He liked the heal of

May 14, 2003

He liked the heal of the loaf of bread or the middle seat in the back of the car. Sure you sat on the martyr’s hump above the drive shaft but you were shielded from side impact by two warm bodies. He never had to yell “shotgun”. Placing third was the way to go. There was no pressure to stay on top and it was always good enough for a pat on the back. All his clothes were great deals. He sported the odd coloured running shoes of the highest quality, in the strangest 1/4 sizes, always dug from the pile on the folding table in front of the store -- 50% off. No one ever saw the tiny inch long runs in the fabric of his factory seconds. He volunteered to play goal ... against the easy teams. Life on the fringes of consumption and achievement should have given him an edge. He wanted what the picky eaters and label faithful wouldn’t touch. If logic prevailed he was destined to fit in. Never a territorial threat and never the hobbling calf at the back of the herd. No. If you don’t want what everyone else wants you are pushed aside. All must compete for the same prize in the same way and win or lose. Those are the rules.