James, Harry Styles to Chris Stapleton. Ronaldo. Messi.
Every man has to know how order describe his haircut. The boys and men laughed at people passing out on giant catapults and kids falling off their skateboards. They counted the dollar bills stapled to the wall and asserted their emerging logical skills regarding the existence of the Easter Bunny. The googled “Jackalope” together.
The boys were cautious when they first entered the Club Haus Barber Shop. After getting lined up, many made their way to the front door to accept their parents approval. The new Independence led them back in to show off and encourage others to get their lettuce chopped or their lid flipped...and never used the word haircut once. Check it out! That’s dope! All boys speak with exclamation points.
2:30 pm
Raphael has two younger brothers and two older brothers and a much older sister. He held his whiffle ball or shoved it in his pocket to do other activities. He didn’t have to share it with anyone. He got a hair cut in the kitchen every week on Sunday. A chair, a tablecloth and his mother. 1-2-3-4-5 after dinner. Then bath time, then bed.
He stood at the edge of the barbershop watching the other boys get their grass clipped. Apprehensive. Six Chairs, five boys, five barbers. As he watched them, a man appeared from behind him, carrying a beverage.
The man turned and faced, knelt down to the boy’s level. “You have really nice hair, dude. Want me to clean it up?”
Raphael paused. “I thought only women cut hair. My mom cuts mine and all my brothers.”
“Does she cut them all the same? What’s your name?”
“My name’s Rafa. We do kinda look the same, but we don’t act the same.” Rafa held out his hand out like his sister told him.
“Pleased to meet you Rafa. I’m Charlie. You’re lucky. I only have one brother.”
A drone flew past and stopped, hovering in front of the boys in the chairs, rotating slightly to capture each face.
“Your mom does a really good job. You know, a haircut says a lot about a man. It depends on what is important to you. Do you want to fit in at school or do you want to be different? Do you want to be just a little different and unique? Do you want to look like a business man or a hockey player or a rock star?”
“I like country, Mr. Charlie.”
“Yuk! Do you know what else is special about us, Rafa? All of our hair is a little different. Each of our heads are shaped a little different. Just like people. We like different music. That’s what makes the world special. We’re very alike, but we are also very different. Come over to my chair and we’ll do some research, then you can decide.”
Outside the tent, Sara was watching the monitor. “Hey Angela, don’t look now but your middle is about to get a haircut. Less work for you. And, less control.”
Angela never understood Varhaus or what it meant to her friend Sara. Now, her feelings about the place was teetering on dislike.
She watched her boy climb into the barber chair. He and Charlie were looking at photos of men’s hair. Charlie would point, Raphael would shake. Rafa would point, laugh; Charlie would nod. They were pleased to be interrupted by the boys laughing at a video showing dogs peeing on the wrong things, like their master’s shoes. Or, a cat.
Charlie stood behind the chair and held the two finalists in front of the boy. Charlie pointed to one. They nodded in unison. As he grabbed the cape to wrap around him, his client stood abruptly. He turned and looked Charlie in the eye. One nod.
Angela, Sara and now Ruth watched as he left the viewfinder of barbershop cam. They traced his path through the live feeds until the front door of Varhaus opened: Figure it out.
He looked about briefly, found his mom, walked straight to her.
“Hi Ms. Sara. Mom, will you help me decide on my hair? Mr. Charlie is really nice. Will you talk to him for me?”
She smiled and pointed to the sign. No Moms Allowed.
Ruth interrupted. “We planned for this, Ang. You can only be invited in by your boy. Just like any clubhouse.”
She pulled a pink fuzzy sleeping mask out of her coverall pocket. “You have to put this on.”
To Raphael. “Lead your mother to Barbershop. She can take her blindfold off for 90 seconds. Then, you have to bring her back.”
Raphael grabbed his mother’s hand and smiled, pulling her gently toward the door.
“Don’t worry, Angela. It will grow back.” Sara whispered
3:15 pm
The chaos was like opening a closet door to find your self standing on railroad tracks with a freight train coming at you. Rafa waited for his mother to pass through the open door. She stood still. Realizing that she could not see, he took her elbow to guide her through.
Rafa had to yell.
“I’ve got you mom, you’re safe. We are going by the batting cage now.”
KABOOOM. She did not see that her son didn’t even flinch.
She bent down and whispered. “What was that? That scared the crap out of me.”
Rafa laughed and gave an invisible shrug. “That’s just Mr. Mike. He’s been blowing up lego sets and dollhouses with firecrackers all day. You get used to it. Kinda boring now.”
A loud adult voice was the first to yell: “Girl!” A few boys joined the identification.
One very funny boy yelled: “Captain, the wall has been breached!”
She could feel the fingers pointed at her. In unison, eventually, 60 boys chanted.
“No Moms Allowed. No Moms Allowed. No Moms Allowed.”
She hadn’t met the Mustache man yet.
“Don’t worry, Mom. I’ll tease their moms too. Mustache Man is super funny.”
Rafa narrated his mother past each activity, the boys continued to play. The men stopped playing and followed Rafa and Angela. They walked near the workshop and Mike joined. They passed the garage and Super came along. On her walkie, Ruth had already instructed Doc to catch every moment of this interaction. She, as well as every adult in the tent, wanted to see how this turned out.
Is he a mama’s boy? Is he trying to make the right decision, and being uncertain, reached out to the person he trusted most? Would he go through with it? Would she let him? Different men would think differently.
But super said: “I want to see how little boys treat their mothers these days.”
“Hey Rafa, I dare your mom to eat that stinky cheese!”
3:30 pm
With the exception of a glancing shot from a batted whiffle ball, Angela arrived to the destination safely.
“Mr. Charlie. This is my mom. Take your eyes out, mom.”
She took off the mask and pretended that she hadn’t been able see through it.
“Would you like a fade too, ma’am?”
3:25 pm
“Excuse me. You seem to have a line on what’s happening here. Can I ask you a few questions?”
Ruth turned and braced for the same questions she’d had to answer for a couple years. She did not reply to the man.
He was filagreed in simple business attire signaling enough wealth to wear what he wanted with an attention to detail that wanted you to know about it.
“We’re not from around here. My sister is sick and going through treatment and my wife and I are here to help with the kids. I simply don’t understand what is happening right now. This event seems to be a random day camp for boys, but I feel there is something more, I just can’t quite put my finger on it.”
“Your first perception is accurate. I’m sorry for your trouble.”
“Thank you. It’s been rough, but I think she’s gonna be alright.”
“That’s terrific news. I’ll put her in my prayers. You’re a big man for taking care of your family. We’re about that, here.”
“The first thing I want to tell you is I have not seen my nephew in 4 hours. I check the monitor once in a while and he is always doing something, and he is smiling. With his mom’s sickness and all, he hasn’t left one of our sides in weeks. He’s been velcro. I don’t know what you are trying to accomplish here, but you’ve made a very good day for him. Sometimes forgetting is enough, I guess. So, thank you.”
Ruth’s eyes watered. She mumbled her thanks. She made a fake cheers with her mug.
“Did I upset you? I didn’t mean...”
She became Ruth again. “No. You validated me…us. You understand more than you know.”
Ruth straightened. She had a fish on the line. HIs compliment made her want to explain what was happening.
“I’m an investor of sorts. I was an athlete. Now I go looking for opportunities to help good people. Are you a nonprofit?”
Ruth pointed at the mug.
“What does do simple capitalism mean?”
“Our response to that question is always the same. Figure it out.”
“Are you for sale? Are you looking for partners?”
“Everything is for sale, baby. But we can’t be bought. You can buy one of these mugs, though. It’s the best investment I’ve ever made.”
“I’ll buy twelve.”
“Do you think that impresses me?”
“What do you mean? i just want to support you as a thanks for what you’ve provided for my family here.”
“I know that and I appreciate it. We’re built different. You appreciate us and it’s not taken lightly. You have money. I clocked the detail of your shirt. Your money is a hammer, but we’re not a nail. Gratitude is thanks enough. Truly, your comments made me cry. If you truly want to understand, buy one mug and figure it out.”
She could see he was a little offended. Business people tend to crave certainty.
“What sport did you play?”
“I played professional baseball for eight years.”
“We can use that. Do you want to find out about us?”
“Absolutely.”
“Do you see this man?” She pointed to the batting cage in the art studio on the screen. “Go inside and see him. His name is Jason. Tell him I sent you and that I think his pitching arm is getting tired.”
“Really?”
“It would be a million dollars worth of help. Really.”
“My name is Darren.”
“I know. I love baseball. I’m Ruth. This is Sara. Go have fun.”
3:33 pm
Charlie, Raphael and Angela had sorted out the lettuce. A tight fade like some friends at school and a lightning bolt carved from the sideburn, over the ear, to the back hairline.
“Take your mother back to the tent, Rafa. Then, we’ll get to work.”
Forgetting to tell his mom to put the blindfold back on, he grabbed her hand and led her back to the parents waiting area. He greeted people as he went...Hi Super! Hi Doc. He pointed to the cars. 442. Model T. El Camino. Ruth’s 1978 F-150. They passed the workshop splattered with the shrapnel of exploded legos and melted barbie plastic. Raphael waved to a man wearing ski goggles and wearing monkey pants. They quickstepped past the gasps and overreactions of ten boys eating stilton cheese as a mass dare. Two boys were cutting bananas for the peanut butter sandwiches they were constructing with the chef. He stopped at the batting cage.
He looked into the batter’s box as if playing centerfield and yelled loud enough to be heard: “we want a pitcher, not a belly-itcher.” He laughed to himself and pulled Angela toward the front door. He didn’t even look up.
She remembered the divider that acted as a windbreak near the front door from her first visit with Sara. It was now a message made of duct tape and cardboard: “Be not conformed to the patterns of this world....”
Rafa walked ahead and simply opened the door. He stood and held it like she was a disinvited house guest.
“Thanks for coming, Mom.”
Ang walked out the Varhaus door, past the sunlight and into the tent to find Sara.
“Lightning bolt.”
Sara handed her a mug of Zinfandel. “The hardest part is the first 18 years.”
4:00 pm
Around 4 pm, more parents began to file into the tent. Working parents who left earlier were returning for the duration. Parents who had dropped their boys off and ran their errands. The tent was lively and mostly full. People who knew one another gathered in groups. Folks stood near the monitors and socialized.
Jason came out to talk. He mingled and smiled. Said hi. Introduced himself. While he did so, Ruth and Sara set up a large projector and pointed it to the side curtain of the tent. More people required more views. Doc was flying drones so the tech was a little slow to materialize.
BB arrived in her scrubs. “How’s it going in there? Is my dad behaving?”
Jason hugged her. “He’s off the hook in there. We may need a special insurance to have him here. Completely amazing. The boys are calling him Mustache Man”
“I’m glad. I told you he’d have too much fun.”
When the A/V was set the whole event was projected upon the inside of the tent, giving everyone an unimpeded view of the chaos inside of Varhaus. Jason stood on a chair.
“Thanks a million for trusting us with your boys. Welcome to Varhaus, The Lord of the Flies edition. It’s been a fun day for us. Your sons are wonderful. We hope you’ll relax with us for a while, have some wine, enjoy the company. There’s a shit-ton of pizza on the way.
We made an excuse to get a bunch of boys around the best men we know. Men who know how to interact with kids without making them grow up too fast. Men who still know how to play. My Dad is here somewhere, that alone makes this thing a million times better for me.
We are a philosophical outfit. This event fits our values, but we don’t really care, today. Boys need days like this. Men need days like this. Just fun for fun’s sake. Just to find out what can happen. Thanks again!”
Sara replaced Jason on the chair. “As you’ve seen, there is some wild stuff happening inside that door. Let’s make it more fun for us. The varhaus prop bet casino is now open.”
She produced a wad of fake dollar bills from her jumpsuit pocket.
“Everybody gets 20 bucks. The three top earners receive a special invitation to our next adult event. You can win a mug or a t-shirt. Jason is offering up a 48x48” abstract painting for first place, tonight.”
Ruth hit a button revealing one shot on the entire projector. It was from the point of view like a workers view of a retail booth at a market, looking out toward the customer.
“This booth is called I freaking Dare You.”
Jason and BB began to hand out the money.
“Place your bets! Will your son eat the stinkiest bleu cheese or a whole anchovy? Chocolate Covered Earthworms. You won’t let your kids eat bugs, but we will.”
“My son will eat bleu cheese if he can gross out the other boys. Antihero shit.”
“My boy at a worm yesterday!”
“I ate a worm yesterday.”
“There is no way in hell that your kid will eat that!”
“Five bucks.”
“My boy is lactose intolerant!”
“Does he know it?”
“I’m not sure if he does.”
“C’mon five bucks.”
“You’re on!”
“Bet!”
“Bet.”
With the parents fully engaged, Jason left the tent to stir up mayhem with the boys. Upon arrival he found the chaos did not require his services.
8:00 pm
Mustache Man and Super sat on the tailgate of a 1978 Ford truck. Cold pizza in one hand, cold beer in the other. Heads shaking, they talked about all the wild shit they saw.
The night had devolved into a total war of whiffle ball madness. The Battle of Whistling Curve Balls. There were some temporary tears. Snipers. They’d be picking up balls for weeks.
Sara jumped on the tailgate between them. They scuttled to each side.
“Thanks so much for helping us today. You guys were a real hit with those boys. One boy asked his mom to get your business card, Super. Another boy invited Mustache Man to his birthday party.”
“I feel like a piñata, for sure.”
“We were just talking about how amazing you are, Sara. We’re proud of you.”
“She should be proud.” Ruth entered with the top half of her jumpsuit tied around her waist. T-shirt and pearls.
“We made a difference today.”
“We made a difference today.”
“We made a difference today.”
“Here’s to making a difference. Salut.”
“Who’s gonna clean all this shit up?”
Next Chapter:
Varhaus No. 9
“Welcome to the first edition of Inconformation, a podcast brought to you by Varhaus. I’m Gabriel Thomas. Each week, we’ll discuss the happenings around Varhaus. What is Varhaus? Is it an art gallery or event space? Is it an urban renewal project or the wild dream of like-minded people? Is it folded, praying hands or a middle finger? Let’s figure it out…
Man, I really love this one!