Letter From Milo: Long Underwear

It’s been bitterly cold in Chicago the last couple of weeks. Temperatures have rarely gotten above 10 degrees and the wind chill has been below zero for days at a time.

The other day I had to run some errands which required me to spend a considerable amount of time outdoors, waiting for buses and el trains. Being a man of some experience, and a devoted watcher of the Weather Channel, I know that the secret to staying warm in inclement weather is to wear layers of clothing.

When the weather turns Canadian on me, I pile it on – shirts, sweaters, corduroys, two pair of socks, a down vest, a thick scarf, insulated gloves, and over that I put on a heavy parka. In the words of the great Howlin’ Wolf, “I dress for comfort, baby, I don’t dress for speed.”

Living in the Midwest most of my life, I have discovered that the most important component of cold weather layering, the essential element in keeping warm in Chicago in January, is a good pair of long underwear. Yes, sir, you can’t beat lumberjack lingerie for taking the bite out of winter.

Anyway, that morning, as I was preparing to go out and deal with the elements, I couldn’t find my long underwear. I spent a few minutes vainly searching for them, then asked the lovely Mrs. Milo, “Honey, have you seen my long underwear?”

“I threw them out.”

“You did WHAT?”

“I threw them out.”

“Jesus, why? They were the only pair I had.”

“To be honest about it, they were just nasty.”

“What do you mean by that?”

“Well, they were ripped and torn and they had stains all over them.”

“Stains? What kind of stains?”

“The usual kind. Let’s just say they were the color of earth tones.”

“Damn it! I could have bleached those stains out.”

“I doubt you could have gotten rid of the stains with battery acid. Besides, you’ve had that particular pair of long underwear for at least 25 years. Just go out and buy new ones.”

I would have continued the dialogue, but I could see that it would eventually deteriorate into our usual heated discussion of each other’s faults and shortcomings. And, brother, that’s an argument I have yet to win. So, grumbling and muttering vague threats, I hopped into the car and drove to the Target store on Peterson.

Except for buying groceries, alcohol, tobacco and drugs, I don’t care for shopping. It’s poor sport, in my opinion. But I don’t mind Target too much. It’s what I imagine all stores would have looked like if the Soviets had won the Cold War. Unfortunately, this particular Target was out of long underwear. Puzzled, I stopped a store employee and asked, “How can you be out of long underwear in the middle of winter in Chicago.” The employee gave me a blank stare and went about his business. I figured English wasn’t his preferred language.

I called Mrs. Milo to complain, but she brushed me off, saying, “Just go to the Target on Elston.”

Unbelievably, the Target on Elston was out of long underwear, too. Now I was getting pissed. I didn’t even bother asking any of the employees about the underwear situation. I just got back in the car and called Mrs. Milo. I was just starting to get into a good rhythm of bitching and complaining when she cut me off. “As long as you’re on Elston, drive north to the Kmart,” she said, then hung up on me.

It wasn’t my day. The Kmart didn’t have any long underwear either. Now, I was steaming. “What the fuck is wrong with these people,” I said aloud, while listening to a CD of Black Joe Louis and the Honeybears. “Don’t they understand that long underwear are a necessity of life in certain parts of the world.”

I was driving aimlessly, feeling sorry for myself, thinking about picking up a short dog of Jack Daniels (another good way to stay warm in winter) and wondering what the world was coming to, when I drove past the Sears store on Lawrence. Aha, I thought, if anyplace on earth had long underwear, it would be Sears. I parked the car, dealt with Mayor Daley’s farce of a parking meter system, and rushed inside the big store.

Oh yeah, they had long underwear, except they cost 32 fucking dollars. The description on the package said that the underwear were made of two ply materials, one being a specially formulated synthetic that wicks away perspiration and the other being fine Marino wool that traps heat and keeps you warm even in subarctic conditions.

I’ll be damned if I’ll pay 32 dollars for a pair of long underwear. I don’t care if they are gold lame and made by Nudie, Elvis’ favorite tailor. Those cocksuckers at Sears can take their 32 dollar long underwear and stick them up their collective asses. I ought to report them to the Better Business Bureau. No wonder Sears is on the verge of going under. Serves the bastards right.

Of course, it was all sour grapes and empty threats on my part. As much as I complained, the sad reality was that I no longer owned a pair of long underwear. I would have to live with the consequences. And, in Chicago, those consequences could be brutal, if not fatal. The future looked grim.

When I left Sears I was a broken man.