iv

“A man’s gotta do/what a man’s gotta do/don't plan the plan/if you can't follow through...”

-Dr. Horrible

Aunt Jemima is dead.

When starting a novel or a screenplay or a poem, any writer worth the MacBook Pro that he invariably types on will tell you that the first line is always the most important, drawing the gullible reader into a story of, probably, well-written half-lies. So, now that I have the attention of the global literate, let me carefully rephrase explain, with a few sentences of semi-truths: our family mini-van, the hunk of polished scrap metal known in used car lots as a 2001 Honda Odyssey and in my inner circle of friends as Aunt Jemima, the trusty, cranky 1900’s African-American housekeeper that chauffeurs me around the metroplex, has been donated to charity.

She blew her transistor before the first week of summer had even finished, while chugging down the dry roads towards Houston, quick-spewing steam bubbling out of a panicking hood. She just gave up.

I have been in three “accidents” (a word I use loosely) with Jemima by my side and her incredible top speed, my personal record was 97 miles-per-freaking-hour on a long stretch of highway on one Sunday morning. (The accidents and the speeding are not related.) She was my senior prom limo, my first hit-and-run vehicle, and only a slightly-better alternative to riding my bike down the HOV Lane for fifteen miles.

And now she is dead.

So, today, my mother had to drive me to work in her humid rental car, an alien-skull-shaped P.T. Cruiser, the grandest of all circus car ringmasters. But, again, it was a slightly-better alternative to riding my bike.

Shuffling my way from that three-ring death trap, I marched down the air-conditioned halls of the fitness center, pretending not to notice the clock loudly insisting my lateness from its perch on the bleak graypaint wall. Every morning before work, I stuff the same incredibly worn backpack into the same broken Locker #71 at the same slightly-tardy time of 9:07. And, every morning before work, I walk right past the coat rack, past the two permanent residences who hang from it: Mr. Windbreaker and Mr. Leather Jacket.

Crouching in one corner of the shelving unit, Mr. Windbreaker is still trapped in the eighties, the bruised purple, strobing blue, and neon white nylons clashing with one another to create the ultimate eyesore reminder of the worst decade in human history. He is the calm, silent, forgettable one; a piece of clothing that is stuffed into the back of the apartment closet and forgotten or, as he is here, a piece of clothing that is hung in a men’s locker room and then forgotten.

His companion, however, a certain Mr. L. Jacket, is proud, noble, and aging gracefully; the leather smells of a must consistent with the odors of a work-out facility, mixed with the eau of the Muzak speaker shouts. He is a pilot, a motor-cyclist, a cynical archeologist.

 I have already decided that, when the last day of my job finds its way onto my often ignored, basketball-themed calendar, mere days before I will leave my childhood home and subsequently be lost to my mother forever, I’m taking Leather Jacket off the rack and with me to my new life, leaving Windbreaker alone with the rattling lockers.

Looking back on my high school days, I have always been sort of a Windbreaker: calm, somewhat forgettable, out-of-place. I have too many regrets. To become a Leather Jacket would translate to forming myself into an impulsive person: someone who says what they are feeling, no matter how beautiful the girl is; someone who does not, will not, take “no” for an answer.

We’re buying a new car this week. I’ve been sending emails with links to Accord's and Camry's and Malibu's but my mother keeps coming back to the 2010 Honda Odyssey, Jemima’s younger sister. For my mother, the Japanese steel is both familiar and comfortable, while the leather interior, the cruise control, the back-up camera is bold, new, and different. Everything has its place, it seems. Even mini-vans.

On the night of the big heist, the final minutes of my summer employment, when I take Leather Jacket from his dusted hanger, I think will grab Mr. Windbreaker, too, before I storm out of the glassed double doors. Just for the hell of it. For the sake of familiarity. And for the sake of that small piece of bruised purple shyness still living inside me.