leave me alone

It had seen better days.
"Jon," she said, "You have to get rid of it."
"Mom," I tsk'ed at her, "I'm in my twenties. You haven't dressed me in months."
"That..." she struggled, trying to come up with the right word, before lighting on something that would do, "shirt can't be worn in public."
"So?" I said, looking down at the ripped tee, perhaps my oldest constant piece of apparel, "I'm inside."
"How'd you get here, Jon?"
Good point.
The t-shirt was an atrocity; make no mistake. I don't remember how many years ago the sleeves had been cut off, but the huge rip down the front came before, in 1992.
I remember dancing, and needing a little more freedom, and ripping the shirt apart. What followed was one of my earlier experiments in sewing technology.
Holes pocked the entire back and front of the shirt, and what held it up was virtual-ly spaghetti strings of cloth. The once white-background, on which the black letters still imposed, was now much closer to ivory, or gray.
It had seen better days.
Still, the statement, the words that made me buy the shirt in '85 or '84 or whenever, one of the last shirts with a saying I bought, was still bold and beautiful.
LEAVE ME ALONE, it read.
"Do you really mean it?" a pretty girl asked my junior year of high school.
"What do you think?" I sneered, storming past her. I had to live the shirt.
The politics of the shirt were long forgotten by all but me. When I first donned LEAVE ME ALONE, it was in the wake of Frankie Goes to Hollywood's massive success with "Relax." Everyone in the video wore t-shirt with big bold letters crying out for you to relax. It was, intentionally, a bold and obnoxious command.
Soon after, kids began wearing FRANKIE SAYS RELAX on their white shirts.
Soon after that, kids began wearing WHO GIVES A FUCK WHAT FRANKIE says instead.
Soon after, I bought LEAVE ME ALONE.
It was my favorite shirt. It was so shiny and new. That didn't last. Now, it was over ten years past, I'd wear the shirt increasing only when I knew I couldn't be presentable. It wasn't exactly a businesswear shirt, but it was perfect for biking extensive distances, when I didn't want to go bear-back.
I would have worn it more, but everyone was critical of it. Not just my mother, who always has something abusive to say, but also more considerate folk, like everyone else I knew.
"Put something else on," Toure said.
"Not that shirt," Rebecca whined.
"Oh, god..." Melle cried.
The shirt had seen better days. It was a hideous, horrible mess, one that could not be worn but on the most ridiculous situations.
No way was I giving it up.
When I arrived at my house-sitting assignment soaking wet, it occurred to me that a change of close might have been useful.
The house was air-conditioned, and I couldn't find the controls. I immediately disrobed, getting out of the sweat-drenched clothes that biking through several boroughs usually gets me. I dried myself off, and instantly regretted not sitting for people who had a dryer in every room. There wasn't, in fact, a dryer anywhere.
I had to improvise. I had extra underwear in my bag, but I wanted all my clothes crispy dry for when I went out for the evening.
While noshing on all the free food, I spied the microwave.
"Hmm..." I said.
Five minutes seemed to dry off the majority of my shirt, and made the rest of my wardrobe completely toasty. I had to leave my pants be, since they had metal in them, but all the rest was microwaveable, and I was amazed that no one out of TV sitcoms had never done this before.
I put my shirt back in, to give it that little extra something. The spaghetti-thin shoulders needed some more drying. I went on eating, waiting for the beeper to buzz.
The beeper didn't go off before I smelled smoke.
When I opened the microwave, I saw smoldering shirt. Damn thing must have caught fire in the machine. It was more white than black, but there were various spots of ashes throughout the shirt.
"Damn," I said, and picked it up by the cloth.
With the smoke and embers flying from the former wardrobe item, I ran to the patio, to see if I could throw this fire at the neighbors, or knock out the flames, leaving me with some of my favorite shirt. Realizing that my hosts probably wouldn't appreciate that, I tried to think of another way to put out the fire. Nothing came to me. The flames on the shirt were taking over. I might have an actual fire incident, if I didn't do something. Then I saw the grill.
I shoved the shirt into the Bar-B-Q, put the top on securely, and hoped my shirt would make it out of this mess half whole.
An hour later, I dared to look under the hood.
Smoke blew up. The stench was hideous. There was a small piece of white cloth left among a huge pile of charcoaled embers. It was burnt up.
LEAVE ME ALONE wouldn't be bothered anymore.
I sighed a little, wondered how I'd get out of the house presentably -- maybe borrowing a shirt from my host, maybe seeing if I actually did bring one with me -- and thought about what to do with the sad remains of my favorite shirt.
Didn't take long.
With it's offensive stench, it's difficult composition, it's complete dissolution, this horrible mess must be shared with as many as possible. Now that the danger and fire had passed, I picked up what was left of LEAVE ME ALONE and threw it off the tenth floor balcony.
The ashes withered into the night, but the one remaining white piece of cloth floated down unto the rain-soaked street. It took it's own time descending into the middle of the cross walk, where cars and people would go over it with alarming frequency, having no clue of the shirt's former glory.
It had seen better days.
Never had it seemed so glorious.