The night of the pink sweater
By Dan Sherrier
Somewhere along the way, during the course of human evolution, mankind needed to make a choice––a choice that would ultimately affect millions, and perhaps someday billions, of lives.
Confronted with a wide spectrum from which to choose, humanity had to assign but one color to girls, and but one color to boys.
Then came the decree that all the little girls of the world shall be garbed in the hue of pink, and all the little boys shall be garbed in hue of blue. So shall it be forevermore. The End.
This all happened before my time, so I don’t profess to understand it. But I’ve adhered to it faithfully over the years. My closet contains not one single item of pink, and it’s going to stay that way. If any relative ever buys me a pink shirt as a gift––and if I’m unable to return it––I’m stashing it away under my bed, where it will never again be gazed upon by human eyes.
Conversely, I own several shades of blue. Heck, even my couch is blue. Sometimes, I might even feel blue. But I never feel pink.
I try my best not to judge any man who proudly prances around in a pink shirt. To each his own. Some can pull it off. Not me. You will never see me wear pink…
…Unless you happened to be at a particular night club one time three years ago.
Days before my college graduation, I went with a small group to a Williamsburg night club. (That was also the very same night that I learned the term “Williamsburg nightclub” was, in fact, not an oxymoron.)
This Williamsburg nightclub had a dress code, which was something else I learned that very evening…at the night club’s front door.
There I was, wearing a black T-shirt and jeans. That wouldn’t do, said the bouncer. (Yeah, I know! A bouncer! In Williamsburg! Clearly, despite my impending graduation, I still had much to learn.)
The bouncer instructed me that I would not be permitted into the establishment without either a collared shirt or a sweater. I had neither handy.
But one of the girls in the group was wearing a sweater over other clothes. A sweater in the hue of pink, it so happened.
She inquired to the bouncer, “If he wears this, can he be let inside?”
To this, the bouncer shrugged and replied, “Sure. If he wants to.”
I called his bluff, and in the process, saved him from the near-lethal boredom of being a bouncer in Williamsburg.
At the time, I was a theatre major, after all, and used to doing ridiculous things for the sake of amusing others. But never had I done anything quite like this.
I pulled that sweater over my head, and into that night club I strolled––pink as a Barbie dream car.
Finally inside, we headed to the dance floor. And it was empty.
Not one soul stood on that dance floor, much less danced.
In the wise words of Kurt Vonnegut, “So it goes.”
To be fair, there were people over at the bar area. I wouldn’t describe it as packed, but there was life. But on the dance floor, we had a monopoly. And I had a pink sweater. And everyone else had a good laugh.
To my knowledge, that was the last time the color pink ever clothed me. If there have been any instances since, the memories have since become repressed––and likely for good reason. —WLY&ME
October 29th, 2009 at 9:09 am
Nice pink sweater! I love it!