Vergil’s Coffee

My father-in-law remembers it differently. He says that our first meeting was cordial and friendly and I tell him that his memory is a bit slippy. First, he should have remembered that Paul Hickey and I borrowed his Sony Micro Cassette recorder and hit “Record” and said some just plain silly things. We thought we were funny. Secondly, and perhaps more important, I was wearing my “Luv Ya!” kelly green pants which I thought was stylin’. Ken doesn’t remember that and why should he? Both of us, Ken and I, are fashion illiterate like most of our gender.

Perhaps it’s my mom’s fault because when it was time for “back to school” shopping, she’d just give me the local department store credit card and instruct me to get what I needed. I’m not sure if I ever asked for direction, so I was left to wander the aisles and purchase variations of the same theme: flair pants (avoiding that crazy bell bottom jean things that my sister wore) and t-shirts. About my only clothing purchase that I put thought into was the “I’m with Stupid” tee that was specifically for picture day. (I might have even calculated who would be the left of me in the yearbook…was it going to Jeff Graves or Karen Kane? Hopefully not Karen as I asked her to go with me via note and she wrote in “maybe”).

My mom did tell me that I needed to get a suit and tie for my 8^th grade graduation: apparently it was a big deal for the kids of Guerneville and my mom might have helped me pick out that ivory white suit with pants, jacket and vest. As I think of it, it reminds me of something that Atticus Finch would wear on a warm, Alabama afternoon as he defended Tom Robinson. But I was 13 years old and I was wearing an off white suit and I had grown eight inches that year and so, in short, I think I stuck out from the rest of the class.

I think my time at a private school and then onto a conservative private college has lead me to a conclusion about clothes: some people care more about them than I do. Or, perhaps more accurately, those people are attached to what they wear and believe that it’s their God given right to dress however they damn well please, thank you. “And, if you dare mess with my clothes, then you can just go…” and you know where this line of thinking is headed.

So, when Debbie made me pants and a shirt for the Christmas during my freshman year in Grand Rapids I was a bit taken aback. First of all, no one had ever made clothes for me and second, well, I was going to break up her when I got back to school. I think she was excited to give me the box that January and though I’ve been given the obligatory sweater or jacket, I might have paused a bit too long as I picked up the navy blue, uncollared shirt with the little green frog branding the left chest.

“Do you like it?” she asked and I might have paused, again, a bit too long, because she continued “I like the color and, well, you know: I like frogs.”

“Thanks,” I responded and then caught eye of the homemade tag on the shirt: “Luv Ya!” it read and I think she had crossed stitched it herself.

“Oh,” she says, “there’s one more thing…”

And I reach my right hand into the box while Debbie grabs my left arm and pulls it toward her with some giddiness.

She must of read my expression, because she said: “Remember when I did your laundry before winter break? Well, I took measurements and I worked on both pieces for about a week during break.”

“Wow,” I said.

“Yeah, my mom helped me a bit with the inseam,” she said. “Try them on.”

Everything fit me pretty well, but as I emerged from the bathroom, I felt a bit, well, like a frog. It seemed that I should just start doing high kicks and get a top hat and take my skinny frogged legs on tour.

I did thank Debbie and I waited another month to break off the relationship…I distinctly remember that it was February 13^th and you have to realize that I simply couldn’t take it anymore.

I guess I never really considered what I wore to be who I am. And, perhaps, my few attempts at making a statement were only mere spastic tries at being someone beyond me. Perhaps I’ve aimed too low on the fashion scale or perhaps, I simply don’t care that much. It’s the complaint from girls to boys or girlfriends to their boyfriends or wives to their husbands and it just might be a gender thing. Women care about clothes; men eat on the couch. For one, there is a nurturing aspect of selection and matching and arranging, for the other, life’s about consumption and piles.

So, I guess I shouldn’t be too hard on Ken for not recognizing my fashion faux paus during our first meeting. The fact that I even remember the incident probably has more to do with my wife’s reaction to the “outfit.” Not much was said regarding my choice of clothes and the arrangement thereof. In our subsequent conversations about fashion usually have fizzled into mere grunts or “while you’re up” requests from the pantry or the store. And I think of Ken’s advice to me during my engagement to his daughter; he told me, suggested to me: “Choose your battles wisely.”

Those stupid yearbook people cropped out my directional t-shirt and the “Luv Ya!” brand was discarded soon after my engagement to Lori. I’ve recently retire nine…yes, nine, plaid Timberland shirts that made up my teacher wardrobe last year. Apparently pleats are out and I’m just not a fan of the tie. Sometimes I tell Lori that “this year, I’m going with the tie and jacket look” and she’ll say something like “are you going to CVS for some M&Ms?”