Breakup Shirt Story

Breakup Shirt Story

Matthew Ryan Fischer

Colin packed mementos away into a box.

He had done this routine before. He would do it again. His closet had several small boxes just like this one. He was never quite sure why he did it each time. He didn’t go back and look. He wasn’t that type of guy. But he kept them. And when he moved, he moved them. But he didn’t like to look.

The box was a form of closure, except that it didn’t truly end things. They were safe and packed away somewhere. Everything was gone, but not really. Things could always come back if he needed them to. And therefore, there was never true closure. As long as he could dig them out and look at them again, there was always a chance, no matter how small, of a return to importance or a repeat of relationships. On some level he knew all this, but he was able to conveniently ignore and suppress it.

Photos, charms, letters, they were all going into this latest box. Some of her perfume that had been left behind. Something sexy made of black lace. Then he got to the shirt. He paused and looked at it. He wasn’t sure what to do.

It was a good shirt—the cut, the fit, the style, the color. They were all good choices. They all worked. He liked the shirt. He wore it a lot. He would have liked it and worn it, even if it hadn’t come from her.

No one ever knew how to shop for him. She did. She was the first of them to ever get his style. Or maybe she just had enough style of her own. But he preferred to think it was because she understood him and appreciated him. It made it seem all the more special, as if there was a true and genuine connection between them.

They all tried to buy him clothes. All of them. They always tried. He didn’t know if maybe that was just a desire that most women possessed—to dress their man. If it was, he didn’t understand it. Was that some leftover instinct from childhood, from playing with dolls? Or maybe they all just judged his wardrobe to be terrible and never felt comfortable enough to tell him. Maybe they were trying to make him better. Or maybe there was a sense of pride in seeing him in something they bought. It didn’t make him a possession, but it made him just a little bit theirs.

She bought him clothes and they fit and they were stylish without being flamboyant. He liked a simple quality to his clothes. Straightforward colors and designs. Nothing too flashy. Nothing too radical. He didn’t want to stick out in a crowd just because of some silly design. She got it. She got him. It was right.

He loved that shirt. It reminded him of her. It reminded him of all the good things that had worked. It reminded him of all the potential in the world.

He loved that shirt. It, of course, had to go.

Light a match, and drop it in. Burn burn burn.

He could never look at it again. He could never know it was packed away in some box. He could never be tempted. It was just too close to being her.

He sat on a lawn chair in his backyard and drank a beer and watched the shirt slowly be consumed by the flames.

The Lucky Jersey

The Lucky Jersey

Laura Fischer

     Jeremy wasn't superstitious - at least he didn't admit he was.  He didn't believe in four leaf clovers.  He didn't believe in lucky rabbits' feet. He didn't believe in any of the talismans that sports fans often carried to guarantee a winning season.  But ironically he did believe that wearing his favorite blue jersey to a Colts' game brought his team unexplainably good luck.
     The bright blue jersey with the "18" on the front and "Manning" on the back was a birthday present from his girlfriend Cassie their senior year at IU.  That same year the Indianapolis Colts made it to the Super Bowl for the second time.  Jeremy's friends insisted that wearing the shirt to the stadium and sports bars had nothing to do with the team's wins that season.  They pointed out that the Colts actually lost the last two games.  Jeremy countered that Peyton was pulled by the coaches to protect him from injury, and the team would have won had their quarterback played. 
     Jeremy knew the power of the lucky jersey.  He felt the Colts could have defeated the Saints and won the championship that year if only he and his lucky shirt had made it to the game.  But Super Bowl Sunday was the day Cassie had chosen for their wedding to commemorate her parents' marriage on February 7 twenty five years earlier, so Jeremy was wearing a tux instead of his lucky jersey that day as his team went down in defeat.

     Jeremy thought he knew why the lucky shirt was not so lucky for his Colts the following two seasons. Most fans felt Peyton Manning's injury and surgery had something to do with the team's mediocre record, but Jeremy feared he might be to blame.  Although he didn't have much time for football after being accepted at Harvard Law, he and Cassie usually socialized with their classmates at the sports bars in Boston on game day.  He didn't feel right wearing the Colts' jersey to watch New England games, and he thought he might be a little too old for sportswear anyway, so the lucky jersey hung in his closet. Evidently the magic didn't work unless he wore the shirt, and the Patriots and much of the rest of the NFL handily defeated  Indianapolis each week.  Perhaps if he had had displayed his pride in his hometeam, their season might have ended differently.

     Today Jeremy was back in Indiana and wearing his favorite jersey again.  He and Cassie, now expecting their first child, were on their way home from their day trip to Nashville, Indiana.  Cassie had wanted to enjoy the changing autumn leaves and to spend the day browsing the antique shops and craft stores in Brown County.  Jeremy was reluctant to go, but she promised they would leave in time to make it back to Indianapolis for the start of the Sunday night football game.
     It was going to be a very, very special matchup.  Former quarterback Peyton Manning was also back in Indiana playing against his old team for the first time since signing with the Denver Broncos.  Jeremy was anxious to see if his lucky blue jersey would still be lucky for the Colts - or whether the shirt numbered 18 would bring good fortune to the Bronco quarterback now wearing the same numeral and name on his orange and white uniform.

     About halfway home from Nashville, Jeremy's tire suddenly blew.  Gingerly he steered off the road, upset that the flat might make them late.  He opened the trunk looking for the spare that wasn't there.  "I'll have to call the auto club to fix the flat," he grumbled, angry at himself.  "I hope they'll get here in time for us to make the game."
     "Better call the hospital too," Cassie advised.  He looked at her and realized with a rush of excitement that their baby was on her way.
     After what seemed like an eternity, an ambulance could finally be heard racing down the road toward the couple.  About the same time, the first cries of a newborn infant could be heard from the back seat of the car.  As he took the red and yelling baby in his arms, Jeremy thought he had never seen a child more perfect or more beautiful.  
     "She must be cold," he said taking off the blue jersey and swaddling the baby in its warmth.
     "Don't.  You'll ruin your lucky shirt," Cassie protested.
     "It doesn't matter," he said.  He smiled at his wife and at his new daughter, cherishing the magical moment and the precious bond forming between them.  "It doesn't matter at all."
     And it didn't.

A Tale of Two Ts

A Tale of Two Ts
Laura Fischer

Dorothy's story:

  They say you never forget your first love.  Dorothy knew this to be true.  She smiled, remembering, and gently caressed the faded T-shirt before returning it to the rustic handcrafted box.  Along with a thin packet of letters tied together with a satin ribbon, the chest contained a single photo of 30 gangly teenagers in tie-dyed shirts. Called the Timber Wolves, her tribe of friends had shared a cabin and adventures that unforgettable summer at Camp Chippewa.

Of all the young people in their group, Dorothy had found herself strongly attracted to Roger, a tall and handsome teen almost as shy as she was.  They had met during the first boy-girl square dance lesson.  The Virginia Reel was chosen by the counselors to keep the campers at arm's length and their innocence intact, but when the two first touched, Dorothy felt something special.  She looked Roger directly in the eyes and knew he felt it too.  She tightened her grip so he wouldn't have to and, awkward and afraid, they do-si-doed their way through the unfamiliar steps.     

From that day on, the pair spent almost every moment together - swimming and hiking, laughing and joking, studying nature and crafting projects like the tie-dyed shirts they wore. The two weeks flew by all too quickly, and all too soon the big yellow buses arrived that would carry the campers to their homes the following morning.

That last night, after the stories and the singing had ended, and after the last marshmallow had been toasted and the campfire had burned to embers, the other weary campers retreated to their cabins.  But Dorothy and Roger slipped away from the watchful eyes of the counselors and strolled hand-in-hand into the woods.  There they held each other tightly and shared a magical first kiss.  They promised they would write and would remain faithful until reunited the following summer.  To seal their pledge, they traded the shirts they had made.  Dorothy slipped into Roger's sweaty tie-dye and Roger enveloped himself in the one smelling faintly of Dorothy's perfume.  They vowed never to wash away the lingering scents until together once more.

Half a century later, the sight and smell of Roger's shirt still brought back memories of that special summer and the broken promises made.  Wiping away the salty tears from her cheeks, Dorothy carefully packed the box of  summer treasures in the trunk that held her most precious memories: the family pictures, the love letters her deceased husband had sent when they were courting, the cards and artwork their children and grandchildren had made.  Taking a last look at the home she could no longer keep up alone, she called to her daughter that she was ready to leave.  She handed the trunk to a grandson to carry, and reluctantly she closed the door to her old life and set out on the journey to her new one.

"Who knows what surprises lie ahead," she exclaimed trying to be positive, "or who I may meet along the way!"  

Roger's story

Roger had Altzheimer's.  At least that's what his nephew said when he took away his uncle's car keys and put him on the waiting list for an apartment at Hillside Retirement Homes.  Roger didn't mind moving to Hillside.  He liked the pretty aides who helped him bathe and shave and who washed his clothes and cooked his meals - except for Sunday night when everyone ate in the large communal hall.  Every morning they counted out the pills he took to slow the memory loss, and every evening at bedtime they listened to the stories he told of his youth and of a very special girl he had loved once upon a time many, many years ago.  The dementia had slowed his current thinking.  He could not always remember where he hid his tv remote or the names of the girls paid to help him with the simple tasks of living.  But his memories of that summer at Camp Chippewa remained as clear as yesterday.

That autumn, before cell phones and the internet made it easy to keep in touch, Roger and Dorothy wrote each other every week.  But then one day Roger's father's company transferred the family to another city.  And Dorothy's mother, worrying her daughter was too young for a serious romance, felt it best to put an end to the infatuation by returning her daughter's mail unopened and unseen.  Roger did not understand why Dorothy returned his letters, nor Dorothy why Roger had abruptly ceased to write.  Heartbroken, each was left with only their tribe's photo, and the other's brightly colored shirt, and the bitter-sweet memories of that special summer.

Summer came again, but neither returned to camp Chippawa.  After Roger graduated, he tried to find Dorothy.  He thought that she had probably married and changed her name, but he hoped she still thought of him, and he knew, if he could find her, that they could rekindle the passion they had felt.  Unsuccessful, after a time Roger gave up his futile quest. He dated other women, but none could take Dorothy's place, so finally he resigned himself to the life of a lonely bachelor.  

Years before he moved to Hillside, Roger had Dorothy's shirt made into a pillow.  Now every night he slept with his arms tightly wrapped around the faintly scented shirt, reliving that special summer in his dreams.  The aides at Hillside tried to take it from him to wash, but true to his promise, he refused to let it go.  They finally quit asking, thinking his stubbornness was an aspect of the Altzheimer's.

"Maybe he'd forget this strange obsession with that shirt," one of the aides speculated, "if he could make friends with some of the women here at the home."

"Yes," the other agreed. " A nice widow just moved in who is about his age.  She has a camp photo like the one in his bedroom too, so they might have something in common.  Let's arrange for them to sit together at supper Sunday night and see what happens."

White Dress Shirt Story

White Dress Shirt Story

Matthew Ryan Fischer

A properly fitting, crisply ironed white dress shirt, along with an elegant and authoritative dark power tie; these were the essential parts to his day’s plan. Michael believed the shirt was a universally accepted symbol of excellence in business and a proper identification of status. Frantically he searched his closet for his favorite, best fitted shirt.

He was going to be late for his meeting. He had ironed it the night before and set it out, so it wouldn’t be misplaced. He wasn’t sure what had happened. His anxiety was growing with every passing minute. He needed that shirt. It was more than just a crutch, it was his good luck, it was his insurance; it was his guarantee that the meeting would be a success.

Trish understood the importance of the white dress shirt. Perhaps better than Michael did. She knew its power. Trish stood at the bedroom door, waiting for Michael to finally turn around and notice. Provocatively, she wore nothing but his cherished white shirt.

Michael had plans to make his meeting in record time. Trish had plans of her own.

Michael was going to be very late to his meeting. Very late indeed.