Nice Tom’s

So there’s this dude at work.  Well not exactly my work.  He works in the same building as me.  I remember the first day I met him in the elevator.  I’ll call him Jim.  Jim held the door open for me as I was the last person in.  He had a pair of black Toms on, “Nice shoes” I said.  In the corporate world anyone that would would wear Toms I have to consider fashionable compared to the atrocities I see that transpire in the American workplace.  As my gaze continued upward he was wearing a pair of somewhat fitted Levis’ with  a very light wash.  Probably something like a 501.  On his upper torso a button down shirt covered by a Levis dark denim trucker jacket.  Then I reach his face.  He kept his hair buzzed and then, bam!  It hit me right in the face.  A wiley mustache.  Like, what?  It came out of nowhere, it snuck up on me.  Flanked me on my undefended right side.  A tactical move worthy of General Robert E. Lee.  I was unprepared for its arrival.  My gaze went back to his feet, “Where’d you get em?”  He went on to tell me about some store somewhere, some neat find tucked away and I kept thinking, “Why do you look like that?”  I have since seen Jim again a handful of times.  Not in such close proximity but in passing. Every time he is wearing this same outfit and same mustache.  Every single time the same denim on denim look that fashion magazines tell you is a “New” look every year.  “Come on bro” I think to myself.  How have I not ever seen him wearing something else.  Then I start thinking.  They say that with cockroaches if you see one that means there are 10 more that you have not seen.  Then I realized, “If every time that I see him he is dressed in this manor…he must wear this same outfit every day.”  I wake up that night in a feverish sweat.  Why?  Why do this?  I tried such stints in my youth only to hear my mother call me things like, “Nasty…Dirty.”  In a tone that makes it sound as if she is speaking to herself, but she knows I am within earshot.  Normally this would be followed by a disgusted look, followed by another repeated look from over her shoulder as she walks away.  “Guy…change your clothes!” I want to say.  Someone’s gotta tell him, but he is his own man.  He has as much of a right to wearing the same clothes as I have a right to change mine.  America, land of the free.


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