| | What does your t-shirt say?
The Academy Award for most obnoxious person I've ever known goes to a person who would remain nameless except that his name is David Solomon. Back in the 70's, before most of your grandparents were even born, Dave and I met each other through a mutual friend (Mr. Doobie), and I took a more or less an instant dislike to him. Which was fine with Dave. Antagonism and obnoxiousness weren't just second nature to Dave, they were a life strategy. Why? Who knows, although like most things in Austin Texas during the 70's, drugs no doubt played a part. After awhile though, I learned that it wasn't personal with Dave. He didn't dislike me, or any of the other people he was constantly annoying, he just did it to see what my, or their, reaction would be. It was, so to speak, a challenge. A game. Since I liked games, I learned to play--though not very well--and we became, if not friends, aquaintances.
For awhile, Dave's phrase du'jour was "Eat some fuck," a saying I believe he originated. He might say this to total strangers, if they fell even slightly crossways of him. One day, after a particularly bizarre confrontation with a waiter, he got it put on a custom made t-shirt. "Eat some fuck" in big letters on the back. Over the pocket, in a stunning summation of his entire life philosophy, he had them put "DLMBY." Don't Let Me Bug You.
It was the only time I felt that Dave had lived up to the legacy of the Hebrew kings for which he was named. He had shown himself to be worthy of direct descent from Kings David and Solomon, such was the courage and wisdom of that t-shirt. An entire philosophy, summed up in 3 words and 5 letters. Aristotelian in its scope, Nietzschean in its brevity.
Eat some fuck. DLMBY. A zen koan of obnoxiousness.
Of course, we were all jealous. Or at least I was. How could we get a t-shirt like that? A piece of clothing that summed up our very essence? I felt that if only I could come up with the words, the fitting phrase, I would at last discover who I was. I longed for the simplicity of a t-shirt identity.
It was not to be. Perhaps I lacked Dave's merciless insight that enabled him to see into the darker recesses of his soul, or perhaps my soul was simply too fuzzy around the edges to be so brilliantly defined. Perhaps I just lacked his sense of poetry. But for whatever reason, neither I nor any of our circle matched or even attempted to match Dave's triumph. Except for Monte.
The first thing you wondered about Monte was how a guy like that got such an amazing girlfriend. Without the details, we'll just say that in contrast, Monte was . . . less than amazing. But we all should have nice things in our lives, we all need somebody, and they both were happy. Obviously she saw something in him, and if I had to guess it probably was a little-boy sweetness that he had, a Neverland Lost Boy come back to live in London quality that, perhaps, appealed to the Wendy in her. Except that Monte cheated on her with a mutual friend, and the betrayal soured whatever it was she had felt, and no matter how he tried, he'd lost her.
Monte did not do well after the breakup. Drugs had been a big part of his life for a long time; now they became something more. Even at his best, he'd always looked strung out, like the tail end of an acid trip, bemused at perpetually unfamiliar surroundings. Now, he began to look far less than his best. He went into a tailspin.
This isn't Monte's story, though, because I have no idea as to the ending. I didn't stay in Austin, and the last time I saw him I was passing through town, back from California, still looking for that perfect t-shirt phrase, when I discovered that he had found his. We sat and played a little guitar, and the shirt he wore bore witness to the fact that he had achieved that merciless moment of self-insight that still eluded me. He wore his soul on his chest like a gunshot wound.
When I'm dead, she'll be sorry
So . . . what's your t-shirt say? |
