Apathy Pants

I was in another argument at the hardware store, chiding the predictably incompetent help over their latest mistake. "No, goddamnit," I yelled, pounding my fist on the desk. "These are the wrong kind of nails. Idiots!" I stomped around with my hands raised in an indignant "V", huffing and puffing and, according to the cretinous sixteen-year-old at the counter, "making a scene."

"Sir, please," she said. "If you could just settle down, I'm sure we could help you." I stopped my march just long enough to roll my eyes and spit on the ground. "Please, sir," she said again. "Sir!"

"Fine," I finally agreed, deciding that one of us had to handle this in a mature manner. She presented me with every type of nail but the one I needed. Box nails, bright nails, casing nails, coated nails, drywall nails, helix nails, shank nails and sinker nails, and after each I groaned a little louder than before. After the sinker nails, she hung her head and picked up a railroad spike. "I'm not an idiot," I said, and she looked like she was about to cry. "They're the nails with the things around them," I finally said, drawing a circle in the air with my finger.

"You mean screws?"

"No! No! No!" I screamed.

I'd find out later that I was, in fact, looking for screws. When I went back a few weeks later to apologize to the girl and get some screws, the manager said that they hadn't seen her since she ran crying from the store that day. I must've forgotten that part though because, as I bellowed at that dumb teen for the last time, a woman would walk into the store and change my life forever. She wasn't a beautiful woman, or even a presentable woman. I forget her name, but imagine it’s something fat, like her. But that's neither here nor there. All I really know is that she must have had a great sense of humor and an eye for high fashion--because, covering her gelatinous midsection was the funniest tee-shirt I, or anyone else, will ever see. Bending at the corners, the words drooped: "Do I look like I care?"

O, was this the rhetorical question to end all rhetorical questions?

Yes, yes, it was.

It was sarcastic, and funny, and biting. The shirt, in itself, a juggernaut of haute couture, guaranteed to induce feelings of inadequacy from all those who were less apathetic--and induce knowing, reverent nods from those who were. Or maybe not--maybe all those who truly "didn't care" wouldn't care enough to acknowledge the apathy expressed on the garments of others. I thought about that for a while until my head started to hurt, and then I noticed that my corpulent muse was walking out the front door. I tore out of the store to catch up to her, which was easier than I thought it would be because, you know, she was pretty fat. I was breathing heavy when I reached her, and so was she. "Where...did...you..get..that shirt?" I asked.

"Down...at...the...dollar store," she answered, pointing to the Dollar Mart next door. Waving my thanks, I ran into the dollar store.

They only had 18 left, in various sizes, so I bought them. I drove to the Dollar Mart in Flower Mound and bought 27 more. The dollar store in North Dallas had 17, and the one in Farmers Branch had 29. All told, I went home that day with 91 of the greatest shirt ever. To the humor-pedestrian, that might have been enough, but I recognize quality humor when I see it. I ordered 200 more from the manufacturer, and submitted the shirt for a Thurber Prize. I still haven't heard back from them, but that might just be because they're laughing so hard. Or maybe they're wondering if owners of the shirt care about other owners of the shirt enough to nod at them in public. I never did find a clear answer to that one.

At any rate, I sleep on a bed of apathy shirts now and so does my TV, computer and dog. My closet has a stepladder made of apathy shirts leading to two rows of apathy shirts. I cut up a few of the apathy shirts as carefully and respectfully as I could, and made a pair of apathy pants, and an apathy parka. I had the phrase screenprinted on all my more caring clothes, including the business suit Grandpa gave me for graduation. Mom got pretty mad at me. "You ruined your clothes!" she said.

Normally, I would've had to say something back. Instead, I just scoffed and pointed to my chest.