Dirty undies and broken bikes

The following conversation between my father (Ba) and younger brother (Aroop), which took place in our home in Kansas City, was relayed to me over the phone a few days ago. Liberties were taken by this author to make Aroop sound more eloquent and less effeminate. Success proved elusive on both counts.

Ba: Aroop.

Aroop: What?

Ba: Why are you prancing around in women’s clothing?

Aroop: It’s not women’s clothing. It’s European. And I wasn’t prancing.

Ba: It has a flower on it.

Aroop: Yea maybe. But the flower’s part of a crest. Crests are manly.

Ba: Why is it so tight? Why can’t you dress like a normal person?

Aroop (exasperated): I already told you, it’s European. It’s from a British company called Ben Sherman. You don’t know anything.

My father later confided to me that he remained unimpressed by either Ben Sherman or my younger brother’s fashion sense of late. Since mid-July of this year, Aroop has been sporting articles by companies like Lacoste, Ben Sherman, Calvin Klein and various other big names. The primary cause of this fashion rebirth was his grand entrance into the teenage nouveau-riche, subsidized by his short but well-documented career at a prestigious hedge fund this past summer. Aroop got the job through a best friend’s ex-girlfriend’s father. He was doing it primarily to pad his resumé, but also hoped to learn a little about finance. As those of us who received his regular email updates soon learned, the latter was naught but a pipe dream. Aroop’s biggest responsibility each week was to spearhead the office-wide “Fast Food Fridays,” wherein he and another intern would leave the building for two hours on Friday and then return in a blaze of greasy glory, laden down with sandwiches and deep fried goodies from one of the many fast-food joints around New York City. On days other than Friday, he slept in the bathroom and checked his email. He was compensated quite generously for his labors, which funded a complete revamping of his wardrobe. Aroop claims that he has “always been fashionable,” but my mother’s stranglehold over money he had earned had “held him down.” Aroop’s ability to now express himself through overpriced, bleached jeans from Calvin Klein is a victory for young boys with oppressive mothers everywhere.

Aroop just arrived at Oxford (where he will be studying for the year) a few days ago, and informed me that he was able to pack a good deal of fashionable clothing into his allowed luggage. He took two fifty-pound suitcases, a backpack and a bag containing tennis gear and more clothes. I reflected on the differences between our respective clothing situations. Aroop has more than 100 pounds of clothing, and will likely bring more at Christmas. I have 10 T-shirts, 10 pairs of boxers, 3 pairs of pants and two sweatshirts that will last me for the year. Aroop is excited about impressing his fellow Oxford students with his freshly purchased pullovers, track jackets and form-fitting hoodies. I recently started wearing my boxers two days in a row, because, quite frankly, I don’t soil them enough in 24 hours to warrant a full-blown laundry cycle. Much to my relief, Aroop has assured me that when I get back to the United States, he will do his best to “make me fashionable.” Other promises of his include him paying for my kids’ educations, since, he decided, I’ll be too poor to do so myself. Few people are as lucky as I am to have such a caring younger brother.

I suppose that now that I myself am living in Europe, home of all that is hyperchic, I could start dressing more nicely and really impress Aroop when I get to see him in November. Unfortunately, though, the limiting Watson stipend combined with the ever-plummeting dollar (I’ve been reading The Economist) forces me to spend quite frugally, to the point that my thriftiness has been catching up with me. My bike, for example, is falling apart. About a month back, I spent a few days looking for the cheapest bike shop in Galway. I soon found it: Europa Cycles. While the other bike shops are located on main streets and have windows, Europa Cycles is located in the basement of what seemed like an abandoned warehouse at the edge of a forest. I bought the bike from a greasy man who spoke broken English and, when answering my questions, preceded his statements with “Trust me.” I didn’t trust him, but he was selling me the bike for peanuts compared to the other places so I bought it.

A few nights ago, I was biking back home and got rather uncomfortable. The seat, which is made of whale-bone or a material of similar hardness, had rendered some of my more delicate parts rather tender, and I decided to stand up to alleviate my discomfort. I was carrying my mandolin in my right hand and steering with my left, and thus to stand up I was forced to place my right hand awkwardly on the end of the handlebar. The following events took place in rapid succession, and yet I can recall them with complete clarity, as I experienced them in slow motion. As soon as I put my weight on the handlebars, I realized why it was a bad idea: I had forgotten that the rubber grip of my right handlebar had come loose. Upon registering this crucial fact, my hand slipped off the bars with the grip and I was propelled directly over the right side of my handlebars. I enjoyed a few brief moments of flight, and landed with my legs intertwined with various parts of my bike and my mandolin case splayed out in front of me. I had my laptop in my backpack as well, but was far more concerned about the state of my mandolin. There are computers at internet cafes. My mandolin is how I have been preserving my sanity. Thankfully, everything save my ego was undamaged (I was wearing my helmet), and I biked back home in shame. The next day I got my wheels aligned and grip fixed by a surly Polish man who growled at me when I asked questions. I am now up and riding once again. Bulletproof.

Stay well, I miss you all,

Auyon