Beltbuckle
There it was. Same place as yesterday, and the day before, and for thirteen days before that. A chocolate brown leather belt, looped and secured on the same mannequin near the back of the store. The mannequin also wore a pair of tan plaid pants, a cream-coloured turtleneck and shiny black loafers. Though it had no eyes or eyebrows, it wore a heavy moustache that propped up a pair of aviator sunglasses.
To Sam, it might as well have been naked—everything but the belt. He was there for the belt. And really, not even the belt itself, which wasn’t anything out of the ordinary. What kept him coming to Gene Glenn’s Shirt Shed on 9th and Lowry, day after day, peering in the shop window, was the belt buckle. It was pure brass, as big as his fist, hammered and shaped into the peace symbol.
Sam had first noticed a boy in his third-year statistics class wearing one. Sam, who always lingered after class in hopes of avoiding awkwardness, or worse, hostility in the hallway, was slowly packing up his books when the boy - if he could even be called a boy, compared to Sam he was definitely a man - shuffled by his desk. At eye-level now, the belt buckle refracted the light and gleamed into Sam’s eyes. That curious shape—he’d seen it before. On flimsy sandwich boards slung over flimsier bodies, at the ends of picket signs forming the O in “NO, We Won’t Go” and the O in “HOME” as in “Bring Our Troops,” on telephone poles, on front lawns, in corner store windows. After that, he began seeing them all over campus.
But Sam wasn’t drawn to the peace sign for political reasons. No, his were far less altruistic. Simply put, the belt buckle was groovy. A word that he had only just learned, among many. Sam had recently immigrated to America from Taiwan. The eldest of four siblings, he would be the one to make a new life in the United States attending North Missouri State College in Kirksville, population: 11,532.
Although Sam was the same age as his college classmates, he had already taken many of the same subjects before in Taipei. Thanks to the brutal rigor of the Taiwanese Education system, Sam had a college level understanding of mathematics by the time he was 16. Now at the age of 21, Math, Physics and even Engineering were a walk in the park, especially the second time around. Sam took comfort in the fact that the nature of some things, like numbers, didn’t change. They at least, stayed universal, uncomplicated, pure. It was American History, English Literature and Political Science that endlessly tormented him. His grasp of English was shaky at best. And the concepts—dear God, the concepts! Trying to make sense of The Feminine Mystique felt like deciphering ancient runes.
Sam also felt physical challenges. He was just so much smaller than his peers. In Taiwan, he was utterly average, but here, he struggled to find clothes that fit. The fabric of his pants gathered and accordioned at the waist when he put his belt on. His dress shirts were so baggy, the sleeves — huge donuts encircling his scrawny biceps On numerous occasions, Sam would look in the mirror at the end of the day to find the distinct stain of soup or some other liquid from the shirt billowing and sagging at the belly, dipping into god knows what.
Once, in an act of desperation, he sheepishly bought women’s shirts, which fit perfectly, until a classmate pointed out that his buttons fastened on the opposite side. The classmate’s remark was merely curious, still Sam’s face flushed with crimson heat, and he went back to wearing his oversized, soup-stained shirts. If he somehow managed to get it, the belt would surely need additional holes.
The price tag read $12.47. Far more expensive than anything he owned. It was even more than a month’s rent. It would be irresponsible, frivolous, heck it would be downright insane. He knew this. But if he could just get one, get his hands on one, he too would be American, like Gregory Peck, he too would be groovy.
Sam began saving the small amount he earned working after school at a circuit board factory, soldering inductors and feeding binary code into a giant computer. After paying his rent and groceries, there was scarcely any money left over. Sam’s father, who held an upper management position at the Taipei Railway Company sent Sam some money for textbooks and an electric rice cooker. Sam didn’t bother to tell his father that such an item was impossible to find in the state of Missouri let alone Kirksville. Instead, he put the money towards his belt-buckle fund and continued to burn rice in a pot.
At church on Sundays, he started leaving a little less than before when the tithing basket made the rounds. He felt guilty, but surely if anyone understood, it was God. This belt buckle could be his salvation. It could change everything. Maybe once he wore it, guys would stop brushing past him, bumping his shoulder and calling out “ching-chong chinky chink.” Maybe girls wouldn’t huddle, pulling their eyes into slants and bucking their teeth. Maybe.
Ironically, these were the same students who proudly donned the peace symbol; on a leather strap around their necks, dangling brightly from their ears, and of course, fastened around their waists. So much for peace, love of understanding, Sam thought.
He let out a deep sigh — his breath fogging the store window into a soft oval, swallowing his reflection. Wiping it away with his oversized sleeve, Sam continued down the street.