Free Bad Haircut by Tom Perrotta

plastic, carefully wedged into the snow.
    “The dog must have died,” I said.
    Zirko didn't hear me. He was standing on his tiptoes, reaching for the snowman's bowler hat. He grabbed it, dusted it off, then sailed it like a Frisbee into the street. The hat flew a surprising distance before skipping into the gutter.
    “It's like a shrine to the dog,” I said, unable to conceal the wonder in my voice.
    This time Zirko looked at me, but he still didn't answer. Instead he plucked the carrot right out of the snowman's face and tossed it over his shoulder. Then he removed the charcoals and erased the smile a cent at a time. I didn't get upset until he pulled the photo out of the heart and crushed it in his fist like a candy wrapper.
    “Jesus, Andy. That's someone's dog.”
    He dropped the picture onto the ground, then turned to me with his hand out. I gave him what he wanted.
    A snowman doesn't stand much of a chance against a crowbar. When Zirko was finished it was nothing but garbage in the snow, garbage and a handful of pennies.
    “Come on,” he said. “Let's see if anyone's home.”
    I wish I could say I followed him up the front steps to talk him out of it or to make sure he didn't do anything crazy, but the truth is, I just followed him. The door was open and we walked right in. The house was quiet and warm, a nice place to enter.
    “Chucky,” a woman called out. “Is that you?”
    Zirko cupped a hand around his mouth.
    “Chucky,” he sang in a mocking falsetto, “is that you?”
    “Who
is
that?” she asked.
    As though he were an invited guest, Zirko marched down the hallway toward the source ofthe voice, a bald skinny kid with bare arms and a snowy crowbar in his hand. I hung back, trying to find my bearings, unable to believe that we'd walked into a stranger's house without knocking or ringing the bell. All at once, everything in the world seemed possible, the worst stuff I could even begin to imagine.
    I watched him turn into a doorway and listened to the muffled sounds of a conversation. Maybe a minute passed before Zirko stuck his head out and beckoned me with the crowbar. I shook my head no. His eyes got big; he nodded yes. My wet sneakers squeaked on the floor.
    There must have been blood on my face, because the woman gasped when she saw me.
    “My God,” she said. “Did Chucky do that?” “Damn right he did,” said Zirko. All I could do was stare. She was about my mother's age, a semi-pretty woman with cloudy eyes and loose brown hair she hadn't bothered to comb. I felt embarrassed for her. It was close to noon and she was still wearing her robe, a dingy pink thing with a sunburst coffee stain on one lapel. We'd caught her in the middle of
Scooby-Doo
, She reached for a glass on the coffee table, then thought better of it and pulled back her hand. “Are you sure it was Chucky?” Zirko nodded. “We know Chucky.” She wasn't interested in him. She kept her eyes fixed on me, as though I were the most importantperson in the world.
    “He's a big kid,” I told her, spreading my hands to approximate the width of his shoulders. “A big kid in a sheepskin coat. He cursed me out and punched me in the face.”
    Her shoulders slumped when I said that, and her face just sort of collapsed. She closed her eyes and bit her bottom lip. My feeling toward Zirko at that moment was something approaching awe.
    “He's not a bad kid,” she told me. “He just doesn't know how to control his temper.”
    Chucky's mother leaned in close to me at the kitchen table, washing my face with a warm, soapy washcloth. I could smell liquor on her breath and see way down the front of her robe.
    “Poor baby,” she told me. “You bled a lot.”
    Zirko snickered, but he looked unhappy and confused. The woman's kindness had stolen his momentum. He pushed his chair away from the table and stood up.
    “Come on, Buddy. Let's get outta here.”
    I tried to get up, but Chucky's mother pressed me back into the chair.
    “Just hold