Randy’s Shirts

Every time I see Randy, he’s wearing a different T-shirt with a smart-aleck saying on it. And I don’t mean just a little “World’s Okayest Golfer” kind of thing. I’m talkin’ full-on philosophy printed in white block letters across a size-too-tight cotton tee that usually looks like it came straight from the bottom of his laundry basket.

Last week, it read, “Sarcasm: Just One of My Many Talents.” And the week before that, “I’m Not Arguing—I’m Just Explaining Why I’m Right.” He’s become a walking bumper sticker, only you don’t need a car to get run over by his opinions.

Randy lives down the street and owns exactly two pairs of shorts and 143 T-shirts. I’ve never seen the man in anything with buttons. He swears he hasn’t owned an iron since the Reagan administration. He told me, “Wrinkles add character.” I didn’t ask if he meant shirts or his face.

One day, he showed up at my place wearing a red shirt that read, “I Tried to Be Normal Once. Worst Two Minutes of My Life.” I offered him coffee. He declined and pulled a Red Bull from his pocket like it was a magic trick. “Caffeine is caffeine,” he said, chugging it in two gulps. He crushed the can with one hand, tossed it in my recycle bin, and settled into a lawn chair like he was fixin’ to stay a while.

We sat under the carport, swapping lies about our younger days, and I finally asked, “You got a whole closet of those shirts or do they just multiply when you leave ‘em unattended?”

Randy smiled, pleased with himself. “Oh, I got a system,” he said. “Every time the world annoys me—which is often—I buy a shirt that says what I’m thinkin’ so I don’t have to say it out loud. Saves time. And friendships.”

“Your shirts are doin’ a lot of heavy liftin’ then,” I said, sipping my coffee.

I once asked him if he ever wore anything plain. He blinked like I’d asked if he believed in gravity. “Plain? Why? If I can make someone snort milk through their nose at the grocery store, I’ve done my civic duty.”

Randy considers himself a public service announcement. He’ll walk through town like a parade float, gettin’ honks and laughs. At church, the pastor once had to pause his sermon when he noticed Randy’s shirt said, “Technically, Moses Was the First Person With a Tablet Downloaded From the Cloud.”

He wore one to the DMV that said, “In My Defense, I Was Left Unsupervised.” That one earned him a side-eye from the woman behind the counter, but even she cracked a smile when he winked.

I suppose we all have our quirks. Mine’s refusing to use the self-checkout. Randy makes people laugh even when they don’t want to. And between the two of us, I think the world might survive a little longer.

Anyway, I saw him yesterday in line at the hardware store. His shirt said, “Some People Age Like Fine Wine. I Age Like Milk.” I nearly dropped my paint roller.

“Lookin’ fresh,” I told him.

He puffed out his chest. “Thanks. Got it on sale. I think the sentiment was free.”

I shook my head. I may not agree with everything Randy says, but I’ll give him this—he never needs to raise his voice. His shirts do the talking.