• This is a short story I wrote right as the CoVid-19 Lockdown was just starting to kick in. At that time, most of us figured the Lockdown wouldn’t last that long (How wrong we were?). Don’t ask why I wrote it. Nasty weather outside, having to wash clothes, and a hankering to do some scribbling on the computer that day. Here’s the result.
• Just as an aside, a group of people here in tiny Silverton had a “Black Lives Matter” march yesterday. Even though no Black people live in this area, a lot of Hispanic families do, and we need to support the folks down on the Rez. We’ll get through these strange times.                                                          Word Count: 4765

It’s All About That

Ragged Purple Shirt

You ever had a piece of clothing that despite the fact it may, or not have given you some sort of good luck whenever you wore it, you still refused to put the damn thing on? First off, I strongly feel that those of you out there who buy into this whole superstition mumbo-jumbo are just that; delusional types who claim the moon landing was staged, possess documented evidence for their contention that 9/11 was an inside job, and U.F.O.s only land in large portions of the south. Basically, their minds have a sizable percentage of detritus. These people also get a lot of their news about the world from the F.atalistic O.ctegenarian X.enophobe News Network, but we won’t get into that at this particular time.

What I will say is this, the shirt I refuse to wear is so godawful ugly and unwearable that it’s a true miracle of nature I haven’t gotten rid of it already. The reason I haven’t done this has a lot to do with the fact that my roommate, who also happens to be my dear brother, thinks me wearing it is a good luck charm, and he won’t let me mistakenly (but planned out all along without his knowledge) place it in the trash bin. You should strongly feel that I’m a genuinely nice guy. I’ve had lots of chances to make the shirt disappear from my life, but because I haven’t, has a great deal to do with the fact that I’m mostly concerned about the welfare of humanity. Whenever I’m not strategizing about viable ways to conquer the world that is.

First, let me give you some backstory. Even if you don’t want me too, I’ll do it anyway since it doesn’t really matter what you think. The shirt in question was first exchanged between my father and his best friend for fifteen years. Myles Birnbaum and my father used to trade the shirt back and forth whenever one of their birthdays would roll around. Dad has been cheated for his entire life since his B-day happens to be on December 25^th. Sure enough, his buddy would always give him the same long sleeve purple eyesore year in and year out with the same note contained within; “This is such a wonderful article of clothing that I need to make a supreme sacrifice by parting with it. To celebrate the dual events of my birthday and Christmas happening on the same day, I’m giving this to you as a way to help you get through all those cold nights ahead of us.”

Then when April 15^th would roll around, Bradley Cavendish (Dad) would return the shirt with a similar note inside; “To celebrate two wonderful events – taxes-due and your birthday happening at the same moment in time, I’m giving you this shirt. Wear it in good faith, as I had a very difficult time separating myself from this.”

Ultimately, the shirt ended up in my hands when the two of them came up with a new treasure to exchange back and forth, an extensive collection of airline barf bags contained within a special satchel signed by Rodney Dangerfield’s garbage man.                              Thankfully, none of the bags has been previously used, so that fact alone has aided in their gift transfer having taken place for over ten years now. That meant the shirt has been in my possession for that long too. Kind of scary to imagine I’ve been dealing with the shirt/clothing monstrosity for that length of time.

So why exactly does my brother and various others consider the shirt to be such a good luck charm? Maybe if we listen in on our latest conversation that might give you a clue. No promises though, since this might confuse you more than anything else.

The living room of our apartment; the shirt which henceforth shall be referred to as, “Barney’s Brother” or BB, is sitting in the corner with a pile of other clothing on top of it. Basically, so I don’t have to look at the damn thing:

“Don’t get up on my account,” said Christian Cavendish as he crossed the threshold. “It’s not like I’m the only one bringing in the money to pay the rent around here.”

My brother has perfected the art of over-dramatizing just about everything in his personal life. “What you talking about? I just landed that Internship yesterday, so I am contributing to the cause.”

“Yeah, but that only took a little over three months for you to pull off. During the interim, you’ve upped the cost of the monthly utility bill by taking four hour baths where you constantly added additional hot water to the tub, ate all of my snack food, and talked me into going to the movies where I of course had to pay for just about everything.”

“No sir, a few of those films you wanted to go to, and ended up asking me to accompany you. I never touched your carrot sticks by the way.”

“That’s because you’ve developed this uncanny ability to avoid any type of vegetable crossing your lips, except for ketchup which you consider a plant based form of sustenance.”

“Well maybe.”

“So, what’s the deal with all these clothes haphazardly piled up in the corner?”

Christian is also one step short of being a total anal retentive. “Oh that. I just washed them and dropped the pile of clothes on the floor when I quickly dashed in the apartment to answer the phone.”

“Vitally important to answer that call when it’s another telemarketer wanting to find out if you do indeed believe in unicorns.”

“I got distracted and haven’t had a chance to pick them back up and carry the clothes into my room.” This is sort of true.

“Well what kept you from doing the job right after you got done with the call?”

“I decided to flip the TV on and watch the news.”

“Why? So you could catch all those commercials for FDA-approved “Overly Sore Butt” pharmaceuticals.”

Arguing with my brother is sort of like trying to navigate through a hurricane in your trusty Paper-Mache sail boat. “I like to keep abreast of current events.”

Christian walked over to the clothing pile and started leafing through it. “Sad excuse. How come you piled all these other clothes on top of your BB shirt?”

“I didn’t want to glance over at the heap and have to look at the damn thing.”

“But it’s good luck?”

“You can’t be serious?”

“Of course I am. Hard to argue with what happened when you put it on yesterday.”

“You think that just because I put the shirt on underneath my suit coat I got that Internship?”

“Why not? Makes sense to me.”

In the twenty-seven years I’ve known my brother, very little about him makes much sense to me. “Then why don’t you take it off my hands?”

“Because you’re the one who needs the good luck more than me. How do you explain that string of fortunate events which has transpired for you in the last month?”

“Which ones you talking about? I can honestly say I don’t recall any sort of good fortune.”

“What about when you got four of the six lotto. numbers right on the ticket you were given for your birthday.”

“Big deal. I won enough money to buy four more tickets, which I didn’t do by the way. All that does is keep these delusional dreamers coming back for more.”

“Granted the lotto. people do have to keep selling tickets in order to stay in business, I suppose that’s why neither one of us has ever won the lottery, but it does have something to do with your run of good fortune. You had BB on at the time.”

“Total coincidence.”

Christian moved onto using another piece of fodder to support his argument. “How do you explain the fact that you lent BB to our neighbor and that very afternoon the landlord shows up to fix her wiring. Elmira had only been asking him for the past five months to look into it, then she puts BB on, and presto-chango he comes knocking on her door.”

“She told you that?”

“In a manner of speaking, yes. In case you’re contemplating throwing the shirt out, don’t.”

“Why not?”

“We can’t do that since right after she gave the garment back to you, the dad whose kid broke our window with his errant baseball appears on our doorstep ready to replace the glass.”

“Another lucky coincidence.”

“Au contraire mon frère. I’m envisioning us putting BB on display in a special glass frame after you’ve worn it so many times it’s gotten thread-bare. We do the case so the good luck will keep coming of course.”

“That’s insane?” Then again, we’re living in America at the present moment, so Christian wanting to build a shrine with BB encased in it can’t be any more out-of-leftfield than all that federal government bewilderment. “You going to pay for the frame we’re going to put the shirt in?”

“Sure, why not. At this point I’m a bit concerned. You need to promise me you won’t secretly dispose of BB.”

Whatever. “Ok Christian, I promise not to discard it when you’re not looking.”

“I need a pledge from you.”

“Cross my heart and hope to die. I’d swear on a bible, but since both of us are atheists, that doesn’t really mean much. Intermingling blood doesn’t work either since the sight of the stuff makes me extremely queasy.”

“Squeamish? Me too. That means neither one of us will ever go to medical school.”

“You want to pinky swear on it with me instead?”

“Sounds good.”

With that, we locked pinky fingers. This was followed by Christian disappearing into his room to pull the tie off, change clothes, and slowly but surely enter back into the land of the casual. Meanwhile, I picked up the clothes and straighten things out. Not having much of a desire to go through another interrogation via my brother-the-neat-freak.

 

(*&^%$&#@_”?|:#$!!!!

As I deposited the clothes into their drawers in an attempt to look and act organized, I took a long look at BB. Thought about all the things that had happened since I first acquired the garment.

We can only speculate as to why some people consider various items of clothing to be “good luck charms”? Maybe it has to do with the fact that mankind for the most part happens to be a superstitious breed. How do you explain the fact that a lot of people refuse to walk under ladders, and seriously consider spending the day in bed whenever a black cat crosses their path? What do they do when a mirror is broken in a fit of rage?

I could spend the next three hours just telling you about all the questionable practices some of my friends carry out while they’re rooting for a particular team. How about my buddy Jackson? He still refuses to admit that college football is a modern-day form of indentured servitude, with most of its participating athletes being unpaid circus performers.

The irony of the fact is that he happens to be black, but still feels some sort of bullshit allegiance to his alma mater, the University of Georgia. On game day Saturdays, Jackson always eats his breakfast from the same chipped cereal bowl that was given to him by Hershel Walker’s third cousin. Hershel Walker being the star running back, and Heisman trophy winner from back in the early 80s at Georgia. Then to add quirky behavior to quirky behavior, he drives his red Ford Victoria with black accents (the U of A colors) along the same route every time he attends a game (hasn’t missed a home contest in over fifteen years). This takes him forty miles out of his way to get to the stadium. He does this because it requires Jackson to drive by the house of Vince Dooley (the winningest Georgia coach of all time?). All to enhance the team’s fortunes.

Of course, Jackson always sits in the same section where he’s had season tickets since 1991, and orders treats from the same concessionaire who’s served him since the guy came on border that year. The team turned around its fortunes of 4-7 the previous season to 9-3, which Jackson strongly attributes to his influence. All in some sort of strange behavioral practices to enhance the team’s chances of succeeding.

Just as a final side note, Jackson contends that Georgia lost the national championship game to Alabama on 1/8/18 because he wasn’t in attendance, and additionally, had earlier made disparaging comments about Hawaiian food. The high cost of tickets and a previous commitment kept him from being able to attend. He did try to watch the championship on his smart phone, but kept getting interrupted by his wife who wanted him to participate more in that evening’s dinner party. Threatening to take the phone out of his hands and throw it into a nearby pond unless he took her words to heart and acted on them.

The disparaging comments came at a New Year’s Eve party the previous week where Jackson told a room full of other Georgia faithful that Spam (which plays a prominent role in Hawaiian cuisine) was the meat packing industries’ solution to an over-supply of pig’s feet at its slaughtering plants. This may or may not be true, but who among us is willing to investigate the matter? As far as the Bulldogs losing their match, Alabama overcame a 13-0 halftime deficit with the help of their freshman quarterback playing in his initial contest, Tua Tagovailoa. From of all places, those sun drenched tropical islands in the middle of the Pacific Ocean. Was this a coincidence? As Christian always likes say, “I don’t think so.”

 

Should we consider Jackson’s actions to be in the realm of odd, eccentric, behavior? I suppose they are, but what’s the difference when you compare his fanaticism to the practices of the couple down the block. Unlike Jackson, Martin and Maggie Schaffer are totally indifferent to college football unless it involves a player of top notch quality signing a contract to play for their favorite professional team, the Atlanta Falcons.

They’re also extreme fans of their team, but unlike Jackson, they’ve taken it to the next highest level. Having the design and color of their house mimic that of the team’s logo design, planning their vacations around attendance at the team’s pre-season training camp, and regular attendance at all home games where appropriate team paraphernalia accompanied by massive amounts of face paint is worn.

The one thing that made the Schaffer obsession more extreme than Jackson’s fanaticism? Coming within an eyelash of carrying out their threat to move lock, stock, and barrel to an isolated island in the South Pacific. This, as a result of their team’s most recent successful maneuver at pulling its fan hearts out and beating it to a bloody pulp.

The island relocation almost happened right after the Falcons grasped defeat from the gapping jaws of victory in Super Bowl LI (51). Turning a 28-3 advantage in the fourth quarter into a final losing score of 28-34. The only thing keeping this event from transpiring? Margaret’s promise that she’d babysit during her daughter’s dental appointment the following Tuesday.

)(*%$#*&”@?|@#\./$%*&!!!!

In an attempt to find out just why so many people had this strange perception that possession of BB meant so much good luck falling upon them, I decided to do a bit of investigating. Getting the lowdown from a variety of diverse sources.

The first of my conversations was with our next-door neighbor, Elmira Higgins. She moved to our building about the same time my brother and I first set up residency there, and just like the two of us, Elmira was also pursuing a set of dreams. In our case, as entrepreneurs’, but for Elmira the dreams involved owning her operating her own restaurant.

She attended cooking school where she picked up the nuances of food preparation for her specialty, cuisine of her childhood home, the coastal region of southern Georgia and northern Florida. Elmira was well on her way to achieving these dreams of a culinary expertise since the culinary institute she attended happened to be one of the top-notch schools in Washington D.C., if not the entire country. Unfortunately, one day owning and operating an upscale restaurant also hinted at a person possibly having some business knowledge, along with a bit of savvy. Unfortunately, Elmira possessed these entities in the same ratio as Olympic powerlifters who also have an intimate knowledge of classical ballet maneuvers.

She probably should’ve taken a few business courses in her spare time, but the most she’d done up to that point was just talk about it. For the time being, Elmira was content to work as one of the upper echelon chefs at a popular downtown Atlanta restaurant. Preparing all manner of mouthwatering dishes and slipping the occasional discount meal to various friends and family. I was looking for more than that the afternoon I stopped in to get her perspective at Country Culinary Collective, CC&C.

An unoccupied table in C, C, & C’s staff lounge:

“You mentioned over the phone that you want to get the details about your lucky shirt?” asked Elmira as she wiped the sweat off her brow. “I’ll only tell you what I know if you’ll consider giving me the piece of clothing someday.”

“That’s possible, although I promised my brother I’d give him my first-born in a trade if he ever asks for it. Since that’s not the case, I’m required to hold onto the shirt.”

“I felt like Don Quixote attacking all those windmills. Couldn’t get management of our building to even think about fixing my wiring, then the very morning your brother tells me possession brings good luck and lets me borrow the shirt, everything changes.”

“You think?” I felt like telling her the same thing I said to Christian, that her story was a total bullshit, but didn’t because I felt sorry for Elmira. Fancy food and weird swing shift work hours usually doesn’t make up for unfulfilled dreams and aspirations. Unless of course, you’re into working from 4:00 in the afternoon until 2:00 am the next morning.

“I’m a big believer in good luck charms,” said Elmira. “My mom’s family immigrated to America from Ireland, and my seanmhair (grandmother) carried a four leaf-clover with her during the entire passage from Dublin to N.Y.C.”

“Ok.” Guess that isn’t any stranger than Christian making me wash BBseparate from every other article of clothing.

“Then my father’s family, who immigrated from Serbia, used to say you need to spill water behind a person every time they make on a trip or go to a new job.”

“Why?”

“This leads to good luck happening for them. I’ve developed a variation of the two which incorporates both traditions, and carried out the practice since I was a kid.”

“What’s that?”

“Whenever I’m getting ready to go somewhere, or starting work at a new restaurant, I direct someone to spill a bit of water directly behind me, at four different times.”

“And this procedure has worked?”

“Yes. I got your brother to do it for me before I started working here and the results speak for themselves. I’m shocked that he didn’t tell you this?”

“Me too.” Then again, Christian usually doesn’t divulge all the trivial stuff to yours truly.  I like to think life is too short, and I’d prefer to just wing it most of the time without envisioning best case scenarios happening.

“There are lots of other things I do to bring me good luck. Ever since cooking school, I’ve used the same slightly battered whisk whenever I’m preparing food. This also seems to have worked swimmingly for me in the good luck department.”

“Alright then. I need to talk to a few other folks, but you’ve given me a lot to think about while I’m carrying that out. Thanks for the info. Elmira.”

“Remember Joseph, if you’re ever thinking about getting rid of that purple shirt of yours, I’ll take it off your hands. In fact, I might even buy it from you if I’ve got the extra money.”

“Will do Elmira. Christian wants me to put it in a special frame, so that’s more likely to happen.”

“Good idea.”

As I walked out the door of C, C, & C’s I thought about what it would take for Elmira to buy the building for her own restaurant one day. A swimming pool sized container of water dyed green and spilled behind her at four different times?

 

The very next day I visited with Jackson Kingman during his lunch break at the accounting firm where he worked. The place allowed him easy access to the Interstate so he could drive to Athens and attend University of Georgia football games. A vital consideration no doubt.

“So,” said Jackson. “What’s up? Cushman & Cushman Accountants only gives us a half-hour for lunch. That requires me to stuff my face while I’m checking out the website of Georgia football for the latest.”

“I’ve got this purple shirt in my possession that supposedly brings me good luck. I was wondering if you’ve got any similar types of articles in your wardrobe?”

“A few actually, and all of them I have relate in some strange way to my obsession with UGA football.”

“Really?” What a shock. “My brother says I shouldn’t get rid of this shirt since it’ll bring my string of good luck happening to an end. I think that’s preposterous.”

“I don’t know, makes sense to me. You know, in a lot of cultures, all sorts of objects are said to bring good luck.”

“What, like a rabbit’s foot?”

“I’ll bet you didn’t know that the myth of rabbit’s feet came to America with my ancestors on the slave ships from Africa. I carry a similar object with me all the time when I go to UGA games. Always results in good fortune.”

“Get out here, how you able to prove that?”

Jackson smiled. “Easy, whenever I bring my lucky UGA porcelain bulldog figurine with its chipped tongue from when Jim Donnnan (UGA coach-1996 to 2000) dropped it while autographing the doll, Georgia cleans up on the field.”

“How’d you get him to sign it in the first place?”

“Right after they won their first big game in the ’97 season, I walked down onto the field and managed to get him to take the figurine and autograph it. Been bringing it with me to every victory of theirs ever since then.”

“So, does that mean when you don’t bring the doll with you to their games, they lose?”

“They stink up the joint. I misplaced the mascot for five games during the 2010 season and they ended up with a 6-7 record. Mislaying the mascot resulted in the season becoming a total disaster.”

“What do you do during their away games?”

“I watch them on TV with the mascot in my lap. Did that faithfully during this past season and look what happened?”

“You didn’t have the doll when they lost the National Championship game?”

“I did, but them losing is another story I’d rather not discuss at this time. Needless to say, I’ll never go to Hawaii, and a few things will need to be different in fall of 2018.”

“Ok then, you’ve given me lots to think about.”

“You planning on getting rid of that shirt of yours? If it’s the UGA colors, I might consider taking it off your hands.”

“My brother wants me to hold onto it, so I’m probably not going to part with the thing. Sorry.”

“Too bad, one can never have too much good luck on their side. My support of UGA football proves this.”

As I walked out the door, I wondered what Jackson would do if UGA football had a really bad season? Something along the lines of a 2-9 debacle as a result of the mascot mistakenly getting broken into a thousand pieces, among other end-of-humanity apocalyptic disasters?

 

The final stop related to my investigation of the BB phenomenon was a dinner date that evening with Martin and Maggie Schaffer. I was anticipating an obsession on their part similar in scope to that of Jackson. Only in their case, it would relate to their beloved Falcons, as opposed to the UGA Bulldogs.

Now you’ve heard the saying, “Time heals all wounds.” In the case of most sports fans, it’s kind of amazing what the differences between one year and the next can do in terms of how it affects the rabid fan base outlook. “Hope springs eternal”, could be a better assessment of the situation. The Falcon’s Super Bowl LI disaster seemed like it might’ve happened one hundred years ago. Emphasis on the word, “might’ve”, since we’re more than likely living in an alternate universe anyway.

“So, you’re doing better?” which is usually the first thing I’ve learned to ask the Schaffer’s, ever since February 2017, anyway. Right after Super Bowl LI, you had to worry about the fact that both of them were former postal service employees and loyal NRA supporters.

“Oh yeah,” said Martin. “Ever since the Falcons got knocked out in the play-offs early this year, life’s been fairly easy to deal with. They didn’t trip and fall 100 feet from the summit like they did last year.”

“Your brother told us all about the unique charms of this shirt you possess,” said an excited Maggie. “Any chance of you giving it to us? I can cut the garment into two parts and sew each of them onto our Falcons jerseys.”

“How do you know the shirt’s ability to grant good luck won’t wear off if you rip it up?” Listen to me, talking about BB like it possesses some sort of magic. Maybe it does?

“I don’t, but what if you do give it to us and the very next year the Falcons win it all. Wouldn’t that be nice?”

“My brother already made me promise I’d hold onto it under threat of having to pay the entire rent amount if he can’t find the shirt. Christian worries about me secretly getting rid of the thing when he’s got his back turned.” Legitimate concern, but I’ll be a good boy and won’t do that.

“So, what’s your plan at this point?”

“Sit back and see what happens. Continuing to hold onto the shirt has already brought us a little bit more good luck. Last night the pizza delivery guy brought us two pies by mistake and we didn’t have to pay for any of it.”

“Little victories mean so much, don’t they?”

“They do.”

 

There I was. I’d finally come to somewhat of a conclusion that BB did indeed possess this magical ability to grant its owner good fortune. All I had to do at that point was prove it to myself through one last miraculous thing happening.

At first nothing took place, but then that’s the way things always happen in life. When you least expect it, something occurs that totally confirms all your suspicions.

The internship was going great. So outstanding that it wasn’t that much of a surprise when I got called into the office to hear a bit of great news. Telling Christian what happened that night influenced him to suggest a final BB celebration.

“The big boss called me into his inner sanctum today.”

“Good news or bad?” asked my brother. “Wait a sec., I told you to put BB on since its “Casual Friday”. That means the news is good. Has to be.”

“Yup, they like how well I’ve integrated myself into the company that management wants to turn the internship into a full-time position. A huge bump up in salary for one thing.”

“As the Montgomery Burns character on the “Simpsons” likes to say, “Excellent.” All because I got you to put on BB this morning before you walked out the door.”

“You know, a month ago I would’ve asked you how potent those drugs you just ingested happened to be. Lately though, I’m becoming convinced that BB does indeed have magical powers.”

“See, I told you so. Why don’t you put the shirt on and let’s go celebrate? Pickle the ’ole liver a bit, and pick up some fair lasses.”

“Don’t push it.”