First he pulled on the socks. One was soggy gray, the color of dirty bath water, and had several holes ripped through the heel. It was his favorite sock because it used to be a white sock, the kind he thought important businessmen wore as they marched down the street, barking orders into cellphones and clutching shiny briefcases. He’d found the sock on a Tuesday evening, during one of his usual dumpster raids.
The other sock was faded pink and unravelling so much that it barely resembled a sock anymore. Carefully he wrapped it around his foot, covering everything but the last three toes. He’d fished it out of the river one morning with a long piece of string and a stick.
Next came the swim trunks, light blue with small green fish wriggling across the fabric. He’d felt very proud of himself for finding them in a dumpster, one because they were almost intact and had hardly any stains, and two because he felt like he was prepared for anything, even a sudden flood.
Now he buttoned up his orange and white striped shirt. He’d had it longer than he could remember, and no matter how hard he scrubbed in the river he could never seem to wash the stench of whiskey from it.
The shoes were dirt brown and cramped his feet. He’d traded for them a long while back from a man named Ted who always carried a black trash bag around like Santa Claus. This was back when he still believed that making friends was worth the time.
He didn’t have to put on the dog tags because he never took them off. Every now and then when the bullets whizzed by overhead, he clutched them in his sleep, as though afraid his name would slip through his fingers.
