What was it? 1988. Yeah, I was five. So yeah, 1988. Kindergarten. Meeting new kids. Learning new stuff. Everyday a mind blowing experience. Me, little Charlie Rothbard, building the foundation.

E’ryday. Get all those letters and numbers down real good so I don’t look retarded. Show and tell, sitting criss cross apple sauce on the rug, learning how to spin a good yarn. Jackie Vidash, my first crush, the object of my mad game little boy ballin skills. And of course, recess time, playing kick ball with the boys. Well, boys, all except for Chuck. Man, oh man, I can still remember that legend.

Of course, I gotta start out thanking Chuck. He probably saved me from a life time of narcissism. Back then, there was nobody in my world but my reflection. I was so self absorbed, even my parents and sisters disappeared from existence if they weren’t in the same room. And yeah, going into kindergarten, the thing I was most confident about: my kick ball skills were gonna set the world on fire. And, yeah, my first results out in that field, I was showing out big. Each time it was my turn to kick, I was sending that red rubber ball through nooks and crannies all up in that defense, and being like Charlie hustle getting down that line, always safe at first. Of course, I was sure our elementary’s all-time hits record was mine before school year ended. I even got to bragging a bit too... Until I noticed... No one was giving no mind to my skills. Nope, everyone was too busy talking up some kid named Chuck.

At first I was like, who the fuck is Chuck. And what is he out here doing that’s got inches on me? Then, finally, he came up to kick and I decided to take my eyes off myself and give him a charitable second of my attention.

And let me tell you, man, that mother fucker kicked the ball to the next town, man. He had like the foot of destiny or something. We didn’t have a fence or a wood line or anything to help us call it an automatic home run but he didn’t need none of that. Nah. Chuck kicked that ball so damn far, the other team, even spazoid Eric, gave up on chasing it. Nah man, I tell you spazoid Eric watched it sail over his head, just turned, and walked to fetch Chuck’s blast.

And Chuck was so gangster about it too. He trotted around the bases, like a leisure stroll in the park, stepped on home, floated above everyone’s adoration, and just got back in line so he wouldn’t lose his place and miss his next time up.

Recess ended. Nap time set the truth in place. We got up and had some finger painting. Then the day was over so we lined up for the bus line. Alphabetical order. I can’t remember this Chuck’s last name but it had to of been in the P, Q, R range because he was a person or two in front of from me in my R is for Rothbard slot. And I remember, the teacher was calling out end of the day attendance. Like trying to make sure she was getting rid of all of us. No stragglers she’s gotta watch until a parent can come around.

The teacher was like, Charles Ranstein? Charles Radstern? What the fuck was that kids last name? Anyway not important, the teacher called his name and he was like “here!” And something hit me. I was in shock. I raised my hand like a good kid and waved it at the teacher and said something like, “Mrs Kleinstiver! Mrs Kleinstiver!”

Mrs Kleinstiver looked away from her clipboard. She looked over her reading glasses. She looked down at little me and with her last ounce of patience and warm niceness, said, “yes, Charles Rothbard? You have a question?”

I lowered my hand and stuffed it deep in my pocket. Actually stuffed both hands in my pants pockets. I twist cork screwed my foot into the ground. Bashful. Embarrassed. I had a dumb question and I knew it. I said, “Nothing. Mrs Kleinstiver.”

She kept looking at me like, “kid, you got my fucking attention. Its the end of the fucking day. Ask your fucking question already.”

I looked up at her warm smiling face and I asked, “Why did you call him Charles? His name is Chuck. Isn’t it?”

The teacher explained to the whole class that Chuck is short for Charles. While she went on to explain there are several names with this transformer capability, I wasn’t there. I wasn’t listening. I was lost. I was thinking, “My name Charles can transform into Chuck? Why didn’t my parents ever tell me this shit? I’ve been missing out on a world of possibilities. I knew about Charlie. I even got a Chaz before. But Chuck? Golly jeeze! I mean, I got the same name as this future hall of famer kickballer. That’s like, that like means, I could do the same stuff if people just called me Chuck too. But he’s already got dibs. My parents, always holding me back. Gotta give me this Chuck name intel before I come to school. Fuck!”

Anyways, those weren’t my exact thoughts, something like it though. And anyway, you can’t expect me to remember my thoughts from what, like 30 plus years ago.

I’ll tell you though, besides what I already told you, there’s one more thing I do remember, like vivid, crystal clear from that day, that moment in the bus line, when I learned a new trick with my name. I remember the kick ball legend Chuck was wearing a bad ass jean jacket. And it had like two sports team buttons pinned on the collar. I also remember Jackie Vidash looking over my shoulder. Her stealing extra googly eye looks at Chuck. My lady giving me no love, sending all of hers toward this fucking Chuck character. And one thing I knew about Jackie, she didn’t give a damn about kick ball skills. She never gave even an eye twinkle when I told her about my on base streak. No, for sure, I knew it back then, and I know it now, she was sending him her swoon because of that badass jean jacket. And to be honest, I never been gay, not since I got that funny feeling looking at the Sears catalog bra section, nope, been straight since forever. But even back then, woman lover little boy me was almost crushing over Chuck and his jean jacket.

So fast forward, I’m an adult now. I got my life pretty much figured out. Who I am and why I am the way I am. What I like and don’t like.

So yeah, my mom don’t dress me no more, and I know I like rocking a jean jacket. But I haven’t had one for ages. I saw em on sale a few times and thought, gotta get one of those again. Maybe put a Bosox pin on the collar. But I don’t settle for something that isn’t exact what I want.

You gotta imagine, I’m walking the Namdaemun market. I see THE jean jacket. Same one that I remember Chuck having. That jacket that would have made my life perfect if I had it back in kindergarten. Maybe my parents see me in it and realize that I’m about cool enough to be a Chuck. Send me to school with the right name to own the kickball world, maybe go professional someday AND the right style to own Jackie Vidash’s heart.

I woulda probably turned out to be a lawyer, with a lake mansion, and word out that I’m being considered for a supreme court justice nod by now. If I only had this jacket back then.

Well, it still ain't too late to right the ship.

No lie, in that Namdaemun market, when I tried this dream jean jacket on, the store owner said, “you look so good. you aren’t leaving here without that jacket. I’m cutting 5,000 won off. No one else can wear this like you. Please, buy it.”

Of course I bought it. And I’m glad I did too. I put it on, skipped the bus and walked home, feeling like a million bucks. I knew this was the turning point of my life, get on the path that eluded me because I didn’t have the right name or right jacket back when the foundation was being set.

So yeah, finally change my name, wear this badass jacket, put my divorce in the rear view mirror. Fix my new place up nice so I can have visitors again. Maybe some bros come over to celebrate my next book selling a ton of copies. Maybe even have some lady visitors, beauties who can’t resist my high style denim.

This jacket is one of the solutions for my basic issue. Another step away from those missions. Hopefully another mission doesn't come down before I got my gear together in this current identity.