For Mike's Dad

I pumped gas into my little pick up truck this morning. I wore a black suit with a white shirt and a navy blue tie. It felt like I was in Pulp fiction or something. People look at you when you're pumping gas in a black suit. They wonder, "Why's that guy pumping gas? He's wearing a black suit...Curious." I guess it's the juxtaposition of the formal and the mundane. Black suits are for special occasions not for Citgo stations

A lot of stuff happens in my black suit. It's the suit I wear to weddings. I take my wife to parties in my black suit. I used to wear it to preach in when I worked in a traditional church. It has seen a lot of cologne and a lot of sweat - handshakes and hugs. I am wearing it as I write to you now. I wore it to Mike's dad's funeral this afternoon. It was cool and breezy so I didn't have to sling my jacket over my shoulder. I re-tied my tie in the bathroom and splashed some water on my face. I heard twenty one gun shots and watched an older woman receive a folded flag.

I guess ordinary life happens in between the black suit moments. And as I am growing older, it seems like there are less of these moments. I remember the day I got married. I didn't wear a tux. I couldn't afford one. I wore my black suit and my friends wore theirs too. I wore a baby blue tie I bought from a guy in downtown Los Angeles. We took a picture on my dilapidated front porch. Our young faces were smooth and firm and our eyes hadn't yet been dulled by time. The porch was scabbed with peeling paint chips. An old man with white hair and a thick mustache took our picture. He must have seen the juxtaposition. He was wearing a black suit.