So Much More Than a Billfold


I bought a new wallet today. I can't get myself to get rid of the old one. I've had it for five years.

The first long term girlfriend I had after college gave it to me as a gift. This is the same girlfriend who was so dedicated to me and her kegel exercises, she could essentially jerk me off using nothing but her pussy's Herculean pelvic floor muscles. (Interestingly enough, she also gave me herpes and I can't seem to get rid of that either.)

My last long term girlfriend made fun of the wallet while we were traveling in Asia. "Why do you still carry that wallet?" she asked.

"Oh this?" I replied, "This is my 'fake' wallet. I keep small currency and business cards in it just in case I get mugged."

This explanation seemed to satisfy her and it helped me rationalize why I still had it even though it had holes in its creases and frayed stitching everywhere.

But really, it's more than the memory of great sex that makes me keep it. You see, it was my first black leather wallet. It looked and smelled masculine. It matured, softened, and weathered with every financial transaction. After five years, it came to look and feel just like my father's wallet. When I was a boy, I dreamed of being as rich and independent as my father. Getting a black leather wallet signaled I was well on my way to a successful manhood.

It looks so boyish I thought as I sat on the train and examined my new wallet.

It's made of gray nylon and closes together with Velcro. There's yellow, orange, and brown stripes -- my high school colors -- on the front and a chain attached to it, too. This chain I actually like. I've never worn chains, and if I must have a boyish wallet, at least I'll look tough wearing it.

I transferred the contents of my old wallet to the new wallet, but I couldn't help looking over my old wallet once more. It was a proven warrior full of battle scars. It had survived a brief muddy burial in the McKenzie river, numerous skateboarding accidents, and countless beach excursions. When I forced open its pockets , sand dropped into my lap. There was probably a grain of sand in there from every beach I've visited in the last five years -- Cannon Beach, Pismo Beach, Kuta, Senigigi, Gili Trawangan, Koh Phangan, and San Gregorio -- every grain was a beer shared with a friend, a bonfire, a kiss, a scar, and a tale to tell. This wallet wasn't just a wallet, it was testament to the fact that I had been somewhere, that I had lived.

It's physically empty now. Time to start fresh, I guess. I can't imagine keeping a nylon wallet around for five years. I'll be surprised if I'm still wearing it this time next year.

I've put the old one away. I think the one previous to it, the neon yellow O.P. one I got for my sixteenth birthday, is somewhere in storage at my mom and dad's house.

I can imagine myself someday being seventy-two years old and putting them all side by side at a table before my grandson.

"These are your grandfather's wallets," I'll say.

He will pick one of them up. His hands will hold years and years of history.

"Would you like to hear a story?" I'll ask.