Visage

By

Ray Purcell

Abundant grandmotherly storm clouds set upon the valley this afternoon. With bolstered rears and throw pillow bosoms they came wearing shapeless variegated gray frock coats. They began to forage about the sky with the random purpose of a day after sale, and with a voracity born of bargain table desire. Each seemed to wield a capacious hand bag undoubtedly equipped with a mirrored compact, lipstick of an absurd color, half a pastrami sandwich -mustard no mayo- on seedless rye, and the urn with Uncle Ernie’s earthly remains. With each brusk passing my house shook subtly, the window sashes shuttered and the old framing creaked.

I felt comforted, and imagined that soon large soggy flakes of snow would be falling somewhere in the Sierra. Snow not unlike the blow in subscription ads that fell to my feet and onto the blue shag bathroom rug from the Outside Magazine that I was thumbing through.

Comfortable and secure in my little world, I was free of need, and feeling blessed with forced air heat and indoor plumbing on this blustery day. Then I turned the page to 108 of volume XXIX number 3, and my well-being and confidence suddenly sagged. There in a photo by Gregg Segal in Outside Style, was Tashi, a twenty-something fit young man sporting a stylish, shower drain clogging, floppy Afro type hairstyle the texture of Chow fur.

With a catatonic, I’m just a canvas, affect he stood on an improbably immaculate train platform, in perfect light, posed with poise and adorned with a daypack ($40) by Outdoor Products, cotton T-shirt ($25) (product source, telephone number, and web site not disclosed), cotton button-down shirt ($40)(ibid), cargo pants ($55) by Eddie Bower, and Air Teewinot II trail-running shoes ($85) by Nike ACG. I was simply too inconsolable to even continue to read the description of David or Brian’s ensemble of haute adventure apparel, let alone their subtotals. Suffice it to say that the magazine fell from my fingers as I turned to look at myself in the full length dressing mirror.

No, no it wasn’t that, no one can look suave on the shitter, not even Tashi, Brian and David. But clearly my “look” was simply hopeless, I just didn’t have it going on. If perception is reality then I am a fashionless schlump. My adventures have no doubt suffered and I will soon become shunned by all but my schlumpiest friends.

Really my problem is that I am fashion obtuse, and I guess that I’ve been aware of it since Queer Eye For the Straight Guy debuted. Though I endured the greatest pains for my lack of cachet as I stood alone in the check outline at Railey’s Supermarket in Apple Valley; where we had stopped for some “road food” on the way home from a climbing trip in the Mojave Desert. It wasn’t that the store was empty or that business was slow, it was that the god fearing average white people from the former home of the Roy Rogers Museum wouldn’t stand in line with me. I was being shunned! My first thought was, “Oh God, do I look that bad.”

My fashion failure wasn’t for want of trying. I had actually devoted some thought and energy to it, and felt that I could at least turn in a sophomores effort. The goal, I thought, was to sculpt a look that said “climber”, that was subtle enough to be identified by the coterie of my peers yet would at least appear genuinely adventurous to the public at large.

After a careful study of the media I extracted several key visual elements that identify climbers specifically and adventures in general. The first is that ones “look” must project a dirtbag elegance and savoir vivre. In other words, success would be measured in a couture that says, “I could have slept under a rock, in a bus station, or at the Ritz Carlton (a room, not the loading dock or lobby) last night, as I wished.”, but still exude a rugged couth and charm. The next is that where colors need not necessarily match, the clash should be muted by warm earth tones.

I found that there is a devilish balance in achieving this “look” that lays on the thin edge of the page between the white bread sterility of a Lands End Catalog model and a wino. Because of the dignity of my age I felt that I must eschew the adolescent uniform slops adopted as a uniform by skaters, boarders, and boulderers; yet, not feeble myself with the geriatric chinos and castoff dress work shirt that could just as easily be donned by a gentleman tending his roses. Then there’s the challenge of incorporating adventure labels, like Patagonia with a subtlety that avoids a dreadful disingenuous and gaudy sort of swank.

What I arrived at was a “look” that incorporated the rakish cavalier of Sandy Irvine with the cultivated dishevel of Allen Steck, and the casual devil-may-care dishabille of Peter Croft. Attired thus I began my unexpected journey down the road to social isolation and fashion ignominy. I wore a pair of 5.TEN Mountain Masters, which have a definite I’ve been out of the box and down the trail scuff. Next, a pair of PRANA climbing pants, khaki cotton soft from wear, and perfect for early spring in the desert. Over the top (Heh, Heh), I choose a layered look with two “performance” synthetic shirts. Under was a dark dusty blue long sleeve Tee, while over that a muted olive baggy North Face golf shirt. I finished it out with a Patagonia green Retro-X vest, and vintage brown wool fedora; no, not Harrison Ford in Indiana Jones, Charlton Heston in Inca Gold.

My friend Rocky, no- his name really is Rocky, it says so on his drivers license right next to the photo of him wearing a mullet, picked me up at my house. Rocky doesn’t have the mullet any more. In fact the hair he’s got left he beats severely into submission with a number 1 razor, and he covers that most of the time with a selection of baseball caps. From under the brim he looks out at you with an evil grin distorted by a lip full of chewing tobacco, and wild eyes magnified by his glasses. It’s a look that generically say’s “get ready, I feel an epic coming on”.

With camping and climbing gear stowed in the back we headed down the road with morning coffee in hand. Not far from my house one of the truck tires dropped into one of the seemingly bottomless potholes that California’s deficit ridden highways and byways have become synonymous with. A high tide of coffee washed over the jetty on the rim of my mug and flooded the crotch of my very stylish gusseted khaki PRANA climbing pants leaving a conspicuous yellow stain.

No matter! We arrived at New Jack City, a sport climbing venue south of Barstow and after a few warm ups we put up a toprope on an 11b problem with an awkward and gymnastic bouldery start that I’d had a grudge with for years. Roped in and on belay I got myself situated for the committing crux move. I lunged off of a left handed side pull and arced up and right my right hand stretching to stick a course slopper. Amazed, my fingers stuck and I kicked up to find the rounded mantle for my left hand. As I was about to complete the sequence when I noticed that crimson had mixed into the white of accumulated chalk where my right hand was.

Naturally I thought some other less graceful son-of-a-bitch had donated blood with a crass and unsuccessful throw for the same hold. When I finally caught my breath I noticed that my right hand looked like a mass murderer caught in flagrante while red was splashed across my shirt. A sharp crystal had made a small cut on my thumb that had hemorrhaged like a victim in a Quentin Tarantino movie.

That’s alright! That night we were treated to Rocky’s famous chicken fajitas with three kinds of HOT habanero and serrano peppers. As dinner concluded we built a pallet fire and drummed into the night. The next morning the inside of my sleeping bag smelled of fried food, beer, peppers, and sweat. After we used the leftovers to fry up into an egg scramble the smell became even more potent. Then as we were loading up to go climb some more I stumbled in the sand and landed on my knees. The knees of my pants tore out and my knees were scratched and bloody from the course texture of the sand.

Who cares! Another day of climbing came and went, and with that more layers of grime and sweat to show for it. Thirsty and hungry we stopped at Raliey’s on the way home. Since it had gotten warm I left the moth eaten fedora that I’d been wearing in the truck. But before going in I self consciously tried to smooth out the greasy permanent wave that the oily hatband had forged into my hair.

The electric doors smoothly slide open and I steeped into one of the most emblematic monuments to western caloric bounty, food fecundity, and shopping convenience. I strode toward the dazzling lights over the gleaming floor and against a current of cool air. There was a smartly dressed security guard posted in the entrance with the physique of Odd Job, the charm of a shit pile, and carrying nothing more lethal than his breath. He eyed me cooly as I walked past and I felt uncharacteristically suspect.

I shook off the intimidation and set about shopping. I remembered my nutrition teacher once telling her class that when shopping for wholesome food always shop from the perimeter of the store since that’s where the dairy, meats, and produce are usually arranged. I, contrary to her advice for balanced and healthy eating, headed straight down the center for soda and chips. With my larder in hand I headed to the check out. I stood at the register in conspicuous solitude. A man with out a check out line. Any other time I’d have payed good money for this.

This was as good a time as any to check my package, fashion wise any way. Then it occurred to me! To the tidy white bread people of Apple Valley I wasn’t worth quarter not because I was a climber, or even an adventurer. It was that the flower of my fashion statement had wilted with wear. I probably didn’t even look good enough to pass for a tweaked out cook in a meth lab. I just looked smelly, sweat stained, and incontinent. The kind of guy who mumbles and distractedly picks at unseen creatures burrowing in his skin. Though I’m sure that had there been any real adventurers or climbers in the crowd I’d have been befriended.

April 2004