a writing exercise

The Slightly Used Long-Sleeve Shirt

I remember when I first saw him, pulled out of one of those cardboard donation boxes of things someone wanted to abandon. I hung around in the second aisle, at the end of the Long-sleeve Shirts section next to Jeans, so I had a clear view of the donation drop-off and storage room in the back when the door was open. The door’s not always open, but I guess I got lucky that day. I remember that first time seeing him, his long awkward sleeves, his little seams that were undone. Places where his fabric stretched and wrinkled. But I think what did it for me was this small, faint stain underneath his breast pocket. It wasn’t so noticeable because of the pinstripes, but I could see it. He was lovely. I think I got lucky again that day, because after much tossing and flinging about, the employee hung him in my aisle, straight across from me.

At first, he wouldn’t even look at me. He was bitter, like most others, for being donated, dumped by their owners. He would get his hopes up when a customer came down the aisle perusing his section, only to be crushed when he’d be slapped through without a second glance. I tried to cheer him up whenever that happened. I’d wiggle to the rhythm of the songs that would play in the store. I’d flop and bend my arms into different shapes. I told him about the time a fellow, a pair of corduroys, infested with crabs from his former owner was hung next to me. It was an uncomfortable position for me and all the jeans because we didn’t want to get any of his bugs. But fortunately, some poor man bought him a few days later. Ha-ha.

He ignored me though.

But as the days went on, I could tell he was beginning to accept his place. And me. One time, when a customer passed him by, I formed a hand with the end of my sleeve and flipped them off. He shrugged his shoulders as a nod to me. And another day, when a customer did the same to me, he flopped his arms back and forth in the same awkward manner that the customer did as they continued down the aisle. It was really good.

At night the cassette tape guys would sometimes get with some of the old stereos and blast music. Most of it was crappy, obscure songs from the 80s and 90s, so he and I would have a good time making fun of those. We even got some of the others in the aisle to join our dancing. Once though, they put on “Let’s Get It On” by Marvin Gaye. We just immediately started swinging to it; it was so silly. But there was a small moment when we glanced at each other and felt something beyond our amusement. Beyond the joy of just dancing. I took the chance and reached my right arm out across the aisle. He put out his. We touched in the middle.

But the next morning, he acted coldly. He wouldn’t look at me. I asked him what was wrong and he said that last night was a mistake. I didn’t understand. He told me to take a good look at myself and then take a look at him. I was in perfect condition, a handsome turtleneck long sleeve with no tears, no stretch marks, no stains. He was just old and used. Someone would probably buy me soon, and I’d be gone leaving him here alone where nobody would ever take him. It’s a real miracle I’m still here at all, he said. I was shocked. How could he say that? How could he think that? To me, he was perfect, from the moment I saw him, I told him. He turned to the side. I’d be gone soon anyway, he said. Silence, except for the music of the store. Finally, quivering in anguish, I told him: Well. Turtlenecks aren’t in fashion, which is why I’m here to stay. But maybe you’re right. Maybe tomorrow some hipster will want to wear me ironically.

We didn’t speak again. I still couldn’t understand why he thought we couldn’t be together at least for the time being. So I tried to rekindle things between us with the arm-flopping, dancing at night. He wouldn’t budge. He wouldn’t even look at the other clothes, which I was secretly glad for. But with every rejected gesture, I became a little angrier. And I knew that actually for the first time I felt slightly used. He was just so wrong about us.

Next Friday afternoon some old man bought him. Clearly missed the pocket stain, I thought bitterly. But once he was out the door, suddenly, I was sad. I couldn’t place whether it was because he was gone, or because he was wrong about me being the one to go away, but still kind of right about the way things were. Clothes would always come and go in this place. I have come and would eventually go. Would it always be that pointless?

The same day, another load of donations came in. And I saw her for the first time. The lumpy Christmas sweater. And she was lovely.