If things were different

“If Things Were Different”



It seems nowadays that everything comes down to brands; your brand of clothes, the brand of cigarettes you smoke, the brand of liquor you drink. I’ve never been much of a materialist. I bought these blue jeans at a flea market along with my undershirt and socks, none of which are labeled. I stick to the important stuff: My jacket is a Government-issue Army coat. I smoke Marlboro cigarettes, drink Wild Turkey whiskey, and most importantly, I wear black and white Chuck Taylor sneakers.

I’m lighting my second to last Marlboro with my Zippo when she walks into the bar. She’s wearing a yellow t-shirt with “Evolution” screen-printed on the front. Her skirt is short, made of denim, and has no label. Her jacket is denim, as well, with a patch on the back that says “No Regrets,” and a picture of a skankin’ baby. She’s wearing three pairs of pantyhose; yellow underneath neon green, with black on top. Each pair is strategically ripped to show the color underneath in different shades. On her feet, Oh yeah, black and white Chuck Taylors.

She’s perfect, the kind of woman there ain’t enough time in the world for. I pray for only a few moments… My prayers are answered. She sits next to me at the bar and orders a Killian’s Irish Honey. She pulls a Salem out of its sliding box and places it between her thin lips. I hand her my Zippo with a glancing smile. She returns the smile and jokingly tells me she likes my shoes. I return the compliment but add that I love her stockings. I note that I would have worn mine, but it didn’t match my outfit. She laughs. If ever there was any ice, it’s laying shattered and melting on the ground.

We talk for about an hour about anything we can. She makes her own clothes and sells them. She has a shop on 3rd Street called Evolution, hence the shirt. She’s so witty and beautiful with a great sense of humor. Things are going great until she notices the time. She tells me she has to go, but before she leaves, she writes her name and number on my right arm and says, “Call me.” As I walk her to the door and watch as she gets in her Volkeswagen, I’m floating. If there were a pin next to me, I swear I’d pop.

As she’s driving away it hits me. It is about 6 foot five and four hundred pounds of meathead. GAP is burned into the leather on its ass and printed on its shirt. It’s wearing Nike athletic shoes and the Varsity football jacket it got in high school, even though that was 17 years ago.

It challenges me. I accept. I stare at the eloquently written signature on my arm as I hear it to my back left growl the words, “We gonna do dis.” My left arm moves swiftly, almost faster than light can catch. This is for you, Rachel, I think as my Smith and Wesson booms. Its head splits into four major pieces, two still attached to the neck, two completely airborn, and innumerable smaller pieces, as its body falls to the ground.

I take out my final Marlboro from the almost full pack and light it. God, that tastes good. My time in this body is over. I look at my right arm one last time before I let it go.

It would have raped and killed Rachel if I would not have split its head that night. It would have hurt what would have been my wife and true love if I had not died so young of a self-inflicted wound. I know this. How I know is a story of a world without brands.

I look back at the dust that was my body and around it lies a pair of unlabeled jeans, an Army coat around a t-shirt, a Smith and Wesson atop a pack of Marlboros and a Zippo, and most importantly some socks hanging out of Chuck Taylor sneakers.


The End.