I first became aware of my wallet when it started to hurt me. Before that I had often taken a hit in the wallet, but this was the first time the wallet had taken a hit into me. Up until that time I had always carried my wallet in my back pocket, emulating my father. And, like Dad, mine was always empty.
His was leather, of course, darkened with the passage of decades, and by the time he died it was bowed in a perfect half-moon shape and was hard as a rock. When he opened it rusty gate noises would emanate, guttural groans would escape, and tiny moths would emerge. Just kidding; he never opened it.
Mine was nylon, of course, and was much cooler. I knew this because mine had the little OP logo on it, which was a surf wear company, and hence, was infinitely cool. My brother bought it for me as a birthday present, and it was purchased, like all of his gifts, at a liquor store on the way over to whatever family holiday was being observed. My role models.
Anyway, I loved that wallet because it had a glimmer of surfer cache. It was as close as I would get to real surfer cool, because I can get a sunburn from a night light. And, more importantly, it was the wallet I carried when I got my first job, and so it carried my first money that I had earned all by myself. Not for very long, mind you - see my role models above - but for the few minutes that I actually HAD money in my wallet, I felt grand.
And that was still the wallet I had in my back pocket when I began the Great Peace March, at age 20. We began in L.A. and before we had even cleared the Megalopolis it was clear that this chunky thing on my ass was causing me problems. After one week of 20 mile hikes my left hip was killing me, literally dislocating itself. A fellow marcher suggested two things: keep it smooth back there - and get a fanny pack.
Now keep in mind that this was 1986, and fanny packs were brand new. So were Hyundais and fajitas; words we learned upon emerging on the far side of the cultural wasteland of the red states. But fanny packs we all got immediately, and I have been sporting one ever since. (Except in England. I still wore one there, but I quickly learned that on the stuffy side of the big pond the proper term is 'bum bag'. Make a reference to a fanny pack to a Brit and you will see the whitest people on the planet turn even whiter.)
So for twenty years now my wallet has rode around in my fanny pack. It's location hasn't changed much, but the contents sure have. On the peace march nobody had any money - I once spent my last $5.00 to buy sunscreen - but my wallet did harbor my most secret and prized possession - two condoms. Hopeful, as only a 20 year old can be, I guarded them faithfully all the way across the country. When they finally got their debut they crumbled into dust, being, as they were, 5 years old at the time. The other thing the OP wallet carried was postage stamps, which was pretty much an alternate currency on the Peace March.
During the latter 80's and early 90's I used a leather wallet that had been given to me years earlier by - you guessed it - dear old dad. I found it, still in its dusty plastic case, when I returned from saving the world. My leather wallet, unlike my Father's, did retain cash. Take the luggage, but not the baggage - that's what we learn growing up.
In the mid-90's the cash did start to go away, but not through any fault of mine. The greenbacks were now represented by this new device called an ATM card. And the wondrously descriptive word ³billfold² left the language. Slowly the front of the wallet became more important than the back. Around the millennium the stamps left as well, thanks to email.
That little front pocket also serves as a handy diagnostic tool now. How am I doing? Let me check my wallet. If the gym card is on top, Iıve been good. Credit Card means Iıve been bad. Grocery club card means Iıve been busy. Bus pass on top means Iıve been responsible. And if the faded punchcard to the yogurt place that went out of business is on top, it means that I just dropped the wallet, spilled the contents everywhere, and jammed everything back in quickly. But the shifting, sifting hierarchies of my life will eventually reassign everything its proper place in the pile.
Leather wallet was lost somewhere along the way, and I replaced it with a horrid, florid, quilted jobber that I picked up at Goodwill for a quarter. Didn't smell bad, and lasted for a few years. This one didn't have the little plastic photo album in it though. But hey, I had lost the pictures along with the leather wallet, so there you go. I think they were mostly of girls in my Junior High that I never got to first base with, but over the years the plastic had grown so brittle and dim that I couldn't see the pictures anyway. C'est La Vie.
The purple quilt wallet unraveled completely at a Giants game a few years ago. So I bought a Giants wallet. I display this quite brazenly whenever the bums are leading their division.......which means hardly anybody has even seen it. Giants wallet contains my most prized possession: My insurance card. This is now of supreme importance as I myself grow dim and brittle. My pictures are now on my iPod. And the condom problem I took care of awhile back, thanks to the insurance card.
The Drivers license has remained, but the picture changes every few years: Long hair, short hair, mullet, short hair, screw it: long hair. The credit cards have also remained, but way in the back. Thank you Dad! Some of your greatest gifts were Don't-Let-This-Happen-To-You.
The one thing that has stayed consistent through all of this, tucked away in the secret pocket, is my organ donor card. Reduce, re-use, recycle folks. Literally. Maybe they'll make wallets out of me!
Angus McMahan
7/13/06
1092 Words
vesica@cruzio.com