The Shirt

by

Pepper L. Bauer

The man lay on his back and watched the blades of the ceiling fan as they turned. The murky pre-dawn light gave the spinning blades a surreal feel. He tried to count the revolutions for a while, but soon gave up, unfocused his eyes and let a slightly disorienting dizziness sweep over him. It wasn’t entirely unpleasant. The sensation emptied his mind and kept him from worrying. He didn’t want to start thinking again. Suddenly, like water rushing through a ruptured dam, memories of the events of the last few days burst unbidden into his consciousness. "Damn," he breathed. He had hoped his semicomatose twilight state would last a while longer. Now, the spinning fan had a whole different feel. Each revolution tightened the icy spring inside his abdomen. It was getting difficult to breathe. He glanced at the bedside clock. It was almost time to get up. His mind raced, making any more rest an impossibility. He sorted through his options relentlessly. "God, what am I going to do?" He turned over on his side and with his right hand gently caressed the still form of his wife. Her rigid body testified that she wasn't sleeping either. In the early morning stillness he thought he could detect muffled sobs. Despite himself, hatred welled up from deep inside him against the people who were trapping him in this situation, and causing his family this pain. He didn’t want to be bitter, but it was hard not to be.

The harsh buzz of the alarm clock sliced through the quiet and reflexively his body jerked. His heart began to race painfully. "This is it." Sitting up, he swung his legs over the side of the bed and sat a minute with his back to his wife. He could hear her rise and make little shuffling sounds as she put on her slippers and left the bedroom. The everyday morning noises continued in the bathroom; then he could hear her feet scuffing the carpet as she descended the stairs and headed for the kitchen. He knew she was leaving him alone to make his decision, and that she would stand by him no matter what it was. He loved her so much right now that it hurt. Unbidden tears tickled his cheeks. Roughly he wiped them away with his arm and steeled himself for the next action he must take. Unsteadily, he rose from the bed and stepped towards the closet.

The closet door stood partially open. The dark interior mocked him with its innocence, while hiding the cause of his anxiety. Inside, among his other belongings, hung two T-shirts. One of the T-shirts was red, the other a nondescript gray. Whichever shirt he picked to wear today would change his life forever. It wasn’t the shirts themselves that would cause the transformation. They were just what they seemed: a couple blameless shirts. His actions, based on the principles represented by the shirts, would precipitate the change. The red shirt stood for solidarity with his union, and with the values his parents had instilled in him since birth. The gray work shirt symbolized his life style and the job that made it possible.

His union was on strike. On Friday, the company he had spent twenty-five years of his life working for, informed the employees that if they did not return to work on Monday they would be replaced. Most likely, they would lose their jobs forever. Forever! "Dear God," he prayed, "what do I do?"

Chaotic thoughts swirled in his head, reminding him of the psychedelic scenes of his youth in the sixties. Sights and sounds crowded his thought process making him dizzy and slightly nauseous. All weekend he asked for opinions and advice hoping to get insight. Unfortunately, all he got was more confused. Some people believed there was no way the company could permanently replace them. This he did not believe. He knew corporations could get by with whatever they wanted. In his mind, "Corporate America" was probably more powerful than the government, and scarier by far. So it wasn’t doubt, about whether or not he believed the Company’s threats of replacement, that caused his indecision. What he was trying to decide was whether to sacrifice his ideals for his lifestyle, or to sacrifice his lifestyle for his ideals. If it had only been his security in jeopardy, the decision would be easy. He would gladly offer up his comfortable life on the altar of principle; but he had a wife and children. He had to think of his responsibility to them. Was his "manhood" worth their suffering? Was it fair to ask them to sacrifice their comfort for his values? He had to make a decision. Would he put on the red shirt and stand with his brothers and sisters on the line and lose his job? Would he put on the work shirt and cross the line to work, losing the friendship and respect of people he had known for twenty-five years, but keeping his livelihood? He remembered the story of "The Lady or the Tiger?" he read as a child. Which shirt was his "lady"? He felt paralyzed. Time ground to a halt. The sound of the radio cut through his introspection; reminding him it was getting late. He mentally shook himself and made his decision. "God, help me." he prayed. Lifting leaden arms, he reached for the shirt with trembling fingers.

The woman in the kitchen busied herself with breakfast and tried to push from her mind thoughts about the drama she knew was unfolding upstairs. Nervously she fumbled with the stove knobs. Her ears strained for the sound of her husband’s footsteps. Finally she heard the telltale sound of stairs creaking and knew the time had come to face his decision. Whatever the decision, it would affect her life profoundly, and she was not sure she was ready. She could feel his warm presence behind her. She loved him so much! It broke her heart to see him in so much pain, and it triggered something very protective in her. She wished there was someone out there she could scream at; or slap. She just knew it would make her feel so much better. Taking a deep breath, she turned, her eyes scanning his chest. An involuntary cry escaped her lips. He stepped forward and enfolded her in his arms, laying his cheek on her soft hair. His tears fell freely and mingled with hers. Together, their teardrops stained the shirt with a dark wetness as they fell to the floor.