Brian and I had been fighting a lot, about normal things I think, like who was going to change the cat litter box and which one of us had a worse drug problem. One fight outstandingly, got to the point where my words were obviously doing little damage to his ego, not even the comment about how his mother didn't love him, was able to cause an emotional response more dramatic than the flap of a butterfly wing against a golf ball. So I threw a lighter at his face. This fight was caused because Brian had pompously requested that I not wipe my mutant boogers on and under the couch. I see this as a reasonable query now, but at the time I was four martinis in and he might as well have asked me to prostitute my body to make up for the past four months in rent that I was to lazy to pay. It's not that I couldn't make money, I was just really opposed to working more than an exhausting 20 hours a week. And health insurance? Health insurance Shmelth insurance, I had the foresight of a def bat during a hunt.
I honestly didn't understand what the big deal was, I mean earlier that day Brian had woken up and blew his nose, not into a tissue, but my big brown robe. Not to mention that we had spent the past six months pissing into milk jugs and dumping them out the window, because the thought of facing our crack head roommate and her tyranny friends on the way to the bathroom, proved to be to much. Notably, yes this was my first real relationship so I had no idea what was normal and what was not, but peeing into tipped over dehumidifiers and occasionally shitting in bags on particularly scary nights, raised a red flag that even I could see. That's why I didn't understand what the big deal was, as we had been living like barn animals for the entire duration of our relationship, that I wipe my boogers on our furniture.. But I loved that brown robe he used as a Kleenex, which is why when he told me that wiping my boogers on the couch was disrespectful to our guests, I became irate and cannon balled a red Bick lighter into his eye socket.
A few months earlier I went to a thrift store with my friend Abbi. In high school, Abbi and I used to hit up every thrift store within a 17 year old's driving distance, and steal as much crap as we could fit into her signature carry-all purse. I don't know how we never got caught because we practically stole the jewelry off the clerks ears and necks. Then again it's not like we were stealing from Halls, we were stealing glued together precious moments figurines from twenty years ago. We snailed through the used clothes aisle, and because we were stoned, we were crawling on our hands and knees laughing so hard that we sounded like a thousand Fran Drecher's stubbing their toes on a thousand end tables. As Abbi wondered off into the used candle area, I found myself sequestered on top of a pile of miss matched shoes, staring at the ugliest robe I had ever seen. It was a yellowish brown color, and had been worn so many times that I could see through the thin fabric. There were stains covering every inch of the robe, creating a disgusting brown tie-dyed effect. And oh my God, the smell that blasted out of the crusty pockets resembled a smell I had encountered before at a dump, where I stuck my head into a rusty oven, wedged in a pile of what looked like dead slugs. Despite the horror story this robe most likely had to tell, it still had an irresistible charm to it. Such a revolting article of clothing had to be superior in comfort and mobility, even though it looked like the loin cloth of an alpha ape.
I grabbed the robe off the tattered hanger and happily galloped over to Abbi, who was playing with a remote control car, that still had some battery life left in it. "Abbi, look at this think, I have to have it!" She crashed the car into a pile of kitched appliances and examined my robe, holding in front of her in terror. Based on the face she was making you would have thought she was inspecting a dissected buffalo turd in her hands, and not a rope I desperately wanted. "Why? This smells like it was worn by a rotting cadaver, and look, I can see you right through it," she said, holding it between us, using only two finger tips. "It's only three dollars, can't you use your jew bag magic to haggle them down to 75 cents, because that's all I got." At that she took it to the clerk, holding the robe in her fist and said, "This is disgusting, and no one will buy it, we're going to take it." The Hispanic woman shook her head in agreeance, almost as if she was wondering how a piece of shit like that even made it on her shelves. We were not even in the car before I slung the robe on. It dragged on the gravel parking lot behind me, acting as a broom and sweeping up trash. By the time I got to the car, I had swept up a dixi-cup, and empty pack of cigarettes, a receipt and about a hundred leaves.
I still can't quite explain it, but the second I put that robe on, everything wrong in my life melted away with the security only a severely worn comfort robe can supply. For a month I wore that robe to school, grocery shopping, and in place of a fall jacket. Brian refused to go in public with me when I wore the robe, he said he didn't like the way people looked at us. It was true, every time I went into a restaurant or bank, people were visibly off put, probably because I looked like a brown member of the occult.
I suppose, aside from how garish it was to look at, the only other downside to the robe was its ability to imitate a box of baking soda. It absorbed every offensive odor it floated past and locked the scent in the thin weaves of the crusty fabric. Once, when Brian was throwing a party at our apartment, he pulled me aside and said, "Ryan, for fuck sake take the robe off, you smell like a litter box and Tonya is making fun of you." I refused to de-robe and in protest, drank a bottle of Jim Beam and vomited on the kitchen table. The robe was destroying my relationship with Brian, among other things like alcohol and my non existent pay checks. We were two of the most broken people in Oswego Illinois, and worked souly because we were all each other had, not to mention the sex. I swear to God, I saw stars when we had sex. But as it turns out, sex is not a good reason to stay with someone who hates you. I threw the robe away once it had been glazed in Brian's snot. I know it was gross, but I had limitations to what I will wear, and boogers are on the list of things I refuse to wear.
A lot of time has passed since I said goodbye to Brian and goodbye to the state of Illinois and I haven't thought about that robe in years. A few days ago I was at the mall killing time and saw a silk robe for only 18 bucks. Even though I'm not sure how rent will get paid this month, I bought it anyway, I had forgotten how much I loved robes. I went home that night, put the robe on, and stood in front of a full length mirror for a lost time. In that time, I retraced the steps I took in my old tattered robe. I thought about how I'm still as lost as I was back then, how I'm still searching for the same things. I thought about the trouble and space the robe put between Brian and I, but I also thought about the euphoric feeling I got when I wore it. I stood in front of that mirror and cried. Because, along with Brian, I've lost that feeling. What I've yet to loose, is the resentment I feel when I picture Brian blowing his nose into my security.
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