Published in Pilot Illustrated Literary Magazine #4.Have you everhad a dry scalp? he asked.Have you everhad a dry scalpand it’s itchy?I could hear himscratching his headunder myopen window.At first, I thoughtit was a dreamor the radio,and then I realizedit was one of the hundredskinheads that hadbeen surroundingmy housefor three days. I can feel it on my hands, too.My hands are dry, he said.Maybe you have eczema?someone said.No, it’s just my scalpand my hands.You need some kind of cream,someone else said.Yeah, I think I do.You should seea doctor about that.I think I will, he agreed. A noise that soundedlike a firecrackerwent off, and thenI heard the cheersof the skinheads.They did this routinelyevery hour on the hour.They were tryingto ferret me out.I stared at the ceiling.What was I going to do?I had things I had to get done.I had to be somewhere.Or did I?I couldn’t remember.Everythinghad been a blursince the skinheads arrived.Yes,I had to be somewhere.I remembered.A meeting.It was a veryimportantmeeting withvery important people.And they couldn’t startuntil I arrived.The skinheads werestationedat every windowand every door.Each time I tried to escape,they escortedme back inside—firmly, but gently.They weren’t rude about it,but they were strict.When I askedone skinheadif I could goto the meeting,he said noright off the bat.But the otherskinhead saidhe would look into it.They were playinggood cop, bad cop;I just wantedsome answers.We don’t wantany trouble,one skinhead said.Trouble? I asked.We don’t want any trouble,he said again.That was yesterday.I tried almosteverything I couldthink of yesterday.Today was a blank wall.I had noideas or scams.I looked out the windowand saw the skinheadscratching his head.Stop scratching, I said.He lookedup at me but didn’tsay anything.I went to the bathroomto take a shower.I thoughtif I proceeded as ifnothing was wrong,then nothing could go wrongor could preventme from going whereI had to go. When I turnedon the shower taps,nothing came out.That’s strange,I thought and saton the edge of the tubwith my head in my hands.Then I flushed the toiletto see if there was a seriouswater problem,but the toilet wouldn’t flush.It was clearthey had turned offmy water supply.So here I was trappedin the house with no waterand food suppliesquickly dwindling.I didn’t panic though.I had to focuson the meeting,not on thisminor inconvenience.I looked outmy bedroom windowand sure enoughthere was the skinheadscratching his scalp.Only, his scalp was nowa bloody,pus-filled mess.He had blood on his handsand downthe back of his neck.His scalp evenhad a stenchthat waftedup to mybedroom window.It smelled just likerotting eggs.I think your scalp isinfected, I said.It’s a dry scalp,and it’s itchy, he said.You’re bleeding.He touched the back of his neckand then examinedthe blood on his fingers.I don’t have any water, I said.You don’t? he asked.I shook my head.I guess they’re gettingimpatient, he said.Did you putsome water in reserve?No, I said.You should have.If you get me some water,I’ll get yousome alcohol for your scalp.He thought about itand then said: I’ll see.I had to close the windowbecause the stenchfrom the skinhead’s scalpwas making medizzy.SinceI couldn’t preparefor my meeting,and I had lost my appetite,and I couldn’t even make coffeebecause there was no water,I decided to take a nap. A few moments later,I woke up to a strange noise.It wasn’t a firecracker.It was somewhere betweena howl and yelp.I wantedto look out my windowbut was afraidbecause I knewI was about to witnessblood and guts.But I lookedout the windowanyway.On the ground,two skinheads I hadnever seen beforewere tackling the skinheadwith the itchy scalp.He was yelping and howling,but from where I was,there was nothingI could do.I told them to stop,but they ignored me.Then one of them said,Mind your own business.This is my business, I said.One of the skinheadstook a roll of gauzeout of his pocket.He started wrappingthe gauze aroundthe headof the skinheadwith the itchy scalpwho was making the jobdifficult by fighting and kickinglike a trapped animal. It’s for your own good,the skinheads hollered.Once they got the gauzetightly wrappedaround the wound,they continuedto hold him down.The skinheadwith the gauzetook a pairof red mittensfrom his other pocketand put themon the handsof the skinheadwith the itchy scalp. They tieda thick ropearound the mittens,to keep them in place,and then tied the ropeto the skinhead’sankles.After what seemedlike forever,they got off the skinhead withthe itchy scalpand walked away,whistlingand passing a cigaretteback and forthbetween them. The skinhead stood up.He was a little shakyand a little off balance.He tried to lift his handsabove his headto itch his scalp,but couldn’tbecause of the ropetied to his ankles.He triedto kick at the ropeand slip it off with his shoe,but it was no use—the rope was knottedtightly.The skinheadlooked at me helplessly.And with tears in his eyeshe said: Have you everhad a dry scalpand it’s itchy? I looked at the mittensand the rope they were tied with;it was a thick rope,the kind of rope usedto lasso calvesat the rodeoNo, I said.I’ve never hada dry scalp.