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Survival of the Fittest


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Survival of the Fittest
The Shirt

Kenneth DiMaggio

    Sal and Naomi’s relationship had already reached its first crisis: Naomi wanted to decide what her man should wear.
    This was not a bad thing. Sal had only worn T-shirts. That was not so bad; well, it could have been better if Sal’s T-shirts did not have skulls, bones, angry anarchist slogans, and the profiles of famous serial killers on them.
     Sal tried to get around this great crisis.
    “It’s not like I have a job where I need any fancy clothes,” Sal told Naomi.
    “And maybe if you had some normal clothes, you would have a job,” Naomi replied.
    Sal gave in, and went with Naomi to a discount outlet of a famous brand name department store. Like many guys, Sal just wanted to walk into a store (especially one that sold clothing) buy what he needed, and get the hell out as fast as possible to do something more constructive, such as watching the Yankees kick the ass of the Red Sox.
    Naomi, however, adapted to the men’s department of the store like a bat discovering a new attic with a hundred little nooks and crannies. She prodded and poked bins, yanked off several coat-hanger hung shirts and just as quickly examined them in less than a nanosecond before deciding they were no good, and she even managed to carefully fold any carefully-folded piece of clothing that she quickly picked up and then quickly discarded. Damn, Sal thought with admiration, I can’t even fold my own laundry, much less clothes that I am not going to buy.
    “Let’s try this,” Naomi said as she held up a white and blue pin-striped shirt before him. Ugh, thought Sal; not just because of its business like appearance, but also because:
    “It’s got buttons,” he whined.
    “Yeah, well, it’s a shirt!” Naomi said.
    Once she modeled it against Sal, she quickly pulled it away and re-racked it. Great, Sal thought. It didn’t match my sparkling personality, so we can go. Before Sal finished what he thought was a pretty witty thought, Naomi was already matching him with another button down shirt: a blue pastel.
    “What?” Sal complained. “That’s what the clerks wear at Blockbuster Video!”
    But Naomi was not hearing him. She was quickly un-racking, modeling, and re-racking shirts. By now, Sal was willing to surrender: he would wear a button down shirt. Even one that made him look like a clerk at Blockbusters. Unfortunately, his girlfriend was not easily satisfied. And Sal soon wondered if she would ever be satisfied at the way she went through shirt after shirt, when after all, it was just a shirt!
    “This one,” Naomi said with satisfaction that caught Sal off guard. “You hold it up against yourself and tell me what you think. I think it highlights your eyes.”
    “What?” Sal said as he laughed. But when he held the glossy black button down shirt against his chest and looked at his reflection in a nearby mirror, his eyes did seem to match the new fabric; his eyes did seem like the onyx stone of a ring he once got for his birthday and after one or two wearings, was exiled to a bedroom drawer.
    The black also seemed to put “steel”--even “stiletto” into Sal’s usual slouch and slacker. Hell, Sal thought, half in jest, but half seriously, I could even pass for a gangster.
     “Don’t fall too in love with yourself,” Naomi said, as she took the shirt back.
    “What are you doing,” Sal said, as he reached for the shirt.
    Naomi giggled.
     “I was going to buy it for you, not put it back,” she said.
    “I knew that,” Sal said.
    “Sure,” she said, even though Sal knew that she was lying. But Sal felt good after Naomi paid for the shirt and they left the store, deciding to stop for ice cream at a nearby Baskin Robbins (Sal’s suggestion). Naomi did not decline; (unusual; for she was “always on a diet”). Naomi seemed happy and content.
    If this was my first big crisis in our relationship, no big deal, Sal thought. Bring on some more.
    “Great,” Naomi said as they approached the Baskin Robbins. “There’s a shoe store right next door. After we’re done, I’m going to get you some shoes.”
    Fuck, Sal thought, as he sadly looked down at his black high-top Converse, wondering if he would ever see them again, along with his leather motorcycle jacket, his 2-dozen plus T-shirts, couple of Yankees hats, and six or seven pairs of jeans: the wardrobe of a “guy” before he was in a relationship. The wardrobe that only a woman--and only one kind of woman--could get a man to discard.



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