A Penny-Pincher's Gift

I found it in the foyer closet at my mother's house two weeks ago and already it's a bust. At first I was excited: a normal black zip-up hoodie that my father must've given me ten years ago. He had an obsession with giving me coats, jackets, and sweatshirts-- always at least two sizes too big. This long forgotten one, however, fit perfectly when I tried it on. "Oh, that looks good on you," my mother said as I checked for fit. Thankfully, the small logo on the chest was gray and tasteful; most of the stuff my father bought was bright, gaudy, and of brands more becoming of a downtown drug dealer's wardrobe. A modest piece like this one was a rare find. After three years of silence between us it seemed a sub-par delayed parting gift, but one that would be accepted.

As the weekly nightmares about him suggest, however, Charlie always wins.

The Better Half and I were getting ready to leave her mother's house after an impromptu dinner get-together. I went to the bedroom where our jackets had been tossed and donned my new black hoodie. After washing my hands in the bathroom I took a moment to inspect the garment in the mirror above the sink. That's when it dawned on me: I'd been had. I heard him laughing the last laugh.

"What's wrong with this picture?" I asked my girlfriend and her mother, spreading the front of the sweatshirt out for them by pulling on the elastic band along the bottom.

"Nothing. Why?"

"Look at the gray patches," I said with an admittedly defeated smirk.

"The ones on the shoulders?"

"No, near the pockets."

"Oh..."

There was a small gray triangle under the left pocket, but none under the right. My old man loved to shop at the local clothing store outlets. This must've been one of the factory rejects that he pulled triumphantly from the bargain bin. It fit his modus operandi perfectly. Even in death he wins. He's still breathing, but a man who denies his son's existence may as well be underground, at least to that son.

"Really, it's not noticeable," they tried to console me.

"Maybe not, but it's fitting," I replied before explaining the painfully comic backstory of why it made such sense.

Sure, I'll still wear it. But damn, Dad...for a few weeks I thought you may have done something right for a change.



Currently reading:
"The Early Stories: 1953-1975" by John Updike.