Bum fashion

So I was sitting there in my truck in the parking lot of a store the other day in just a tiny bit of a panic. Panic because I had just told Boy Wonder we could go to McDonalds and get French fries.

But then I realized I had no cash. Just a checkbook. A checkbook isn't any good at McDonalds anymore. They don't take checks. I guess they got sick of $1 checks bouncing.

I was fairly surprised they took them at all to begin with.

I mean, where I come from, every retailer from Buffalo to Bangor just assumed your check was bad and if you tried to write them one they'd wave it in front of your nose like a stinky sock and say something like, "We don't take checks here."

That was especially true for restaurants. There was no way you were getting a meal east of the Mississippi with a check.

But I had remembered that I left a dollar in my checkbook somewhere and I was rummaging around through it when I heard a voice in my ear.

"Harley Davidson should sue Yamaha, don't you think?" the voice said.

I didn't look up. I had the window down and it was a nice day and I was hoping that if I didn't look up the voice would just go away, but it didn't. Where is that damn dollar?

I mean you can lie and cheat and do all sorts of horrible things to your children and get away with it. But you can't lie and cheat about food. You can't say McDonalds ran out of French fries. Kids know McDonalds doesn't run out of French fries. That sort of thing just doesn't happen.

"I mean, look at 'em," the voice said.

I looked up. I know I shouldn't have but I looked up.

The man had a scraggly beard or maybe he didn't, but he didn't look too good and he had a bottle in a bag in one hand and maybe a cigarette in the other and a big fat stain on his shirt.

He was plastered, and, I hoped, unarmed.

Behind the truck was a Yamaha motorcycle that looked just like a Harley.

"Yes," I agreed. "Yamaha should sue Harley."

"Damn straight," he said.

Then he looked at me cross eyed and said, (and I am not making this up) "What's with the Hawaiian shirt?"

I looked down at my shirt. Yes, I suppose, it did have a Hawaiian print, a Hawaiian motif if you will, but it wasn't garish. It wasn't touristy.

"Everyone's wearing Hawaiian shirts now," he said.

He looked disgusted, like I had broken some sort of bum dress code. I wanted to ask him what was with the bag and the lousy breath and the big fat stain on his shirt.

But I mustered a smile instead.

And then I found that damn dollar. We were off to McDonalds as soon as I let off the clutch.

The bum teetered off laughing to himself about my shirt.

I thought about running him over. Make fun of my shirt. What's wrong with my shirt? What sort of world is it when the bums attack your attire?

I mean yeah, it's not that great a shirt. Sure, I look sort of goofy in it.

I am not a fashion plate. But my checks are good. Well, most of them. Honest.

Chris Peterson is the editor of the Hungry Horse News.