Wearing them felt like I was wearing a tiny shoebox. I even bought a Superman shirt specifically to wear with it, and I’d walk around the city with my chest out while pretending I wasn’t rocking colorful plywood on my feet.
It was all good until the strap disintegrated on me while I was standing in line at Wendy’s and trying to talk to this girl who was clearly impressed with the bag. She saw it fall off my shoulder, made a face, ordered a vanilla Frosty and left.
This was back when I was in college and in peak shape, so walking around campus with a white tank top tucked into my jeans so the belt was showing was a thing I’d do.
So I didn’t actually buy this chain. It belonged to the brother of my roommate, and we’d all take turns rocking it to parties like niggas wouldn’t eventually realize that we were passing around the same damn aluminum chain.
While playing basketball once, I took the ring off—as I always did. One of the guys I was playing with noticed this and then noticed the green circle around my finger where the ring was: “Yo ... this nigga D a fraud, yo! This nigga’s ring fake as shit! This nigga got mildew on his fingers! This nigga the Swamp Thing!”
My barber convinced me to put some in my beard. And I did. And I went home. And my girlfriend asked why I was wearing makeup: “Did you stop by the MAC counter at Macy’s on the way home?”
I lost it a week after I bought it. I had a $20 bill in there, too, which was probably more valuable than the wallet.
I’m still not actually sure if it was fake. I bought it off eBay for $40, and when I bought Lacoste shirts from an actual store in 2004, I couldn’t tell the difference between those and my internet Lacoste shirt. That settles it. I’m officially going to believe it was real.
This was during a stretch in elementary school where the knockoff Gucci and MCM hats—things everyone knew were fake—were more of a status symbol than real Jordans. America is strange.