Since Cowboy’s apartment flooded, he’s moved more than the freshmen skank in college dorms: three times in three months.
In an effort to reduce the plastic tubs, cardboard boxes and garbage bags full of shit valuable possessions, I helped him sort. Two piles, I said, one to keep and one to toss.
For the most part, the work was easy. But one item bore the soul of the devil, it was so hot.
Me: This shirt has holes in it. I’m tossing.
Him: NOT THAT SHIRT. THAT’S MY IMPORTANT SHIRT.
Me: Important shirt?
Him: Yeah, important shirt. Like, I wear it to interviews and stuff.
Me: A shirt with holes? You wear a black, short-sleeve polo with holes in your gut to a job interview?
Him: It’s worked every time... I've gotten every job I've interviewed for in that shirt.
Me: Really? Maybe your employer is just distracted by your fancy-looking suit pants... What do you wear it with?