An email from 2008

Horrible reconciliations. Decency requires violence, sometimes. But violence is indecent. There is no decency.

I have to host a big symposium tomorrow. It's in a fancy ballroom. The dean will be there, so will a bunch of department heads and other university dignitaries. I'm not nervous: it's my job to talk in front of large groups of people and I already have my notes written. I just feel a little out of place, around all that fanciness. This is the kind of thing where I won't be able to wear jeans and a T-shirt.

And since all my slacks have holes in them or are covered in bizarre, awkward stains, I had to go pants shopping tonight. I am no good at pants shopping. They always don't fit when I get them home even though they fit in the dressing room, or else they look bad in ways that I will never, ever be able to recognize but my own my girlfriend will sure as hell point them out to me. And speaking of my girlfriend, she’s out, so I had to go it alone. She told me what brand to buy and what size to try, though, and she advised me to go to Kohl's since they have the best deals. Seemed easy enough. No way I could screw it up.

We live smack in between two commercial districts—San Marnan in Waterloo and University Avenue in Cedar Falls. Both have big discount stores. Both have a mall, Hy-Vees, and lots of Applesbeeish chain restaurants. The San Marnan district is a little bit closer and has a more polished, new feel to it. Since I don't recall ever seeing a Kohl's until 2001, I figured then that our Kohl's would be in the newer-seeming district. I was wrong, and as I circled desperately through the parking lots of the mall, the Walmart, and the Best Buy, I got a little upset with myself for having managed to once again screw up buying pants. An adult should be able to buy his own pants, I said to myself. Then I hung my head in shame.

It was nearing closing time for the stores, too late for me to drive all the way across town to Kohl's. What were my options, then? The mall—fuck the mall. I wouldn't spend fifty bucks on a pair of pants if I was making three times what I am right now. Wal-Mart—well if I came home with a pair of Wal-Mart slacks the ladyfriend would give me the business. I honestly can't tell what separates a good pair of pants from a bad one. I can't tell when they're on the rack and I can't tell when I'm wearing them. They look like fucking pants. I know what colors I like, and I know it when a pair feels comfortable or uncomfortable, but that's it. There's nothing else that I know about pants. Except—except I know which brand to buy—Dockers—she said Dockers were the tops. And I know which brands to avoid because she has made fun of them. And, well, yeah I probably won't find good pants at Wal-Mart, but I might find them at Target, right? Target's fancy, right?

Well, no. Target gave me a choice between Wranglers and Rustlers. Those are the kind of pants the president wears, when he's relaxing. I don't want to be like him since he's a jerk.

And so I left Target feeling bad for myself. Like, pathetic, Jimmy Corrigan-level bad. Seriously what kind of adult can't manage to buy himself pants? I'm not retarded. But I'm gonna look like a stained-pant wearing retard tomorrow, up in front of everybody. And—ooh, god would you look at that I probably would'a had time to drive to Kohl's if I had just gotten going right when I knew I was in the wrong spot but now it was really too late.

My last hope was Goodwill, which is where I buy almost all of my clothes and was also the one place that my girlfriend specifically told me to avoid. I figured that even if I couldn't find a good pair of pants—which I realized probably wasn't going to happen—at least I could buy an old record or two, to help take my mind off of my failure. Why, who needs to be able to dress themselves when they got the coolest LP collection in the city? So I hit up the records first. Mostly crap—Donny Osmond, generic religious records, that kind of stuff. All that was worth buying was an LP by a duo called Hack & Sack that promised to be a collection of novelty country and western songs. There is no way in hell that that's not worth owning.

Over by the pant rack—oh my god what did they have right off but a pair of clean Dockers, just the right color, just the right size. $3.95, to boot. I mumbled "Too good to be true" to myself, since sometimes I mumble to myself in public because I am mongoloid. Just by looking at them—I didn't have to measure them or nothing—just by looking at them I could tell that these were the pants for me.

You ever read John Steinbeck's "The Pearl?" Where there's a great part in it where this destitute pearl diver finds a bigass clam that he just knows is loaded with a good pearl, but he still grabs other clams while he's diving and he opens the big one last. Wonderful little moment that Steinbeck wrote, right there, and I think that kind of feeling jumps inside every loser (like myself and the decrepit pearl diver) whenever he's had something good just fall into his lap. It's like you’re paying some kind of penance by forestalling your own success. Even though it's right there, staring you in the face, you still think you're gonna jinx yourself if you reach out and take what's been given to you. You still have to work for it. Something bad will happen if you don't.

So I decided to wind my way all around the long pantracks. The Dockers were the second pair I looked at, and the pickins were pretty slim the rest of the way down. Tons of people with 45-inch wastes must have keeled over recently and given all their suttf to charity. There were lots of pants that looked like they were made out of old furniture upholstery. Our Goodwill is huge, and I was nearing the section where the pants intersect with the books and gimcracks when a long string of "fucks" and "motherfucks" and "shits" caught my attention.

I'm used to the sailor speak, as you probably know, and I usually don't take notice of it in public. But it usually doesn't sound so serious, so violent. There's a difference between a couple of teenagers overseasoning their conversations with too many "fucks" and what I had just heard. It was a weak voice. A white trashy voice. And it caught itself halfway into its line of swears, started to whisper like it was ashamed enough to quiet itself but still whatever it was swearing about was too important, it had to keep on going until he was finished swearing.

There's a certain formlessness to unintelligible white trash speech that makes it sound like the soft, warbly sirens that were atop old-fashioned ambulances. Most of the time you can ignore the sound. It's unpleasant as background noise, but there's a harmlessness in it that doesn't arouse any concern. But when there's volume and speed to it, then it sounds horrible and pressing, like a chainsaw or squirrel defending its nest.

"Fuck motherfucking I got fucking fuck fuck motherfucking piece of shit."

I looked up and saw that it was a disgusting, milkwhite obese man who was bitching at his young son. He was yerping at him, like a warbly siren, pausing every second or two to take in a big, fat breath. "Yearrp yerp fucking piece of ungrateful shit yerp yerpa yerp yerp." The kid couldn't have been more than 12 or 13. Two sisters—one in a babyseat in the cart, another was 7 or 8. Wife was fatter than him. He whipped a T-shirt down into the T-shirt bin, whipped it from his chest so it didn't make much of a noise and didn't seem like very much to anybody who wasn't watching him or standing right next to him. Measured violence. He was a pro. "Yerp fucking selfish." The kid's hair flew up and he looked down. The man—oh my ungodly fat, face like a pimple that was straining, begging for someone to bust it open and let the goo flow. NASCAR Jacket. Head just crammed into a Penzoil cap, a doughy white pimple spilling down from the cap, jiggly all the way down to where he jowls met his collar. Cruel little round glasses, like James Joyce. Kid had a bit of fetal alcohol syndrome face and was probably embarrassed, naturally. I caught myself staring, looked down, and continued shopping.

The mom came up and said something in the smug, antagonizing voice that whitetrash mothers use when they're being mean to their children. My aunts used it all the time and it still makes me mad to hear it. Like: "too bad you kept running outside I guess we ain't going to the video store no more. Uh-uh. Too bad, so sad. Y'all had yer chance but now we ain't going." Only they say it childishly, taking joy in the pain of their own kids, elongating the middle of each word and speaking in a singsongy rhythm. But she was saying something about the kid being a jerk, something about him refusing the fine NASCAR T-shirt his father had plucked for him out of the bin. Well, I thought, maybe the kid had been a jerk to his father, since his mother was upset, too. Whatever. None of my business. No need to hang around and give the guy an audience and/or embarrass the kid any worse.

I walked to the fitting room. Took my sweet time, trying on two pairs that were obviously inferior to the Dockers but were still decent enough to try. I couldn't pull one over my own fat ass. The others were fine but I noticed a small grease stain on the knee. Finally, the Dockers. And my oh my I wouldn't be exaggerating one little bit if I were to say I've never had a pair of pants fit so comfortably the first time I put them on. Not on mark on them, either.

"They look brand new," I mumbled to myself. Then I heard the yerps of the man get suddenly louder outside, then the fitting room next to mine had its door torn open and slammed shut. No bother, I thought. He was probably throwing a fit about something or other. Maybe he got fired today or maybe his disgusting wife is cheating on him or maybe the kid really did make some kind of horrible crack or maybe he's just a dick in the same way everyone—even me—is a dick and he's just acting like a dick at a bad time in a bad place right now. Savor these pants—that's what I'm a' gonna do. Damn they were like silk against my legs. I started taking them off slowly, pulling my jeans back on, slowly. There were still some yerps from the next booth but they were more gentle, more normal yerps. Then a little girl went "no!" and took some steps away and yerps got louder again. Then the swears came in. The mother made that half-antagonizing, half-sympathetic voice that whitetrash mothers make to their kids, sometimes, when the kid is upset and instead of feeling sorry for the kid the mother is sensing an opportunity to strike a blow against someone they hate or prove some other kind of point. Again, this was something my aunts did. Couldn't understand anything the woman was saying but the guy was saying "Kayla, come on. Come on back. Kayla… Kayla." And then the girl, plain as day, she was crying and she said "he's being a butthead" and I swear to god I might not have heard all that much but I've heard some shit, man, and that was the most heartbreaking thing I've heard in my whole life. That was her code word for it, for when daddy was melting down in public and got too rough with her. And it was her daddy, too. She was using the unreal, admiring voice that little girls use when they're talking about their daddies, when there's no hint of anger or judgement in their voices, only self-recrimination since Daddy could never be wrong, there must have been something wrong with her since Daddy was upset. The absolute worst insult she could throw at him was "butthead." And kids don't say "butthead" nowadays—I haven't heard anybody say it in any context since "The Wonder Years" went off the air. So she must have gotten it from her mother. Mom must have told her that Sometimes Dad's gonna act like a butthead I just want you to walk away from him when he does it.

I shook my head. The guy was swearing again. The woman was talking in a very serious voice to him. Then he calmed down, just like that like magic he was fine he swore to god he was fine. The door opened and they both waddled away and I was standing with my jeans around my ankles and my new pants folded neatly by the mirror.

I daydream more than most people, I think. Or maybe I don't, really, it's just that I talk about my daydreams more than most people, I'm more self-conscious of my own daydreaming than most people are. So what I did was I pictured myself going apeshit on the father, just, like, walking up behind him with a heavy ashtray in my hand, not saying a word and just pounding his skull in. (I pictured myself doing this in the third person, incidentally, and like all of my other third-person daydreams I was much thinner and had a full head of hair). The man didn't fight back, so shocked was he. His family looked on in terrified approval. And he fell right over like a fat sack of cunt because that's what he was and then I walked the fuck out, pants in hand, and everything was wine and roses.

Nice daydream. But I couldn't let it go at a daydream. I had to pick it apart, make it more about me. What would the repercussions be if I actually did that? That'd look great on a resume, an armed assault charge for beating the shit out of a fat man at a Goodwill Store in Waterloo, Iowa. No way in hell the wife and kids would testify about how he was messing with them. And, really, dude, what does this kind of fantasy say about you? Do you fancy yourself an avenging angel? Name the last nice, charitable, or altruistic thing you did? (Saving that dog I was out all night getting that dog back home). Yeah, okay, but what were you doing that whole time. (I—I…). Yeah… you were thinking about what a great person you were for doing it, that's what you were doing. Man Saves Dog. Real impressive. Maybe you'd even get an award. Dumbass—you honestly had that thought cross your mind. And right now you're thinking you're some kind of action hero, dreaming about doing something you haven't done since you were 17 just so you'd look like some kind of fucking hero. God—god you are stupid.

I had to get away from myself, so I pulled up my pants, put my head down and left the booth. The family had gathered once again by the games and toys, by the rack, and the dad was swearing again in a fast, low voice. The girl said, clear as fucking day the girl said "he hit me," and the mom told her little girl to be quiet and looked in my direction. I put my eyes down and made it look like I didn't hear anything or see anything. Go right along with your business, ma'am. No harm coming from me.

Right now what I needed to do was get out of there, I thought to myself. I felt the pressure of a person who has just stopped by his friend's house during an importune time. The dog died or Aunt Mavis got in a car wreck or something and here I come in wanting to drink beer and watch movies. So sorry to bother. Hate to have put you out. Be right on my way so you can continue your private scene without my intrusion. I put the unwanted pants back on the rack and made my way to the register nearest to where I was parked. No one was there. I stood for a while and no one came. A woman and her teenage daughter began to laugh about something behind me, though, and when I turned around all full of self-consciousness I saw they were holding up a little piece of crystal from the knick knack shelf. There was nothing funny about it. I decided to walk back to where I was, near the pants and toys, to try the register on that end of the store. The man and his family were nowhere in sight.

A minute passed, maybe two. A young woman wearing a Goodwill vest stuck her head out from the back and gave me a puzzled look. I smiled in a way that made it known I had no idea where anyone else was and I would have liked it very much if she had come up to help me. She did, huffy. Was it play anger? Why was I overanalyzing everything?

"There are worse things to be upset about," I said. I said it low and mumbly and I don't know if she could hear me. She was very white and acne scared and had a big, pointy nose but she seemed like a good kid.

"Yeah, well he's supposed to be at his register. I ain't even supposed to be here."

Then she made a big deal of slowly ringing in my record and pants, to show how little she knew about the register. "He" came out, right as my receipt was printing. I'd seen him before. Kid about 19, looks like a smoke-stained Buster Poindexter. Only the young version of Buster Poindexter, back when he was in the New York Dolls, and whitetrashier. Sometimes he even had a smoke behind his ear. And also he was paraplegic and had some sort of growth deficiency. She said "have a nice night," and then walked away from the register and ripped into the kid for being lazy and stupid making her work. I put my head down and started to walk out.

Told myself: Keep your head about you, now. Slow down your pace. Don't run. And remember—remember that these people are decent. Everything is decent, for the most part. Once you get to know it. Why, I just got some keen new pants. Hey! How's about that! Whosabigman wifabignewpants? Yousabigmanwifabignewpants. Yes you is! Yes you is!

Yerp YERP YERP MOTHERFUCK YEEERP!

And there was a loud crash the man had whipped down a boardgame box that exploded with all its little plastic pieces kinkinking around and his son's face blurring beneath his jowls and the wife walking in and the man saying "he's fucking selfish. He is fucking. Selfish" in a low voice like a calm, rational man. I sucked in my breath, looked up and down the gimcrack shelf near the wall for a sturdy candlestick or an old castiron skillet. And, yes, sure and shit there was a nice, thick, heavy glass ashtray right there. Picked it up. Fit right into my palm. The girl hadn't hadn't bagged my stuff so it looked like I was still shopping. Just a smoker going to buy an ashtray. Nothing to be suspicious of. The wife scuttled her husband and kid out of the room as I put my head down, again. To make myself inconspicuous.

I walked slowly along the wall, thinking to myself of what I'd do, what I'd say. No—no you can't walk up and beat his head in. No. I put the ashtray down. Then I thought about waiting for a second, waiting until the boy is alone and then walking up to him, telling him that my dad was a dick sometimes (granted never to this extreme but it's okay to lie). And then I'd say hey, I turned out all right—right now I'm a—uhh… a doctor. Yeah, a doctor. So don't give up kid. Keep your chin up, stay in school, read some books, stay off the drugs. But—nooope, nope didn't do that, either. The mom was mumbling to the kid about him being ungrateful and the dad was saying things along the same line and they looked up really quickly at me, shamelessly, with looks on their faces that said How Dare You Question How We Raise Our Boy. I walked out the far door, past the little guy in the wheelchair who was looking silently down at his lap.

Cold out. Got windy since I went inside and the streetlights and carlights seemed really bright. Zipped up my jacket. Starting jumping around and singing loudly the pants song from MST3k. An old couple coming out of the Texas Roadhouse gave me the stinkeye and I sang louder, crazier, going as far off key as my voice could hold while staring them dead in their dead old faces, absorbing their judgement and disgust. Whooped out some laughs when I got in the car, like Daffy Duck after something really good or really bad had happened to him. Head on out, riding the high. Rolled down the window and felt the wind cold as cold made my eyes feel dry. Got onto San Marnan, past all the businesses. Hit a stoplight before Kimball, almost home, and had to drive slow the rest of the way.

"I should have helped those kids," I said. Outloud.

Then I though nope, shouldntof. Nothing could happened right. I am good for my inaction. Normal like everyone else. Watching everything horrible happen everyday from every angle and putting my head down and watching it blow by me like everyone else because that's all I can do and it's all I'll ever be able to do it. Keep my head down. Walk right past it. Drive away.