Leather Jacket

My sixteen year old son is obsessed with owning a leather jacket.  It's not just any leather jacket; he insists on black leather.  I could handle that, but, he wants one with silver zippers, a few shiny, chrome buttons strategically located over the breast bones and, last but not least, wide lapels. He wants a jacket porpularized by Marlon Brando in the movie Hell’s Angels.

 You've seen them.  They are worn by those who are anachronisms from the fifties, sitting on or zooming by on large, monstrous Harleys, terrorizing the citizens of small town, USA. I can see my son sitting atop a Harley, proudly wearing his motorcycle jacket. He probably has a Marlboro dangling seductively from the side of his lips. Yuk!

 I have nothing against leather whether it be black, brown or tan.  In fact, I own a brown leather jacket.  It's my favorite.  It's warm and comfortable yet, it doesn't stand out in a crowd, drawing disdaining stares from others.  No one suspects me of having an infatuation with motorcycles nor do they conclude from my appearance that I'm into something kinky.  But, Jeff won't even consider a tasteful leather jacket and, he doesn't understand my opposition to one that is commonly associated with less-than-desirable members of society.

Never mind the fact that the cost of leather motorcycle jackets run anywhere from $200 to over $300.   Jeff must believe that money grows on trees or on exaggerated lapels.

 "Look at this one," I prod, showing him the $159 price tag on an attractive, black leather jacket.

 He snubs his nose at it.

 "It's not me."

 He's obstinate.  Why does he try so hard at being different?  Being different isn't necessarily bad, nor is it outrageous.  Many brilliant people have been different, but, few have worn black, leather motorcycle jackets, except of course for Brando.  Jeff may be different but he certainly hasn’t yet shown anything remotely brilliant.Different behavior - the kind that's not within the realm of the law or social mores - is outrageous.

We continue to search for a compromise, something he could wear as an expression of his unique identity and something I could accept not only for its price but also for its general appearance.

He is unwilling to compromise, even just a little.

I try a different approach. 

"Jeff, I've never spent $200 on a jacket or suit for myself.  I'm certainly not going to spend that much for a jacket you might wear for a year and a half." 

Hopefully, he will attend college after graduating high school.  "No one wears those things on college campuses," I protest.  "So why should I spend that kind of money on a jacket you'll wear for only a year?"

He shrugs his shoulders, his face takes on an expression of complete disdain.

"Besides," his mother interjects, "the kinds of people who wear those jackets are thought of as hoodlums, generally, bad people."

"Well, what about my friends?  Zack, Vince and Gary wear them.  Do they look like bad people?" he asks.

Janice and I look at each other and bite our tongues.  We'd prefer not to answer.

"Look at the people in this shopping center," I suggest, pointing around with a general sweep of my hand.  "I haven't seen one person wearing a jacket like that," I add triumphantly.

Again, he shrugs his shoulders.  His face is expressionless..

We continue to walk, not speaking.  OOPS, there's a kid wearing a shiny, black, leather motorcycle jacket.

"If you really want one, get a job and spend your own hard-earned money," I advise him.

We left the warmth of the mall and searched the crowded parking lot for our car.  The Memphis night embraced us with her cold, indifferent chill.  Jeff walked quickly, shivering.

"Well," Jeff retorts, "will you take me to an army surplus store and buy me a green, army jacket?"

"I'll consider it."

"Well, what am I supposed to do about the weather in the meantime?" he asks.

"Freeze," his mother snaps.

© December 1989

A Slob By Any Other Name

“You’re a slob!”

“Why do you always criticize me dad?”

He picked up a shirt that I had thrown on the floor and a pair of sweaty running socks and threw them onto the sheet-less mattress.

“You throw your crap all over the place. You never make your bed. Look” he said, pointing at the foot of the bed, “your sheets have come off the mattress and you couldn’t care less.”

I shrugged my shoulders. “So what! It’s my room. I should be able to do with my room as I please!”

“But, it’s my house and I expect you to take proper care of my property.”

I saw my dad’s next target. Before he could mention the running shoes, I nudged them under the bed, using my left foot as a tool.

“You’re twenty-five years old and you have no respect for my property.” 

“Dad, don’t go off the edge. It won’t take me but a few minutes for me to straighten my room.”

He stared at me. I could tell he was upset. No, make that angry. That wasn’t too uncommon.  I was used to seeing him react like this because of my slothful ways. There were few things that angered my father. He could handle a driver cutting him off in traffic or an inept cashier at the local McDonald’s.  He did not become upset when the newspaper delivery person skipped our house on occasion. But, as soon as the first sock hit my floor, he became apoplectic.

“A few minutes, my ass! Once you pick up all the crap on the floor and on the furniture, you will find foreign substances that need to be removed.”

“Foreign substances? What are you talking about?”

“Dirt,” he yelled, “and dust!”

My mother usually vacuumed and dusted the furniture. However, nearly four weeks earlier, she and dad informed me that she would no longer be responsible for those chores that, in dad’s words, “a twenty-five year old should do.”  I had not yet done either.

“I’ll vacuum and I’ll dust if that will make you happy!”

“Don’t get smart with me! If you don’t want to do your part around this house, then I suggest you move out.”

Wow. He was really angry now. I didn’t want to move out of my parents’ home.  Sure, I graduated from the University of Alabama Birmingham with a Bachelor of Arts degree and a major in English. And, even though I make $750 a week, my monthly wages would quickly be depleted if I had to rent an apartment. Besides, how would I be able to afford those things that bring me comfort, such as my iPod and iPhone?  How could I regularly upgrade my computer? Let’s face it, personal computers are much like automobiles. Once you take them from the store, they begin to depreciate and lose value. Within twelve months, if not sooner, a newer, faster and better computer is on the market. A young person who depends so heavily on computing devices wouldn’t think of using the same desktop or laptop for more than a year, eighteen months top.  Speaking of laptops, I’ve had my current one for eleven months and now have my eye on the newest Mac model.

I need my money for things other than silly rent. I might live with my parents for 5 – 6 more years. Of course, I have not yet told them of my probable plans. But, that shouldn’t surprise them at all. The McKinney’s, our next door neighbor, have been landlords for two adult children, the oldest of whom is thirty-five years old. Hah! I still have at least ten more years to go!

My grandmother often chides me about being single.

“You’re getting old, Lawrence. Why don’t you find a girl and marry her? Your grandfather and I were nineteen when we married. You shouldn’t wait much longer, especially if you want children.”

Children were the least of my concerns. I can’t imagine little ones crawling all around getting into my personal items. Can you imagine the damage a toddler can do to an iPhone? Or a laptop?  I would be horrified if I were to find milk or pee on my keyboard!

“Grandma, I’m not that old! Many of my friends aren’t married. Besides, I can’t afford a wife and family yet.”

“You can’t afford a wife because you spend too much of your money on all that crap you buy.”

Wow, for my grandmother to counter with such language meant she was angry. For all my life I had been her pet and I don’t remember her even being upset with me.

“You’re too damned spoiled,” she continued. “And sometimes I think you care about no one but yourself.”

Yikes, that hurt coming from her.

“Grandma, my personal electronic devices are important to me. In today’s world, that’s how people connect. We text, we twitter and we email throughout the day.”

“Why the heck don’t you pick up the phone and call some of your friends instead of tweeting, twixting or whatever the hell you call it.”

I could see I wasn’t going to change her mind nor was I going to convince her of the demands and needs of a modern man to stay connected with friends and networks. I tried to change the subject.

“Grandma, are you staying for dinner?”

“Don’t think you can change the subject like that. And another thing, if you want to eventually marry you ought to start looking for a better job!”

This just wasn’t my day. First my dad nagged me and then his mother jumped all over me. They worked in precision like a WWF tag team. My dad threw me against the ropes and grandma pounded me with a folding chair. Soon mom would enter the ring and pin me to the floor. I was losing this match.

Now that my livid family had left the room I decided to try to see my room and myself as they saw me. Whenever I looked in the mirror I saw an average man.  I didn’t consider myself handsome, ugly or homely. Just like my friend Justin was just Justin, I was just me, Larry Langley. I stood five foot ten. My hair was brown and quite thick and my eyes complemented my hair. I didn’t wear designer clothes or shoes. In fact, I’m not sure I would know where to look for them. I either rely upon my mother to buy my clothes, which she had done with much certitude for most of my twenty-five years, or I simply buy jeans, shorts and shirts from Wal-Mart. I wear clothes not to be stylish but to avoid prison.

My room doesn’t look as bad to me as it obviously looks to my parents and my grandmother. The three working computers don’t take up that much space. Neither do the spare hard drives, fans and other parts that I keep in my room to repair not just my computers but those of friends and family members. Hah! They don’t complain about my room when I fix their computers!

So, a few hand tools are on the carpet. Big deal. It’s not like the screwdriver is stuck into the carpet. And the five empty plastic water bottles that lay around aren’t much of an issue. I can pick them up anytime, can’t I? I have over two hundred DVDs and I have only one room in this large house. Where else can I store them other than on top of my chest of drawers, in my bookcase, on top of my dresser and even on the floor. I know the ones on the floor have been there for about two months, maybe five. But, I’m culling them to see which ones I want to get rid of. Mom said I haven’t culled any in at least a month but how would she know? Oh, I see they are covered with a thick layer of dust. That might be a clue. Perhaps if I dust once in a while, she might think otherwise.  

Dad keeps complaining about the pile of paper that has accumulated on my desk, file cabinet and dresser. He wants to know when I intend to throw most of it away. Dad! That’s my mail. I can’t just throw it away without going through it, can I? You say it’s been there for how many months? Gosh, I guess I should begin to see what’s in these stacks of mail. I wonder if my cell phone bill got mixed up with this stuff. I received a notice that my bill has not been paid. I called the company and told them that I didn’t receive a bill. But who knows, maybe it’s here somewhere in one of these stacks.

I never was much of a basketball player. The school coach told me I wasn’t quite tall enough. I didn’t believe him.  Frankly, I don’t think my shooting and ball handling skills impressed him. But, I’ve been practicing! That’s why, in addition to the empty water bottles, there are dirty clothes on the floor. I’m trying to improve my skills! I currently make about 30% of my shots and, I’m proud to say that’s up from 23% last month. Dad once asked me why I didn’t attempt any slam dunks instead of three point shots. He also asked if I’ve ever attempted an offensive rebound. I tried to explain that just about anyone can slam dunk if the basket is only four feet off the floor. What fun would that be? But, to tell the truth, I didn’t have a good answer for not attempting any rebounds. I could only assure him that eventually I would place the dirty clothes into the basket.

I have been thinking of getting my own apartment. I wouldn’t have to listen to my parents’ constant nagging and I could live as I want, not that I’m not doing pretty much that now. But, the most reasonably priced one bedroom costs nearly $1000 per month! My take home pay is only $2500 or so. That would leave me so little to enjoy the things in life that bring me joy. I only pay my parents $200 per month. Mom says that doesn’t nearly cover room and board. She claims that if she included her services, which she compares to those of a maid, then I should be paying over $1200 per month. Yeah, right!

I don’t believe for one minute that she works that hard on my behalf. Like I said, I only have one room in this large house.

Now that I’ve tried to look at my room as they do, I honestly can’t see what they complain about. I think I keep my room pretty neat.

   

© W. J. Charles July 2015

Passion Unused

In one his famous poems, Dylan Thomas wrote “The force that through the green fuse drives the flower.”  Like most poets, Thomas was a master at choosing the right words to convey complex emotions. I have always viewed the Thomas’ use of force in the above verse as synonymous with passion.   A natural passion drives the flower. It has no choice but to do so since the force has been ordained by nature to do just that. In the natural world, the force or passion that controls the seasons, the flowers, the shrubs, the oceans and streams cannot do anything but that for which it has been divinely created. During times of drought or other natural phenomenon, nature’s passion might be temporarily disabled or ineffective but it eventually returns or it evolves with the elements.  Nature is very efficient and does not allow her forces to go unused for too long.

On the other hand, man’s passion is not as regulated as nature’s.  Man’s passion is primarily emotional and he can choose to act upon it or he can choose to ignore it.  When one acts upon and follows his passion, the usual result is happiness and joy and some level of success in whatever endeavor he’s engaged.  Too often, though, people do not follow their passions. Instead, they surrender to their more immediate needs or to others’ expectations.  They pursue careers for expedience rather than for addressing their true needs and desires. They remain too long in jobs which may not particularly satisfy them but which keep them and their families clothed and fed. There is really nothing wrong with taking a path such as this. However, the price so many people pay for doing so is the suppression of their creativity.  Most highly successful people who are also happy decided at some point to pursue their passion.  Something done with passion is usually something done right.

Passion unused dwindles. It evaporates. It leads to regrets and to “what could have been.” How many men and women, in their later years, have lamented the life paths they chose and wondered how their lives would have been had they only pursued their dreams?    Like the battered prize fighter portrayed by Marlon Brando in the classic, “On the Waterfront”, they cry out “I coulda been a champion!”  How many people have cried out, “I could have been a doctor,” or “ I could have been a pilot,” or “I could have been a writer.”  The list is endless. So many coulda, woulda, shoulda’s. So many dreams wasted. So much passion unused.

Fortunately, humans have been blessed with significant mental faculties. We can think rationally. We can make decisions daily. We can, regardless of our station in life. This holds true for young and old alike. It doesn’t matter if a person has failed to act in accord with his passions every day of his life. Today, he can choose differently. He can choose to act on his passion. 

If today, just 5 percent of us acted on our passions, we would change ourselves and we just might be able to change the world.

Wouldn’t that be a grand thing!

As Christmas Approaches

No other season captures me more than Christmas.  My love for this time of the year has nothing to do with receiving gifts. I truly enjoy the spirit of Christmas – the sense of giving. I also enjoy the other aspects such as the music, decorations and the attitudes of most people. I listen to Christmas songs and I sing along which helps me get into a joyous mood.

Yet, there is also an aspect of Christmas which is saddening. So many people have so little and yet ask for practically nothing. I read an article in the Birmingham News several days ago that dealt with the many letters addressed to Santa that are received by the US Post Office.  Many of the letters are enough to bring a grown man to tears. More than one child wrote that he or she wanted nothing. Instead, if Santa could just bring their father back from Iraq then that would be enough. Others forsook their own desires for those of their mothers or siblings. One child wrote that he could get by with no gifts this year but he asked Santa to treat his sister kindly.

Stories like these remind me that Christmas discriminates. It discriminates unintentionally. And it’s not Jesus’ fault. In fact, I’m not sure he would approve of the way so many people and so many nations celebrate his birth. Rather than celebrate this holiday in a humble manner, more consistent with the way Jesus came into this world, we have commercialized the season to an incredible degree.  Through advertising and other means, we have made it clear that Christmas just isn’t Christmas unless one receives the latest X-Box, doll, toy, etc.  That in itself is not too bad. Many people can afford such niceties. Unfortunately, many, if not more, cannot. So, a disparity results between the haves and the have-nots.  How can we face those children and those adults for whom December 25 will be just another disappointment?  Sure, we help by giving freely via angel trees and other charitable means. But, despite our best efforts, so many people fall through the cracks.

I do not need anything for Christmas. If someone insists on giving me something, then fine. A book will do nicely or perhaps some golf balls. The most important thing I desire for Christmas is a sense of Jesus’ love for my fellow man.