Commentary

Black Suede Like Me

Take a big bite out of life, especially if you can do it with a stranger late at night after drinking heavily.

Sunday morning, 3 am. I stumbled out of the cramped back seat of a stranger's Ford Escort at the all-night IHOP. Realizing I had an empty wallet, I muttered the need find an ATM and walked away from the group.

Finally, some quiet. Hell of a night. The party life is undeniable fun - a necessary release of all the primal energy you've been repressing all week long. That was all behind me now, though, and I was a bit relieved to be stepping away from all those crazed extroverts for a while. The nearest ATM was a few blocks away inside a 7-Eleven. I stumbled through the dark toward the blazing fluorescent oasis. 7-Eleven's are always a haven for the salt of the earth, a delightfully motley crew of spirited survivors of whom I can only be a startled observer. Each denizens of the convenience mart has his own story, his own personal hell. I, on the other hand, am a sheltered, wealthy white boy just out on the town to have fun.

While processing my withdrawal, the ATM shut down for the night. Damn! As I stepped out into the night, a large, mumbling middle-aged man caught my gaze with his large, bloodshot eyes. He looked exactly like Louis Gossett Jr. he rode over to me on his bike.

"Hey man, can you spare some coins?"

"Nope. Matter of fact I'm looking for an ATM."

"Hey, dude, I can show you one in a minute. I'm tryin' to get a bus ticket to Portland, man, I gotta leave town. You wanna buy this jacket, dude?"

Lou held up a black suede jacket.

"You sure you want to sell that?" I asked him. "It's pretty nice."

"Shit, you think I want to sell this? I have to, man, I gots to get to Portland. Now, this is a nice jacket. You could pay as much as fifty bucks in a store for this. Its yours for thirty."

"Ten."

"Fifteen."

"Fine. But I got to get to an ATM. You have change for a twenty?"

"Yeah, I got five bucks," Lou replied. "Just a second, brother," he muttered as he vanished into the store. Here I was, holding onto a nice black suede jacket in the middle of the night, alone, outside a 7-Eleven while a sketchy fellow was inside trusting me with his bike and his coat. All that kept me from leaving was that he knew where to find an ATM. Besides, any poor black man who's probably been fucked over all his life, yet is willing to entrust his bike and his jacket to a strange white boy, earns my full respect. Soon he came out of the store with a six pack of Olde English 800. "Damn, man, I just spent that five bucks."

"Ah shit, don't worry - I'll pay you twenty for the coats."

"Cool. Follow me." We headed down the street towards downtown.

"So, why do you have to get to Portland?" I asked. He muttered something about picking up his van which was being fixed, then asked me what I was going to get at IHOP.

"Probably the $3.99 special."

"Ah hell, man, that shit is a good deal. Eggs, bacon, coffee..."

"Everything."

"Yeah, everything. The food ain't too good, but you gotta take what you can for that price."

"I hear you, man."

"Alright, dude, here's the ATM."

Lou waited at a respectful distance while I carried out my transaction. Anyone who has ever felt that it's a bit risky to user an ATM at 3:30 AM with the only person in sight being a large, strange denizen of the night is mistaken. This was a decent guy. We found things in common. We were both friendly and unprejudiced. I could have easily refused his initial request for spare change and gone on my way. He could have just as easily mugged me as I left the ATM, with no one around for blocks. After all, I took out $40. But I only gave Lou $20 for the coat. We finished the deal, wished each other good will, and left contented. Lou got to go to Portland; I got to an ATM and bought a nice black suede coat. Just that morning I had been complaining that I needed more clothes. Far better to get a coat with a story attached than to just buy one in a department store or, even worse, by mail order. Returning to the IHOP, I was greeted by six people who were completely oblivious to my whereabouts for the last half-hour. I walked up to the table, sat down, took off my visor and tossed the suede coat on the seat next to me.

"Where the hell did that come from?"

The answer was obvious. It came from living. It came from keeping an open mind. It came from not falling into familiar patterns. Could have hung out at home and "chilled." Could have left the party early. Could have borrowed money from someone for my onion rings. Everyone else just thought "party's over, let's go to IHOP and get the same old chow we always do."

That's not the way to live the only life you've got. Every minutes have a new opportunity. Every decision you make closes off infinite possible experiences you can't imagine unless they happen. Many have said this before, and they were right: Carpe Diem. Seize the goddamned day. Grab it by the balls and squeeze until the juice runs down its leg. As predictable as life seems, it could always get strange. And when it does, do not resist it. It'll teach you things, and you'd better pay attention.

After all, isn't the official motivation behind higher education the seeking of knowledge? It's hard to tolerate those who say they're at school to make money, or to party, or because their parents expected it of them. Even those who attend with pure intentions treat the attainment of knowledge like it's a hassle. And when class is out and the weekend comes, no one has any interest in learning any more than the names of others like them at parties, or just how much they can drink before puking.

Now, I don't mean to suggest that drinking heavily can't teach you anything profound - I know it can - but most ignore the messages their inhibition-freed minds send them and act as they always have, think as they always have, and brush off the insights that distilled spirits can pull from deep within one's soul. Or they don't allow their lack of inhibitions to take them any further than the toilet or the room of the cute chick downstairs. (Yeah, I know, it could be the cute guy downstairs. You PC bastards!) there is a gross lack of adventure among the great mass of college students. What can I expect, though? The official education system is designed to close horizons, contrary to its claims. It is steadily increasing suppression of child's natural curiosity and openness toward the world.

The system rapidly becomes a bottleneck that attempts to lead growing youth into an ever narrower range of opportunity.

Sadly, most oblige readily, sliding easily into traditions and conventional modes of thought. I once thought - I'm not sure why - that this bottleneck ended with high school. But college is possibly worse, and why not? It's the last step before the big Nine-to-Five world, the grand human machine of uniformity and order that is desperately held together by our hardworking boyz in law enforcement (the job of restraining the human beast is not an easy one - aske a seasoned New York cop and he'd prob'ly tell ya' it's impossible).

College is rife with business majors and Greek life members. There is a seductive buffer of perceived freedom, but when its limits are crossed than the tear gas comes. And we all know about that, don't we?

Sometimes I cry at night thinking about all the pain and hate and bad television in the world. Other nights I don't.

Dan Atkinson, a freshman with an undeclared major, has no idea how completely full of shit he is.