Thursday, December 09, 2004
Black Belt
Since Jon and Lisa were still living in the Richmond, I know it was a while ago, maybe even seven or eight years. I was, in many important ways, the same person as I am today, and in some very subtle ways, I was extremely different. But whatever. We had gone to a party at their house, probably Lisa’s birthday, and she was a giggly effervescent sprite so full of happiness that she’d long since stopped making much sense. But at one point she turned to me (in the dining room, near the corner with the den) and told me how nicely dressed I was. I hadn’t gone out of my way to prettify myself; all the clothes I owned were very well-worn and she’d seen it all on me before - except, maybe, for my belt.
“And that belt! It ties it all together! That is one great belt!” My eyes wandered to my waistline and I remembered which belt I was wearing, and I understood. It was a belt I’d already owned forever, maybe since before college, but I didn’t wear it very often. I kept it for special occasions, I suppose. It was less than an inch wide; glossy black with a gold-colored buckle outlining an elegant rectangle. It was flattering; it looked good. Lisa couldn’t know, though, that that this particular belt was also unusually supple, molding and folding howsoever pleased my fickle fingers. Its holes were punched at perfect intervals so it always fit properly - neither binding nor drooping. I had to admit that Lisa was right - whatever else I was wearing that night, the belt made the outfit.
Then she lowered her voice and pulled consipiratorialy closer to me. “Don’t take this the wrong way or anything, but that belt is so nice I’d expect a gay man to be wearing it.”
“Hmm,” I thought. This was before straight guys got queer eyes, before metrosexuality. Getting compared to a gay guy, well, I guess I just wasn’t used to it is all. I took her compliment, however, in the spirit in which it was intended, and racked it up to Lisa’s natural enthusiasm. I sincerely thanked her. We each then returned to the party as if nothing had happened, and we never spoke of it again. But I knew she knew. And she knew I knew too. That was a powerful belt.
Time, incredibly, passed. Trees grew, babies were born, nations clashed, and my wardrobe slowly evolved. Which brings me to a recent day, an autumn morning. I stood at my manually-operated rotating belt caddy, ready to accessorize my trousers. For the first time in a long long time I pulled out the cool black belt - and I had to pause, and reconsider. The sleek black leather had faded to an unappetizing green; the buckle seemed abraded and lusterless. Several of the punchholes showed evidence of wear, pulled into evocative teardrops. When could this have happened to my beautiful belt?
I stood in the wan dawn light, the dark strip flowing limberly over my palms. At one time it had been a prized possession. There was no mistaking now that that era was over. It was no longer a power tool, a charisma elevator. It was just a belt, and an old one at that, one that wouldn’t look good on my fresh black chinos under my pinpoint oxfordcloth shirt and crisp necktie. I saw in its soft drape an admission of expiration and defeat. It was easier than I’d expected to throw it away and pick out an unobtrusive substitute to wear strapped around my waist that day. I’d been proud of my black belt once; it had really held things together for me. Now it’s worn out but I’m feeling ready to take over for it. I’d like to think I can hold a few more things together my own self.
