The Man in Black

When I was in tenth grade, everything made me angry. I wrote poetry about people being chopped up into little pieces and talked about how much my parents were "always on my case, dude". I sulked around my house, staying hidden mainly in the shadows, wearing mostly black. My hair was dyed and hanging loosely beyond my shoulders. My shirt was solid black to match my hair. My jeans were black, accented with a chain wallet and my shoes were actually boots and were black and would kick your ass but only in my dreams because my body was made of string-cheese and red jello. I wore black fingernail polish and dated a girl with a shaved head, who also wore a chain wallet. For Halloween we got to dress up for school. I put on black lipstick and wore what I normally wore. Basically I came dressed as a very cool warlock.

About halfway through my sophomore year, I noticed my girlfriend wearing fishnet stalkings on her arms. I thought they looked pretty friggin' cool and inquired as to where she bought them. "I picked them up at Ben Franklin Crafts," This was the local arts and crafts store. They mainly sold things that nobody really wanted, like stamps in the shape of ducks. "They had 'em for Halloween," she says, "I bet they've still got some and they're probably on sale". After school we drive downtown in my flesh colored pick-up and she helps me pick some out. "You're probably a small," she says. I pick up two packages and jet home as fast as I can. People were really finally going to take me seriously. No more joking around. When I came to school on Monday and I had these babies on my arms, watch out. Maybe April would wear hers and we could match. We could be like the teenage version of The Munsters. I couldn't wait.

As soon as I got home, I ran down into the basement - where my room was - and tore open the packaging. April explained to me that you had to cut finger holes in the toes and then cut a huge hole where the vagina went so you could shove your head through. I was, essentially, turning a pair of pants into an extremely ill-fitting shirt. Fashion knows no bounds.

I clumsily slid my arms down the leggings, careful not to snag them or cause some kind of run. I shoved my fingers through the holes in the feet and could actually feel the power surging up through me. This piece of clothing was my cape. It empowered me. I would face the world in this. But, in the meantime, I would sit in my basement, on my broken and dirty futon and make out with my girlfriend who had a boy's haircut while I sat next to her, wearing women's undergarments upside down.

Looking back, I feel as though, if it were possible for the fifth grade me to look forward into my future and see where I would be in five years or six years, I probably would have killed myself. I would have ridden my little Huffy bike down to the railroad tracks and just laid down on them. I wouldn't have even needed anyone to tie me up. I would have just laid down with a sign that read something like, "Trust me, it's better this way, for all of us".

The following day was a Saturday and my family and I were heading out of town. We were going on a trip to the Black Hills to visit my dad's sister, husband and kids. I walked slowly out of the basement with my black boots, black jeans, black hair, black finger nail polish and a white shirt, which I normally would not be wearing, but felt that it really helped to accentuate my black arm leggings. Today was the....not so much "new me" but rather, the "improved me". I had actually managed to build upon the already sturdy foundation that had been set in place. I walked upstairs and into the living room where I met my sister, who was also sporting black boots, black jeans, a black shirt, black finger nail polish, a lip ring stuck through black lipstick and hot pink hair. She looked at me with what could only be described as awe. I was on the cutting edge of cool and she knew it. Why hadn't she thought of this first? Why wasn't SHE wearing her underwear on the outside and in reverse? Look, some people have it and some people don't. Bottom line.

My dad was next. He entered the room and witnessed his two androgynous children standing next to one another, admiring each other's make-up. What was he thinking? What thoughts were rolling through his head at that exact moment? My father, a military man almost his entire life and definitely the greater part of mine, stood there speechless for a moment, probably trying to figure out if we were all playing a practical joke on him. Certainly my mom was bound to walk around the corner at any time, dressed as The Bride of Frankenstein. Perhaps Allen or Peter Funt would appear, shouting out something about Candid Camera. But probably my dad knew the truth. Probably he knew exactly what had happened. And probably he wished, more than anything, that the thing that would make an appearance at that exact moment, were some kind of stray bullet that could catch him right between the eyes or an out of control Mack truck that would just pummel through our living room wall suddenly and smash him into jelly. If there were fates worse than the hand my father had been dealt, you would be hard pressed to find them in his eyes.

He stared at us and then spoke quickly and in his matter-of-fact voice, "We're not going anywhere with you dressed like that. Go change". And then, without another word, he marched back upstairs, probably to stare at himself in the mirror and wonder just what happened to his life. This, surely, was not what he had signed up for. I went downstairs and, instead of taking off my beloved underwear shirt, I simply put on my black jacket and was sure to keep my hands in my pockets or tucked up into my sleeves. If I could just get out of the house I was sure he'd come around to the idea or, at the very least, just give it a rest. Surely he would see things my way eventually. Did he not see how I looked?

We drove for a few hours and ended up stopping at a Pizza Ranch for dinner. The four of us walked inside, my sister and I dressed like Johnny Cash meets Alice Cooper, my dad wearing his favorite Star Wars shirt and crocodile hunter hat and my mom meandering through the doors last, digging through her purse, looking for who knows what and wearing a white sweater with a row of kittens on it. THIS was a unique piece. On the front, kittens marching towards you. On the BACK, kittens marching AWAY from you, their tails held high, their little pink butt holes exposed. As far as taste goes, my mother's is exquisite.

They seated us and my sister and I sat next to one another, looking like shadows with no bodies casting us. I thought this was the perfect time to reveal my master plan to my dad. He was taking a deep sip of his drink of choice - Cherry Coke - when I let out a little burp and, "oh, excuse me" decided to slowly slip off my jacket, revealing my power arm bands. Yes, sir, this was it. Things were going to CHANGE. My dad's eyes slowly floated from the pop machine, to the back of the room, to my eyes, to my jacket, to my sleeves and then back up to my eyes again. The straw slowly dropped from his mouth and he swallowed his soda. Something was about to happen. My mom was balancing her checkbook. Theresa glanced back and forth. The show was about to start. My dad gathered his thoughts. He shut his eyes, pulled off his crocodile hunter hat, placed his hand over his shiny forehead and rubbed it for a moment. This was sign language for, "What the F have I done to deserve this? Why God? Why?" And then, just as he looked up, just as I noticed that fire in his eyes, that certain spark he has when that big red button has been pressed - the one with the warning signs all about it - the one with the plastic safety cover over it so it doesn't get bumped by accident - the one that is guarded by trained professionals - the one that I, for whatever reason, found so enjoyable to just slam my fist into over and over again, wanting, needing to know what would happen at Code Red. Doomsday was near. The sirens were blazing. Theresa turns her head away. This was not going to be fireworks. This was not going to be pretty. This was going to be a detonator placed inside the stomach of a small animal. This was going to be an explosion with blood and guts and perhaps some yelping. He takes a deep breath and I'm waiting. Here it comes - The Big Show - and then the waitress is at our table. She's standing there holding onto her pad and pencil and smacking away loudly on her gum. Here she is - the daughter my parents should have had - where was the son? Probably managing the place. She asks if she can get us anything to drink. My dad says he's got his drink. My mom wants some coffee. The waitress, who, in all fairness was pretty attractive, turns to my sister and I and says, "and what can i get for you two ladies?"

My dad smiles.