Spats are Out of Style is a fragment by Jack Rusher, published here Monday, May 17, 2004. It is part of Stories.
A more talented writer than I has demanded homage in the form of a piece containing the words squab, origami, hemlock, Caracas, and spats.
“No one wears spats anymore, darling. It just isn’t done.”
She had that look, the one that said he was being foolish and that he would eventually be forced to admit it, but he needed to assert himself, to prove that he could be as much of an individual as anyone else.
“I don’t care. I’m going to force them back into style through sheer willpower.”
“As you wish, but don’t expect me to be seen with you until you’ve succeeded or abandoned your quest entirely.”
They have acted out this script many times. She had been right when he moved to Caracas to open a squab farm, when he decided to make a living as a professional origami artist and, most tellingly, when he had spent his savings promoting a branded line of Hemlock for modern philosophers wishing the sweet relief of euthanasia.
She was unable to understand why such a talented man would squander his potential on absurd missions and eccentric obsessions. He could have profitably bent himself to accounting or finance, but he would never do it. Instead, it was always the giant squid tourism industry or mail order yak farming.
He, remaining oblivious to her frustrated pragmatism, ordered another beer, and started sketching plans for a highbrow online literary magazine onto the back of a cocktail napkin.