Smokey Robinson

“I am not wearing a studded belt,” I said.

“Just try it,” Lila said.

I took it into the dressing room, along with a plain black pocket-T, three pairs of shorts (one a sort of rugged, nylon version of khaki, the other two various patterns of camo), and a black hoody.

I was at Ragstock, a thrift store on the North Side, looking for an anarchist outfit. There’s an anarchist convention on theory this weekend, and I couldn’t very well go in GAP jeans and a polo, so I needed a new wardrobe. The advantage of the anarchist fashion is that it is cheap: anything not bought used better have been free. The t-shirt was $3 and the shorts 4. The disadvantage is that the style was utterly ridiculous when not at an anarchist event. The shorts went down to mid-shin, and the belt made me look like an oversized Rottweiler.

In the end I couldn’t stomach buying anything camouflaged, and studs were simply out of the question. The most basic problem with such things was that my collegiate glasses and newly short hair would be stupendously incongruous. But also I did not want to become a poser, I did not want to wear a costume. I wanted to be a little less conspicuous, but my goal was not to walk among the anarchists as one of them, trying to get clued in to their secrets and rituals.

The only other person in the basement of the store (which is the men’s section), besides me and Lila, was the cashier-cum-dj. He had some Smokey Robinson on, and it had begun to grate on our ears. Lila, in a rare fit of awkwardness, made a comment to that effect to the cashier. Then, realizing her faux pas: “Or…did you put this music on?”

He looked at her. “You got a problem with Smokey Robinson?”

“No, no…it can just be…a little much…after a while…” Lila slinked away.