sludgo’s Mile Markers: Mile 228

The Autumn weather in New Sludgoville this year has been wonderful. After a summer spent sweltering through day after day after day of temps in the high-nineties and low-one-hundreds, I’ve welcomed the mildness of October, because that means it’s officially MGB season where cooler breezes prevail and the trees lining each side of the two-lane blacktops just north of town are turning triple technicolor. I’d been out for a Sunday morning scoot to pick up a foo-foo coffee and flirt with the twenty-something bouncy baristas and had just gotten back to the McBungalow when the youngest pulled into the drive behind me. I remembered he’d told me he’d be bringing back a book that he’d borrowed and I hopped out of the ‘B to greet him. He climbed out of his Subie wagon and saw me in the full light of day and that’s when it happened. I got The Look.

The Look. You know, The Look. Every parent has gotten one from their kid and every kid has given one to their parent. It’s the look that deftly mixes equal parts shock and embarrassment and pity into a pained grimace followed by a sky-searching eye-roll. It might even include a guttural moan, but that’s usually saved only for special occasions.

“Hey man, what’s up?” I said, pretending not to notice anything amiss.

“Good grief, Dad” he said, shaking his head in disbelief. “Have you seen yourself today?”

“Well, not to any overfamiliar degree, kiddo. Why?”

That earned me another Look. Two of them in less than five minutes. Made me wonder what the record was.

“Dad. I’ve been meaning to talk to you about it for a while now. I think you’ve been letting yourself go more and more lately and you’ve started to look like a bum. Those jeans you’re wearing are just rags and that ancient Harley hoodie is all frayed and tattered and those Toms have to be your worst and oldest pair.”

He leaned in for a closer look and crinkled his nose at me.

“And when’s the last time you shaved?”

I paused, worried it was a trick question.

“Uhh, Tuesday. I think. Yeah, Tuesday,” I stammered.

“And today is Sunday and since you’ve never been able to grow a good beard here’s a news flash: you still can’t.”

I reached up and rubbed my sparsely bristled chin in reflective thought. It might’ve been Monday, actually.

“And while we’re talking, what’s going on with your hair?” my inquisitor continued.

I nodded. “Yeah. I know I’m past due for a cut. But Carlos upped his rates at the shop and now I’m looking at fifty bucks plus tip for a fifteen-minute snip-and-clip and that seems crazy to me. So I figured I could put up with some shagginess and wear a hat when I’m out these days and…”

“Shagginess?” he interrupted incredulously. “Dad, you look like Einstein, just not as smart.”

I winced at the jab and began to reply but he was on a roll. Takes after his mother.

“And speaking of hats,” he sneered, pointing at the sweat- and goo- and grease-stained ball cap covering my noggin, “I know that one’s been your favorite forever but donchya think it’s time you retire the rotten old thing for something newer? Something that’s not so gross and stinky?”

“Gross and stinky?” I gamely replied. “I like to think of it as being broken in.”

I chuckled at my joke even though he didn’t. Couldn’t help but recall back in the day when I was running the mega-practice how I’d owned lots of clothes. Nice clothes. A true believer in dressing for success, I had many finely-creased pairs of premium-brand slacks I’d carefully coordinate daily with any one of a number of long-sleeved button-ups, themselves complemented by a stunning variety of silk ties and sweater vests—wool for winter, cotton for summer. Had plenty of shoes too, mostly variations on the tassel-loafer theme because I’d always hated messing with laces. Then there were the suits. Black ones for funerals and blue ones for weddings and brown ones for everything else, all fitted to me personally by tailors named Freddy and Jacques and Mr. Paul. Nothing but top shelf and top dollar and top end stuff—nine-hundred dollar cashmere argyle sweaters and eighteen-hundred dollar car coats. Kept the whole kit and caboodle in a closet almost as big as my childhood bedroom but then, five years ago when I retired as a shrink and assumed the writing gig, I rapidly realized I had no need anymore for such an expansive wardrobe. There’d be no more clients in my future. No more meet-and-greets or trainings or events or galas or courtroom appearances. I could gleefully embrace the wonderful simplicity of living the life of a happy hermit, spending my days and nights at the McBungalow with the dogs doing little more than tapping away on my Mac and picking away on my Strat and watching old movies.

So one day I did it. Took a deep breath and strolled into my closet. Gathered up all my fineries except for one black suit I thought I’d keep for my funeral, then neatly folded everything else into five Lawn & Leaf-sized trash bags and took them down to the thrift store. Grinned ear-to-ear as I drove away, giddy about the notion I’d never need to think about what I was going to wear again, delighted to be down to a couple-three pairs of jeans, a few white t-shirts, and my ever-trusty trove of hoodies. It felt freeing, like my world had gotten easier, just like it did that first day when I decided to skip my shave. And the next day when I decided to skip it again. And the day after that. Then there was the day I decided to let my hair grow out. It wasn’t only because Carlos had raised his rates. I just didn’t see any real reason to keep my every-other-week high-and-tight buzz-cut appointment. And yes, my wiry salt-and-pepper locks had become predictably unruly ever since, but I’d always put on that favorite hat of mine whenever I left the house so as not to terrify the citizenry. I’d never intended to lapse into such a state of disquieting disrepair, but evidently I had, at least according to the kid.

Hm.

I gave him a goofy grin and shrugged my shoulders. Told him I’d be sure to look into all of his concerns at my earliest convenience then laughed as he softened and joined in. Walked up to me with a knowing smile, shaking his head. Handed me the book then gave me a hug and said he loved me. Told me he had to get going. That he was meeting a buddy to have breakfast. Said we’d be sure to get together soon. I grinned again and we said our see-ya-laters.

I watched him drive off then went into the house. Walked into the bedroom and stopped at the full-length mirror hanging on the closet door. Took a long, hard, head-to-toe gander at myself and frowned. The kid had a point. There was no denying it. I looked awful. Sloppy and slovenly, bedraggled and haggard and disheveled, like a creepy-crawly crusty old man. Well then.

I grabbed my phone. Dialed up Carlos and scheduled an emergency appointment. Then I stripped out of my hobo outfit and threw it into the trash, including my beloved hat. Showered and shaved before getting dressed in a clean pair of jeans with no holes or rips and a t-shirt that wasn’t torn or stained. Slipped into the like-new burlap Toms I’d bought myself for my birthday last May and pulled on the hoodie I’d gotten from the eldest at Christmas. Then I rummaged through my modest hat collection and picked out one I’d bought eight years ago to mark a certain very special mile of mine. It’s white with a funky green logo and when I put it on it fit my dome perfectly. Didn’t smell either.

I walked over to the mirror again and smiled at what I saw. Felt better than I had in a while. Nothing like finding yourself a new favorite hat.