The Footlocker.

• Author: Bathanti, Joseph
• Position: Poem

The Footlocker The day before I left Pittsburgh to work as a VISTA Volunteer in the prisons of North Carolina, my father drove me in the family car-- an enormous two-door green Chrysler Newport-- downtown to the Army-Navy store on Liberty Avenue. He was set on buying me a footlocker, something I had never dreamt of possessing, to pack everything I'd be taking. He and my mother were befuddled as to why I-- having recently earned a Master's Degree-- wished to spend my days among criminals 500 miles from home for $2,000 a year. They had little faith in my car, a beat-up 69 VW Bug with no reverse. My mother wept. My father said nothing. In my recollection, he has never attempted to dissuade me from anything, nor made public his desires, two things for which I can't begin to express my gratitude. I didn't want a footlocker, but couldn't bring myself to tell him so. We wandered the store looking at switchblades, gas masks, live grenades, then purchased the footlocker. My dad wanted to get me something else. Realizing a refusal would be unkind, I picked out a denim cowboy shirt with pearl buttons--at the time a real stretch for me. But, in twenty-four hours, I'd walk away from my past; style seemed irrelevant. Next door to the Army-Navy sprawled a string of porno shops. I snuck into one once with a friend. We squeezed into a booth and watched a 25-cent black and white clip, then gaped at magazine jackets, contraptions and novelties that...