FALL APART

I suppose these are technically my peers since I also go to the local college, but I’ have a different perspective. These kids pay tuition and drive BMWs, and I go on scholarship and walk to school because a dollar couldn’t find my wallet even if there was a big “MONEY HERE” sign on it.

They’re all wearing the same Artitza one shoulder top and Levi jeans, and they reek of YSL Black Opium. In their typical fashion, they snootily order espresso martinis and find a table to gossip about whichever frat boy they‘re obsessed with this week.

If they’re wearing a trendy top that may have come from Zara, Aritzia, or Shein they’re probably younger and will order a vodka cranberry or seltzer. If they’re wearing nameless jeans and an unidentifiable t-shirt, they’re probably a blue–collar worker coming in for a beer after a long shift. Everyone is always projecting who they are by the clothes they’re wearing, the bags they’re carrying, even the type of phone they’re using.

An older man approaches the bar wearing a suit covered in a series of interlocking G’s, which indicates that the suit most likely costs the same as my rent. He orders a scotch on the rocks and walks away to meet with a woman dressed equally as elaborate; another formula perfectly executed. I wipe down the bar and look up to see a character that intrigues me. He’s tall and stoic, but this isn’t what’s interesting. He’s wearing a black t-shirt with fitted jeans and over it, a vest. It’s covered with every logo you could imagine. A patch for Nike, a patch for Tommy Jeans, a patch for Champion, even a patch for different brands of gum. He doesn’t fit into any of my standard formula – and there’s no way to pinpoint what kind of person he is.

He carefully approaches the bar as I anticipate his order, anxious with the need to figure out who he is. He orders a club soda, neutral and unassuming, so I decide to be brave and ask more. I ask about his life and interests, and the buzz of conversation dissipates as he tells me his story. He’s a traveling musician raising money for his sick brother. He’s clever and lively, and we laugh and talk for a long time between orders. None of my carping presumptions lived to see the rest of the night.

Reflecting, I’m glad he wasn’t wearing his band’s t-shirt - I would have thought he was a tool. I would have treated him like he was just another man who makes music about breaking girls’ hearts to make him feel better about his lack of game. He’s none of that. He’s funny and charismatic and I only want to know more about him. My shift ends and on the drive home I think about our conversation; I think about how different he was from who I would have thought. My brain spirals as I realize that I never see people for who they truly are. I see people for who I assume they are, building a perception of them based on the logos on their shirts. I make a silent promise as I pull into my parking spot. A promise to give people a chance and to see beyond their outer shell. It all started with him,