Tales From Exit 22 by Al Batt

 

I hate to brag, but I can still fit into the socks I wore in high school.

An old friend, who I hadn’t seen in a long time, slapped me so hard on my back that my socks changed feet.

I’ve been wearing socks for most of my life. I’m not proud of that fact, but I’m not ashamed of it either. I once trained a dog to retrieve my socks. She was too small to bring me my shoes.

I don’t always wear socks, but going sockless isn’t reliably acceptable socially or weather wise. I like my sandals and enjoy the freedom of the open-toed except when near cacti or icebergs.

Socks come in handy. If it weren’t for socks, we’d have to spray-paint our feet. I was in a restaurant one day when I noticed a sign reading, “Watch your hat and coat.” I had no hat or coat, so I watched my socks.

A late friend told everyone that he slept in the nude except for his socks. He kept his socks on in case there was a fire.

On a trip to Ohio, I discovered my suitcase was short one thing: an extra pair of socks. I said, “I swan,” because I’d heard an elder say that before. It’s another way of saying, ”I do declare.”

I was wearing either navy blue or black socks. I’m not sure which. I have trouble telling those two apart. More than once, I’ve tackled the day with unmatched socks on my feet. I’m not a rebel or a daring man. I’m one who can’t tell a black sock from a navy blue sock. I believe manufacturers should label them navy blue or black. There should be “black” or “navy blue” printed boldly on the bottoms of the socks, unless, of course, they happened to be red socks. Still, life is too short to worry about whether or not my socks match.

I’d recently culled my sock herd. I was appalled to discover that I had no socks the color of carrots, asparagus or purple popsicles. On the plus side, I did have wonderful Batman and Superman socks. Socks with holes in them (it was good to know that I could still wear a hole in something) or missing a partner were removed from my sock drawer. There were several pairs of socks remaining, but I’d forgotten to bring them along on my trip. I went into a store I deemed likely to handle socks. I momentarily suffered from retail amnesia, a common and irritating affliction. I’d forgotten what I’d come for, so I bought a newspaper for me and a pack of gum that I’d give away before remembering what I needed. A lack of socks apparently heightens the impact of retail amnesia.

I asked the clerk if the store had any socks that would make me look like Brad Pitt or George Clooney. He said they were all out of those. Then he smirked cruelly.

I bought a pair of socks for $1. I don’t play the lottery. Finding a pair of socks for 50 cents each is as close as I’ve come to winning the lottery. The socks weren’t American made. No surprise. More than 97 percent of apparel and 98 percent of shoes sold in the U.S. are made overseas, according to the American Apparel & Footwear Association.

Socks are a less appreciated form of footwear than shoes, even though they make much better hand puppets than shoes. Unless your feet are cold. Then wool socks become the greatest invention ever. One of the many nice things about socks is that they don’t have any socklaces that need to be tied. A couple of the greatest joys experienced by humans are taking off shoes and putting on clean socks.

A friend lamented the mysterious disappearance of several of his socks. Socks are the Houdinis of the hosiery set. The buddy system doesn’t work for socks. Where do lost socks go? There are many failed relationships in the sock world. Some socks are meant to be single. Socks excel at playing hide-and-seek. The winners at that game go to a location where they are turned into discount dental floss. I think they go to What Cheer, Iowa, but I can’t prove that.

Losing a sock isn’t the worst thing that could happen to a soul or a sole. I could lose my luggage, the entire Batt fortune or my mind.

Even so, I put a trail camera in my sock drawer.

Let the good times roll.

Al Batt’s columns appear every Wednesday and Saturday.