I pulled my wallet out of my back pocket the other day while talking to a group of people at work. I stopped speaking in mid-sentence, stared at the wallet for a moment, turned it over in my hand and even rubbed my thumb across its worn surface. Realizing I was still at work and, just maybe, I was being “odd” again, I quickly stuffed the wallet back in my pocket. I covered the significant pause by continuing to speak where I left off; on my never ending quest to fit into a workplace full of people I have little in common with. Although the pause seemed to mostly go unnoticed, I had been transformed at the very moment I had touched my wallet. I ended the conversation at the first available opportunity and moved away from the absurd cubical gathering. Something strange had happened and from that point forward the wallet felt heaver in my back pocket.
What happened? The wallet I pulled out of my pocket was no longer mine. It was my fathers. In some sort of twisted moment of enlightenment I was suddenly replaced and my father stood in my place. I was Luke Skywalker seeing Darth Vader’s mask blow open in that dark place on Dagobah - seeing my own face stare back at me. I always hated that part of the movie, thought it was trite, and yet now I understand that life can be that way at times - trite, so now I will embrace the scene and use the analogy.
You probably don’t know my father; trust me, feeling like you became him, even for a few seconds - that’s some scary shit. Don’t get me wrong, I respect and love my father, but he was a difficult man for a seven year old to comprehend. Full of strength, hardheaded wisdom, a tireless work ethic, and copious flaws. I am just now beginning to comprehend that he was even more lost with trying to understand his own children. I digress, I will write more about him another time, this time I just want to talk about the wallet.
I look at the leather wallet now and I am instantly seven years old. I am aware its not the original wallet but at some point it had been changed into the orignal. It looks, feels, and smells identical to the wallet my father left on the bedroom dresser every night. It’s the same color, shape, and seems to have the same exact flaws. This was the wallet he would tell me to go get from that dresser early on Sunday mornings before we were violently swept out the door in a torrent towards the car. In a rush because, god forbid, we wouldn’t get to church at least 45 minutes early. It was the wallet I would always wonder why he had to cram so much stuff in. Papers I now know were receipts, that w
ould protrude out of the main folds. The eight - two sided picture slots made of a plastic that was just a little bit too cloudy. Overstuffed with bad family photos circa 1974, business cards, coupons, miniature calendars, and the always present picture or two of the Virgin Mary. The plastic picture slots had broken edges and bent corners from trying to conform to the shape of the wallet. The wallet having been broken to the shape of my father.
I don’t even remember why I was getting my wallet out that day, probably to check for one of the passwords or phone numbers I keep in there stuffed on folded pieces of notebook paper. My wallet is overfilled with receipts from three months of lunches and gas stations stops, membership cards, and pictures of my own kids. My Father’s miniature calendars and Holy Family portraits have been replaced with credit cards and debt cards that didn’t exist when I sneaked brief looks into his world. The content slightly modified to the times and my ongoing war with religious rebellion still managed to mock the size enough to send me sailing through time.
That fucking wallet fascinated me, it was a symbol of…….being a grownup I guess. I am now faced with a realization. I am a closer representation then I care to admit to myself of the man that held that wallet before me. Oh, by the way the other patriarchal symbol of being a grown up that left an impression on me would be his belt. The wallet just seemed safer to talk about.
Peace
