An employee of a small town "liberry" chronicles his quest to remain sane while dealing with patrons who could star in a short-lived David Lynch television series.

Wednesday, March 28, 2007

Let's just hope he doesn't see his shadow.

Yes, despite what the calendar may say, spring has officially arrived in Tri-Metro.

How do I know this?

Fatty Manchild, my friends. Fatty Manchild.

Fatty Manchild is a patron who, I'd guess, is in his mid 30's and who, when weather permits and sometimes when not, consistently wears short pants and T-shirts at all times. Now, I'm not decrying short pants and T-shirts, cause I'm wearing both items right now and will likely go out in public wearing them later. However, my casual-wear wardrobe does not consist entirely of loud 80's style Jams and T-shirts, often sleeveless, that are at least a size too small and frequently in need of a good laundering.

I'm not making fun of the man's weight, either; he's not all THAT large as these things go and I'm hardly one to throw stones in that department myself. It's just that the combination of the too tight Ts and the Jams serve to give this guy an aura that causes you to question whether or not his fashion sense is in a state of arrested development. If you were to see him, you would realize how utterly appropriate the name Fatty Manchild truly is.

It's like a 14 year old boy from 1986 was hit by a car, went into a coma for 20 years, woke up and then was released into the world, in the Spring, without first having been given the prerequisite lecture on modern fashion trends. Knowing no better, he drove to the nearest beach, gravitated to the cheapest beach-wear store down near the shore, loaded up on 10 for $10 medium T-shirts and the loudest, most-inappropriate-to-wear-in-a-town-that's,-like,-five-hours-from-the-nearest-beach Jams, slipped on such an outfit, hiked his socks half-way up his calves, drove the five hours back and headed for the "liberry."

And it's not that the man doesn't own anything else. A couple years back, for several months, (summer months even), he consistently wore a shirt, tie and dress slacks when he visited. It was a respectable look befitting a man who might work in a bank or, perhaps, in sales. I think he must have left whatever job that required such a dress code, though, for he eventually returned to his Jams and tight T-shirt look and chucked all effort at maintaining his appearance to the winds.

His first appearance of the year, dressed thusly, has now occurred and spring has, in turn, arrived.

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