The T-Shirt and the Haircut

         “There’s no way he’s going to believe it,” said Andy. He held up the T-shirt. In bold letters were the words “LET’S GO BRANDON” with two American flags perched to either side.

         “Dude, I’m telling you: he’s not on Twitter, he doesn’t watch the news. He has no idea it’s even a thing. It’s up to you man. Fifty bucks, take it or leave it,” Ned waved the greenback in front of Andy’s face, the portrait of Ulysses S. Grant taunting the office prankster. Andy sighed.

               “Fuck it.” He took the shirt off the desk and walked down the hall to the CAD department office. He knocked on the door and stepped inside.

               “Hey everyone,” he said, his voice now that of a man carrying a weight. “Oh, it’s just you today, Pete?”

               “Everyone else took the day off,” said Pete, not looking up from his desk. His hands pounded on the keys of his keyboard, his bespectacled eyes flicking from one corner of his screen to the next, the lines of the drawing snapping rigidly into place as he defined their constraints.

               “Well,” said Andy, sighing, “I guess I’ll ask you then.”

               “Ask me what, Andy?” said Pete gruffly. “I don’t have time for your jokes right now.”

               “Pete,” said Andy, standing at Pete’s desk. Still, Pete didn’t look up. “Pete.” Pete sighed, stopping his work and pushing away from his desk, crossing his arms across his massive chest.

               “What do you want, Andy?” he said, his eyes narrow.

               “It’s…a friend of mine. He’s in the Army. He…was injured.” Pete’s expression softened.

               “Oh. I’m sorry, Andy. Is he okay?” The large man’s mouth turned downward.

               “We don’t know yet. But he needs some money to pay for his medical care-“

               “Wait, I thought the military paid for that-“

               “No, not after sequestration.”

               “That’s still going on?”

               “Yeah man, people don’t want to pay for that shit anymore. Even when it’s their soldiers getting injured fighting for them.”

               “Well, Andy, it’s not like the soldiers are fighting for our freedom. These wars are completely unjustified…” Pete trailed off. “Sorry.”

               “It’s okay,” said Andy, sighing deeply, “I know you didn’t mean anything by it. Look, we’re just trying to help him.”

               “So, what are you saying?”

               “I’m selling t-shirts, like this one. It’s just $5, and I just ask that you wear it to show your support. I’ve already sold most of them, but I still have one left if you want to contribute.” Andy held up the shirt. Pete looked at it for a moment, then fished his wallet out of his pocket.

               “Sure man, $5 is easy. I hope Brandon pulls through.”

               Matthew examined his haircut in the bathroom mirror. It was an unmitigated disaster. Who were they hiring at Supercuts these days? He supposed it must be the virus. Everyone was short on workers. But this woman had been the worst. He’d wanted a high fade cut styled like his favorite actor – he’d even shown her a picture.

               “Like this,” he said.

               “Well, I can’t see the other side, so I’ll just have to do it that way on both sides.”

               “Uh, sure, I guess,” he said to her. Why was he always such a pushover? Why did he always take shit from other people, let them have their way? He looked like a fucking Marine. He looked ridiculous.

               “Whatever,” he said, stepping out of the bathroom. Tyler was meeting him for coffee. He was sure his friend wouldn’t mention the hair – he was far too polite – but he knew what Tyler would be thinking. He knew.

               “Matt, what’s up dude?” said Tyler, glancing quickly, just for an instant, at his hair.

               “Just say it,” said Matt.

               “What?” said Tyler, feigning ignorance.

               “Get it out of your system.” Tyler smiled.

               “Sir, yes sir!” he said, grinning.

               “Fuck you,” said Matt. Tyler laughed.

               “I’m just giving you shit. New style?”

               “Not my idea. Hair stylist went rogue.”

               “I can tell.” They both got in line, looking up absently at the LCD screen perched above the counter, silently playing whatever news was filtering in from CNN. Across the bottom of the screen the chyron read: “Rittenhouse acquitted.”

               “Fucking hell,” said Tyler. “You see that? And they say we’re ‘a country of laws’”

               “Actually, I think it’s the right call,” admitted Matt.

               “Really? No, you’re fucking with me.”

               “Hear me out. I think we have a culture of gun violence in this country that teaches our young boys that the way to solve problems is to arm up. I think what we need isn’t to send one 17-year-old kid to prison, but to honestly and frankly take a look at the way that our culture perpetuates these myths and instills violence in our young boys.”

               “Oh god, Matt, you always have to take it a level deeper. The kid murdered people.”

               “Absolutely! But did he think he was murdering people? Or did he think he was defending people?”

               “Does it matter?”

               “Of course it does! Self-defense is a legitimate excuse for murder, codified in our laws.”

               “So now you’re a lawyer? Have you ever studied law?”

               “Well, no, but hear me out-“

               “Matt, c’mon dude! You’re just being contrary, as always. You know in your heart that what this kid did was wrong.”

               “I agree that what he did was wrong, but I think he was a casualty of our culture, not a psychopath.”

               “Okay, so would you have taken a machine gun to a protest?”

               “Absolutely not.”

               “So why are you defending this kid?”

               “Because…he’s a kid. Kids do stupid stuff.”

               “Not murder. That’s a bit beyond ‘stupid stuff’. And now he’s going to be the poster child for all kinds of conservative nut jobs.”

               “I don’t disagree with that.”

               “Speaking of…” Tyler trailed off and nodded towards the door of the café, which was just now opening.

               Pete walked into the café feeling a little ridiculous. The shirt was too small for him, riding up on his gut as he walked in to get his afternoon coffee. But he forced himself to bear the embarrassment of it. He hated the jingoistic wars that his country fought, over stupid nonsense like oil or “terror”. But he knew that the men caught in the crossfire were mostly just young kids who were trying to pay for college or who came from tough backgrounds and needed a good-paying job. He knew that Brandon wasn’t at fault for this. So he was proud to wear the shirt.

               He hated how it made him look, though. He’d been trying to lose weight for months now. But it was hard as the lead CAD engineer at G.H. Dickenson design firm, especially with all these people quitting recently. The Great Resignation was in full swing, which meant that he was now working 80 hour weeks, and it was hard to find time to get to the gym or do much of anything beyond sitting at his desk. The two men in the back of the line seemed to notice him right away. One of them had a high-and-tight haircut like a soldier. Great, thought Pete, these guys have never seen a guy with a gut before?

               “Nice shirt, dude,” said the one without the military haircut. “Seems a little small for you.” Pete’s face reddened, but he was determined not to engage with another bully. He got enough shit from the guys in the office.

               “I’m proud to wear it, and I’d appreciate it if you’d leave me alone,” he said through clenched teeth.

               “Yeah, I probably should. I know people like you like to ‘stand their ground’” People like him? It had been a long time since someone had been this much of an asshole to his face.

               “What’s your problem?” he asked. “I’ve just as much a right to be here as you do.”

               “Oh, we know,” said the Marine. “Fortunately, we still live in a free country. Your bro who lost the election, fortunately, didn’t get what he wanted.” What the hell was wrong with these guys? Pete shook his head, trying to calm himself down. He decided to look at the TV, but it was the news. He hated the news. Always catastrophizing everything, never encouraging anyone to be better. Sure as the sun, he read the closed-captioned lines and within moments felt his blood starting to boil. A man had shot and killed several people, and he had been acquitted of all charges. Pete could guess why and found his guess confirmed when the news feed showed a picture of the young man, whose skin was white as snow. Meanwhile, Pete thought of all the innocent Black men and women shot to death in cold blood. That had been around the time he’d stopped watching the news. It had gotten too painful for him.

               The Marine and his friend had turned back towards the counter, and Pete took a deep breath, getting into line behind them. He tried not to listen to their conversation, but the words drifted into his ears.

               “-as I was saying, I think that ultimately they made the right call in acquitting him.”

               “Are you fucking serious?” Pete blurted out, before he could stop himself. Damn it, he’d lost his temper. He’d been working too much, and these guys had gotten under his skin. What was he doing now, picking a fight?

               “What the fuck is your problem, Mr. ‘Let’s go Brandon’?” said the Marine’s friend. “I’d have thought you’d be in favor of the verdict.”

               “Why? Because I believe in supporting a man who was injured and abandoned by his country?”

               “Holy shit, you nutjobs just can’t leave it alone.”

               “Listen, I’m proud to support him. I may not know him personally, but I know his friends and family love him, and I’m sure he’s a great guy.”

               “Yeah dude, just leave it alone. You’re not going to convince us.” Pete couldn’t believe it. How could a Marine not want to support a Wounded Warrior?

               “I have to leave,” said Pete, and turned around and walked out.

               “Jeez, what a right-wing wacko,” said Tyler.

               “Yeah, I never get tired of putting those assholes in their place,” said Matt. He turned to face the counter. They were next in line. “Hello!” he said, smiling. “I’ll take a venti green tea chai with soy milk, please!”