It was a bright and warm March day in Mexico, and the clocks were striking thirteen; cue my dad purchasing a striped brown bowling shirt which would make Charlie Sheen blush.
The conversation goes thus:
“What’s that?”
“What’s what?”
“You know... That thing... On your chest... The baggy thing coloured like a poo.”
“It’s a shirt George, just bought it over there. What, don’t you like it?” *unknowing and deluded grin*
At this stage I’m beginning to admire his ability to lie; but the smile on his sunburnt chops doesn’t falter. He loves this icky personification of shit. He stands defiant, unknowing in the face of all the appalled Consuelas and disbelieving Pedros wandering past.
“It’s... Different.” Lacking in the necessary cruelty, I don’t know whether it’s a growing sensitivity or genuine shock that holds me back. Just as I’m about to pipe up, a street vendor gazes over longingly and admiringly in our direction.
“Nice shirt!” *unknowing and deluded grin*
The same smile, on a different face, again unfaltering. I think Gary might have just found his true kindred spirit in the most unexpected of places.
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