Tales from Exit 22 by Al Batt

 

The salesman told me that the Subaru Ascent had 19 cup holders.

I couldn’t imagine ever being that thirsty.

I used to toss all my flotsam and jetsam into my wife’s purse, which didn’t have a single cup holder.

“May I put this in your purse, honey,” I’d say with my voice dripping in short-term sweetness.

Before she could give the OK, I’d put some of my life’s extra things into her purse. “Don’t forget it’s in your purse, sweetie,” I’d caution after dropping in an anvil. What a guy.

Women’s purses grew to be the size of grain bins to hold her stuff and the stuff of a significant other.

My wife’s Aunt Ingeborg was family-famous for stuffing packs of crackers, left over after eating restaurant soup or salad, into her purse. She must have had a fear of going hungry or being crackerless after becoming accustomed to the lavish lifestyle afforded by the pay she’d received as a young teacher at a one-room, country school.

I have a man purse. It’s called a messenger bag or satchel, but it’s a man purse. I’m good with having one because I have stuff. I take a pocket library — a book and/or articles torn from newspapers — with me everywhere I wander. And I need something to keep my eyeglasses clean. I like the Zeiss lens wipes. The tiny wipes are miracle workers that help me see things clearly. They were made for the likes of me, whose spectacles gather more dirt than the local barbershop and beauty shop combined. I carry a couple of cough drops. I do a lot of public speaking and radio shows, so the drops come in handy. They also serve as a meal in a pinch. I sling the bag over my shoulder and face the day with a smile and a purse.

One day years ago, I wore cargo pants and a jacket not of many colors, but of many pockets. Cargo pants are great to knock around in. The cargo pants were handy. It was either wear them or buy a cargo van. Once I donned them, I became Pocketman, a storage shed on two legs. One of the jacket pockets was a tiny, zippered thing lurking on the arm between the shoulder and elbow. I’m not sure of its purpose. I used it to put something that I’d soon forget where I’d put it. I wore a shirt with breast pockets. One of those pockets is good, two are wonderful.

I and my cargo pants arrived home after being on the road for a few days. I emptied my pockets. Pennies, facial tissues, a paper napkin from an unremarkable restaurant, a cough drop that had shed its wrapper, a couple of receipts for parking, an event ticket, some business cards and what I’d hoped was a raisin. Bits of detritus from a life. I had so many items in my plethora of pockets, I jingled and rustled as I walked. I was Al Batt and his orchestra. Typically, I make noises only when sitting down or getting up.

As I looked at the pile of gizmos, thingamabobs, whatsits, doodads, thingamajigs, doohickeys, whatchamacallits and everything else but bean dip freed from my pockets, I realized two things. I’d overpacked or over-pocketed. And I didn’t have pockets. I had wastebaskets.

Pockets are important. The comedian George Carlin did a funny riff on how we need a place for our stuff. I’ve seen vests with gigantic pockets so that the wearers didn’t have to leave home without everything. In this age of endless digital devices, few people travel light. We need an office suite. Besides those devices, there are their travel partners — extra batteries and charging cords.

My father favored bib overalls. Those utilitarian hunks of cloth had plenty of pockets — a watch pocket, a pliers pocket, a stall for a pen or pencil and a loop for a hammer. Everything he needed for a business meeting in the dairy barn.

Some people find it difficult to be comfortable in their own skin. That’s because the skin doesn’t have pockets. Others walk around without pockets in their clothing. That’s no way to go through life. They don’t do this because they are poor. They are the opposite. If they don’t have pockets, they have people. Those people provide any needed items.

I have pockets. I need pockets. A plenitude of pockets. And a man purse.

The universal law is that stuff expands to fill all available pockets and purses.

Al Batt’s columns appear every Wednesday and Saturday.