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We went where America shops, Walmart, and I turned him loose. Like I said, we’re there to buy pants, but the first thing he does is start looking at shirts. I redirect my spawn's focus and tell him to forget the shirts and find some pants. He ignores me, as he does so well, and is still looking at shirts; he even finds some for me and wants me to try them on. I redirect again, telling him to forget the damn shirts and FIND some pants! “Okay, okay!” he whines. He is foraging through the men’s department of the store, but can’t find anything in his size; big surprise. I keep suggesting he try the boy’s department, but of course, he doesn’t want to hear that; in his myopic eyes he IS a man. I let him run with it and wear himself out, suggesting once again, subtly, that he check out the boys department. Reluctantly he finally slouches off like some harassed tree-sloth, grumbling to himself, all the way to the boys department. Parents just don’t know crap; we knew it when we were kids and now our kids know it; there is no getting away from it, it’s a curse. My particular curse was applied by my gray haired mother when I was my son’s age. I can remember her saying it on many occasions, “I hope you have ten just like you!” Well, I’ve only had two, one girl one boy, but believe me, the curse worked! They’re equal to any ten kids you’ve ever met. My sullen son managed to find his way to the boys department and began the hunt for pants in his size. Much to his disdain, they had quite a few (remember, he’s a man, so finding his size in the boys department was admitting something unthinkable in his world) and without much effort he found several pair that he liked. Now here is where it gets good. The pants he liked were these things that you’d expect the Ringling Brothers Circus clowns to be wearing. Weird colors with zippers and pockets and loops, all made of some space age fabric that looks more like pajamas than pants; wrinkly material that looks like an unmade bed. They would be great for him, because you’d never know if they had been on the floor of his room for week or whether they were fresh out of the dryer. The cuffs (or where cuffs would have been) pooled around his ankles like mounds of old laundry and the waist was so loose he had to hold them up with hand the whole time he was showing me ‘how cool they were.’ (assuring me all the while he’d wear a belt and that this was ‘the style’ at school). I could see having to face the wrath of his mother if I let him come home with these, but I also realized he needed room to be himself (he and a zillion others just like him) and I should back-off and let him have some input into the decision making process; as he pointed out, “I’m the one who has to wear’em to school; I don’t’ wanna’ look like an idiot!” (my idea of looking like an idiot and his obviously are about a light year apart!) I came into my teens in the 1960’s. I was 15 in ’65 (do the math), I’m no kid anymore, but I do remember it all like it was yesterday. One of the things that is vivid is the struggle I went through with my mom (single parent household by the time I hit this age) over these very same issues. My generation was into bell-bottoms, sandals, and long hair (new to the crew-cut post WW2 generation) on the males and hip-huggers, bare midriff and see-through peasant blouses, mini-skirts, fish-net stockings, and boots on the females (far out and groovy baby!). All these items came in a plethora of psychedelic colors and patterns and were worn in a variety of combinations. We fought not only our shocked parents over our fashion statements, but an embattled school administration as well. The world was in upheaval and changing fast. You could see the change reflected in every magazine, newspaper, movie, or television program you came across and our fashion choices were in the middle of it all. So having lived through the battles of my teens, I’ve always been sympathetic to the battles of subsequent teens who followed; including my own teens. After finding 4 pair of pants I had him pick out a pair of jeans to add to the collection, just to keep me happy. He agreed, but still managed to end up with a pair that could be used as a dust cover for 58’ Buick! (these are going back for a wearable pair!) I then enquired if he had enough socks, underwear (they wear boxers now!..gack!..more leftovers from my father’s GI days...he was always walking around yanking the damn things out of his butt..I don’t know how they stand it?!) a belt, or any other items; with the exception of shirts. I felt he had enough shirts (he has 50 or so), but of course they aren’t all ‘cool hip’ shirts so therefore I see another trip to Wally World for cool hip shirts in my very near future! I can’t win! Anyway, he said he did need a new pair of shoes. He had three pair, but two pair of were worn out. So we went to find him some shoes. I don’t know if you’ve looked down the shoe aisle in a department store recently, but I can tell you doesn’t look much different than the pastry case at the local bakery. All these white and colored plastic concoctions with twists, ridges, rails, and twirls. There are things with gel in them, things that can be pumped up, things that light up when you walk, all sorts of things that hardly resemble footwear at all. (unless you’re some trendy alien from a galaxy far, far away!) This stuff looks like something a ‘gay’ Frankenstein would wear to a coming out party; freakin’ ugly even by clown shoe standards, but hey, who am I to be the fashion police, right? (I knew his mother was going to be all over me like fur on a monkey) So he settled on a pair of white vanilla ice-cream looking things (I made him put back two pair that were too much for even a drag queen to wear) that he thought would dazzle the hip crowd in middle school. Or at least keep him from getting insulted or pummeled by the local gangstas.’ I look at my boy in his baggy pants with
zippers, jumbo pockets, and loops with his cheapo wrap around
silver plastic alien-eyed shades and his vanilla ice-cream space
invader shoes and groan. In that groan I can hear my mother,
echoing back from forty years ago, gazing upon her son standing
in the living room preparing to go off to school. That was me
in my desert boots, bell-bottoms, long hair in my face, Indian
headband, love-beads, red and blue stripped rugby long-sleeved
tee shirt, rose colored granny-glasses shades, peace symbol pendant
and a lambskin vest. “What?” I asked, indignantly,
which was now the same thing my kid was saying to me. I groaned
again, shook my head and grinned, adding, “Nothing,” In my best crazy dad sounding voice, “Hey,” I yelled. He turned, with that goofy teenaged look on his face and stared at me. He frowned, hesitantly asking, “Yeah?” I glared at him, shook my pointy dad finger, and growled with vengeance, “I hope you have ten just like you!” He grinned, “Yeah.” The door closed behind him. Hey, what the hell are you gonna’
do? Hmmm…no better time for a nap. Who is this Guy RCat? Currently, his duties include acting as the head of a family consisting of an overworked wife, a vibrating teenaged son, and an over stimulated housecat. An elder daughter resides at some distance with her own family; a husband, two sons, and a daughter. As head of this merry band of pranksters, the illusionary aspects of his carefree life are played out on the stage of daily routine. RCat is a self described "survivor," having lived through the "flower power" promises of the 1960's with the goals of world peace, universal brotherhood, free-love, and the legalization of certain organic herbs. Contrary to what others might say, he can still remember parts of it quite vividly. Sadly, those cosmic issues have now been reduced to the cliché. He now, more realistically, understands the world has gone quite mad and no longer cares to be a part of the continuing descent into oblivion. The thought of putting on a loincloth to venture forth and live out his days meditating in a tall tree in a distant forest sounds appealing. Of course, he isn't kidding himself. Chances are a noisy bunch of cretins will quickly invade the tree next to him. Ah well, such is the way of this planet we call home. In the meantime, he scribbles poetry, short stories, and essays, as well as a choppy stream of drawings, cartoons and works of art. All done with a grin as meditative mental therapy in an effort to hold onto what little remains of his sanity. Enjoy him while you can, he is the quintessential endangered species. Send RC a message either directly or using the Word Catalyst feedback form. For more from RCat visit the Word Catalyst archives or his online home. |
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only two that are ‘cool’ enough to wear
so he wears them constantly! At fifteen he has sprouted hair
in all the right places, zits have popped out on his face, and
he has developed a body odor that could choke a buzzard! So wearing
the same two pair of pants all the time has become toxic; the
pants are getting so ripe that they almost lead a life of their
own. Of course the constant battle to shower and do his laundry
is a bloody one. He is as hard headed and unfocused as I am,
so I’m the one who ends up with all the scars and bruises.
R.
C. Arquette, "RCat" to friends and fellow writers,
is an aging hippie and practicing curmudgeon. He was dragged
into the world, kicking and screaming, back in the middle of
the last century; 1950 to be exact. His outburst clearly showed
his disdain for reality at the earliest of stages. He grew up
living in the sub-tropical splendor of the "Sunshine State,"
Florida, US of A, where he attended Jr. College and after twenty
years received his AA degree; what can I say, life kept getting
in the way.
Cheshire Cat
Truly Calhoun
Songs of