The Cheap Shall Inherit The Earth

Okay:

The toy store today is everything I remember it to be. Sensory overload. Colorful and awe-inspiring. Looking at small children sauntering in holding a parent's hand, you can almost see their pupils dilate as they slip into an opium-induced stupor.

They kind of wander about aimlessly for a while, pulling mom or dad like big docile dogs on a leash until they happen upon something they simply cannot do without. Most parents take some pleasure in being able to temporarily satisfy the fruit of their loins with plastic and vinyl. They gladly pull out their wallets and dig into their purses, hand credit cards to acne-ridden cashiers with a melodramatic sigh. They might even say something clever like, "What are you gonna do? It's easier just to give in, isn't it?"

Unless, of course, you are my father.

I can recall, with great clarity, shopping trips with the old man. As a child there were only three things I was interested in: comic books, movies and music. Action figures were too static and required more than a reasonable amount of imagination. Video games proved awkwardly difficult for me. And sports were an alien concept, as my father was not an athletic man.

Luckily for me, my father also liked comic books, movies and music. He never complained about any of those things. But our first trip to Foot Locker in the late eighties was a major turning point. I wanted a pair of black Diadoras. I didn't know much about them. I didn't even think they were particularly attractive shoes. I just knew that they were all the rave, and any kid with a pair of Diadoras could avoid the scalding criticism of his peers for months. I had to have them.

They were the first articles of clothing I ever had to have. Before then I would've worn a burlap sack to school and not complained.

When I tried them on the old man smiled and said, "Those are some smart looking sneakers." It had never occurred to me that he might get some enjoyment out of the experience, but him liking the shoes made it that much more enjoyable for me. "Sir," he said to the sales clerk, "How much are these?"

"One hundred dollars, sir."

"WHAT?!" he screamed. I was only nine or ten years old, and even I knew that sounded a bit excessive. One hundred dollars was a fortune to me. Still, I kept those thoughts on the inside. Even at that age, something in me knew that it was bad form to let the world know you couldn't afford something. But this old man of mine had no such modesty or reserve. "ONE HUNDRED DOLLARS?!! ARE YOU CRAZY?"

"That's the price, sir."

"I want to talk to a manager, young man."

The manager, only slightly older than the clerk, appeared within seconds. "Yes, sir. What seems to be the problem?"

"The problem is these shoes cost one hundred dollars," continued the old man. "This little boy is in the fifth grade. What does he need with a pair of one hundred dollar shoes?"

The manager explained to my father that he was not the person who decided how much the shoes should cost and pointed to several pairs of less-attractive, more reasonably priced sneakers.

I hung my head in self-pity, quietly resigning to the inevitable. I was not going to get my Diadoras.

My father thanked the manager. Then he put his hands on his hips and paced angrily back and forth across the sales floor. He looked at me in disgust, as if to say, "You set me up, you little shit."

Then, finally, he said to the manager, "Ring me up."

I was shocked. "Thanks, Dad," I said. But there wasn't much joy in it. For all of that he could've just bought me a pair of Stadias and I probably would've felt about the same. When we went to the cash register he stared at the cashier as if he were about to hit the poor man.

It was then that I realized something I hadn't realized before. My father was poor.

That hundred dollars was going to hurt.

From then on I became very price conscious. For the most part I didn't even bother asking for things that seemed too expensive. Not because I didn't want my father to embarrass me, but because I did not want to embarrass him. Sure there were times after that where we had similar episodes, but those Diadoras were the last pair of designer sneakers I ever wore. To this day, I won't pay more than one hundred dollars for a pair of shoes. I mean that literally. I'm looking at all of my shoes right now, and not one single pair cost me more than one hundred dollars. In fact, I won't pay more than one hundred dollars for any article of clothing unless it's a nice coat or a suit, and I only do that every other year or so.

A few years ago, as you know, they brought Diadoras back to the major retailers. I bought a pair of army green low-tops for fifty dollars. I called my father to share the good news, but he had no clue what I was talking about. I told him the story I have just told you, hoping to refresh his memory, and he replied, "Well, it seems like I taught you something valuable after all."


Thanks for reading.

GOBAMA!

LISTEN TO MY MUSIC AND WATCH VIDEOS AT:
www.blackbroadway-online.com

Factoid: I started writing rhymes when I was in the third grade. My father was the only person I would let read them for a while. He was generally both appalled and impressed. He once said, "This is great, but aren't you a little young to be cussin' so much?"