The City of Fasteners

It was the building of a button factory that begat all the rest. That was back in, oh, aught-nine, I believe. Soon after the button factory went online, a zipper factory cropped up, followed by a belt factory. A rubber band factory was not so far behind. The production of velcro and twist ties ramped up accordingly. A factory that made both staples and pushpins was soon erected on the outskirts of town. Next, in rapid succession, were machines that made cuff links, laces, latches, clamps, cinches, clips, clasps, climps, and clinches. Clothespins? Fuck you—of course clothespins. Are you kidding? The city hummed 24/7 with the making of things that attached things to other things. In this manner, Elmwood became known as the city of fasteners.

One could spend all day thoroughly exploring this city, from central square to outer hillocks, and not happen upon a single bag, sack, case, cuff, collar, or trouser fly whose attendant aperture was left hanging open all casual-like and easy to please. Good luck scouring the streets for any stray stacks of documents whose individual sheets had been left unattended, loose-leafed, and vulnerable to the elements—any such search would surely go unrewarded. And did you espy a wayward pair of pantaloons wheeling ass over elbows across Main Street, newly freed from its clothesline and propelled by the prevailing winds in a rough-and-tumble, haphazard manner? Then you must have taken a wrong turn somewhere, boy-o, because you’re no longer in Elmwood. This was the city of fasteners, for shit’s sake, and that’s no joke: folks around these parts took their cognomen seriously. The attitude of the city and its denizens was neither loosey nor goosey, neither willy nor nilly. Their feet were never loose, their fancies far from free. And their hatches? Shit, man. You better believe they were battened down as fuck. Their happiness and their luckiness were kept properly compartmentalized, with nary a go-between. Though they did occasionally sip on gin and juice, they were not ever—

I must apologize. I thought there was a story here, but there is not—at least not one I could find, even after many hours of meticulous searching. Elmwoodians are a tight-lipped lot; they keep things close to the vest, and you’ve never seen a vest fit more snugly upon a bodice. After a nice long walkabout, and many an interview that my interlocutor cut off abruptly, I told the mayor, who had accompanied me on my itinerant trek around town, that I’d best be on my way. She presented me with a complimentary box of staples and and a big bag of clothespins, each of which—box and bag—was securely fastened with tape and twist tie, respectively.

I thought I could crack this nut, I said to the mayor from the driver’s seat of my Volvo. But Elmwood is one nut I cannot crack. What’s your secret?

The mayor mimed the zipping of her lips, the throwing away of a key.

Oh shit, I said. Your zippers have keys?

Oh yes, she said. Oh hell yes they do. Otherwise gravity might do its dark work and reveal countless unswaddled genitalia.

Well, sure, I said. You got to watch out for that.

I pulled away. I saw the mayor waving goodbye in the rearview. Two miles out I started picking up radio stations again. On the side of the highway I spotted a pair of underpants wafting upon the brisk autumn breeze. They zigged and zagged; they bounded and bumbled. After my father’s funeral, we all went to a diner and watched as a young man in the parking lot threw a big handful of napkins into the air. The wind picked them up. They danced like the underpants were dancing now. I pulled over and watched them tumble.