Within Close Range: Annie, Annie, Are You All Right?

Built in the early 1970s to house the freshman and sophomore classes, Lake Forest High School’s West Campus is a giant, brick and cinder block monstrosity which was designed with all the charm and comforts of a state penitentiary: sterile, uninviting, uninspiring, practically windowless, colorless, and completely joyless. 

Its warden is Mr. Kleck, the West Campus Principal, who’s secretly been given the nickname “Banana Fingers” for his freakishly enormous hands. He roams the academic dungeons in his plaid polyester sports coat, smelling of cigarettes and body odor; wielding his insignificant power with what appears to be more brawn than brain.

Wishing to remain far beneath the high school radar, I’ve done everything I can to steer clear of Mr. Kleck.

Such best laid schemes…

After watching an outdated State of Illinois Board of Education documentary on health, hygiene, and the hazards of smoking, including pie charts and diagrams, mildly graphic surgery footage, phony teens in dungarees, and a man blowing smoke rings through a permanent breathing hole cut into his larynx…, us boys and girls set off for our respective locker rooms, down separate cement staircases, to pick up books and head to our next class. 

I never see the last step.

Somewhere before the first landing, the clog on my right foot attempts a daring but foolish escape – getting only as far as the arch – so when my half-shoed foot mis-lands at the metal edge of the cement step, I plunge toward the crowd of surprised friends and new enemies walking down the stairs just ahead of me. 

Twisting and hurtling through the innocent and unsuspecting, bodies are strewn to the sides of the steps against the cinder block walls. I come down hard on my back, momentarily unaware of all but the grim, fluorescent-lit ceiling above and the cold, cement floor below. Returned to the moment by the moans of the stunned and wounded getting to their feet, I attempt to do the same, but am gently pushed back to the unforgiving concrete by our gym teacher, Miss Bradshaw.

“You can’t move,” she states.

“I’m fine,” I reply with an embarrassed smile, attempting to sit up again.

“No,” she says as she pushes me to the ground (a little more firmly this time), “I mean I can’t let you move. Kelly, run and get Mr. Kleck.”

“I’M FINE!” explodes against the cinder block surroundings. 

Faces grimace.

“I’m sorry, Anne. It’s school policy. Mr. Kleck has to make sure you’re not injured.”

While the remainder of the class is sent on their way, I lay there like a one-shoed idiot, waiting for the dreaded Banana Fingers, imagining how the news of my nose dive is already spreading through the bleak, inhospitable halls of West Campus.

Mr. Kleck appears, sprinting unnecessarily up the flight of stairs; his figure looming over me like an oppressive cloud of brown plaid and Aqua Velva. His giant, cigar-shaped fingers moving toward me, shadowing my entire, horrified face.

Demonstrating the correct workings of all my moveable body parts, I hastily answer all the questions, eventually ensure my captors I have no need for an ambulance, lawyer, or help up, and hobble away, bruised and humiliated.

Less than two weeks later, it happens again – a near carbon copy of the last plunge. This time, however, most classmates have learned to give me plenty of berth on the staircase and fewer casualties are reported. 

But people are beginning to wonder. 

And this time, Mr. Kleck insists I visit Mrs. Waldeck in the school nurse’s office before returning to class, who meets me at the door of her office. 

She’s shaking her head. Scrutinizing my footwear.

Mrs. Waldeck hates clogs. 

And she loathes Dr. Scholl’s – just like the ones I’m wearing a couple weeks after my staircase accidents, when everyone at West Campus is anxious to enjoy the warming weather. 

There are still patches of mud-colored snow and ice all around the school grounds, but it’s officially Spring and I’m sporting a brand new pair of white, Calvin Klein jeans and red leather, Dr. Scholl’s sandals. Jean, Megan and I are on the front lawn of the high school throwing a Frisbee around. 

The three of us have been in health class together where we’re being taught the basics of CPR. To help us, we have “Annie”, a training manikin with a spiffy red track suit and the ability to inspire far more sexual asides than careers in the health industry. 

One of the first things taught to us is how to approach the injured party and determine what the problem might be.The introductory phrase we’re instructed to use is, “Annie, Annie, are you all right?” This is followed by some gentle shaking, after which comes the serious stuff – cardiopulmonary resuscitation.

I think. 

I haven’t really been paying attention. Neither have Jean or Megan.

So things don’t bode well when chasing an errant Frisbee, my wooden, single-strap sandals (slick with melted snow) send me hydroplaning across the new grass, into a cold, muddy puddle; slamming me hard against the still half-frozen earth.            

Searching for the wind knocked out of me, I bolt upright to see Jean and Megan racing my way. First to my side, Megan kneels beside me, grabs my shoulders, shakes vigorously, and with an enormous smile asks, “Annie, Annie, are you all right?!”, and then falls into a fit of laughter. 

Jean isn’t laughing.

Grabbing me from behind with the strength of her five brothers, my great, Amazonian pal lifts me off the ground and – grossly misdiagnosing my predicament – starts to perform the Heimlich Maneuver.

I don’t know whether to laugh, vomit, or pass out.

Eventually recognizing the international arm waving signal for:  “FOR GOD’S SAKE, STOP DOING THAT!”, Jean releases her hold and I slip to the ground exhausted and humiliated, but alive and breathing again. 

My “rescuers” lead me arm in arm across the lawn, past snickering peers given an even bigger laugh when passing reveals my grassy, mud-stained ass and “big girl” undies – now exposed – thanks to that lethal combination of white pants and puddles.

When Mrs. Waldeck looks up from her desk upon my arrival, it’s hard to tell whether her expression is more anger, aggravation, or pity. 

It certainly isn’t surprise.

Mumbling something about pinochle as a proper past time and a big bonfire for burning all clogs and sandals, she leads me to the back room of the nurse’s office where I can wash up; then offers the terribly unsatisfactory suggestion that I slip on my gym shorts for the remainder of the day, I can’t hide the dread of being exposed to further ridicule and, thank goodness, Mrs. Waldeck can’t help but feel sorry for me. She hands me the the phone and suggests I call home to see if my mother might bring a new pair of pants. 

Mom, as is the norm, is nowhere to be found.

Apparently, the day’s humiliation is far from over and this Annie is feeling anything but all right.

Within Close Range: Dad

I think the doctor’s last count was seven different incidents – each stroke leaving in its wake a little less Dad. One of the area’s of the brain that had been most severely affected was motivation, as was his ability to read and write. 

After the last big one, his peripheral vision was also shot, which meant no more driving. 

So Dad sat. 

And eventually he lost sight of everything that made him tick, gave him purpose, he was good at.

I watched the frustration in his once playful eyes when things weren’t clicking in his quick and clever mind; and quietly mourned the lengthening shadow that would eventually smother the once strong light, turning his weaknesses upon himself and others; until his needs pummeled Mom and his words became brutal. 

By the time we placed Dad in assisted living, the shadow was long and the void, wide. The once powerful figure could no longer focus, spent the days crying and the nights wandering, and missed the toilet.

Conversations were now repetitive communications, driven by a series of questions he’d ask again and again. Always about family, living and dead. Impossible to steer him away from this endless loop because it was all Dad had left to hold on to. 

It was the only way he could be more than a figure in the room, struggling for thoughts, for words, for loved ones.

For himself.

His body remained strong for quite long, but that didn’t surprise anyone. Dad had always been a natural athlete with a small, fleet build and a bold swagger. But eventually his muscles and mind began to atrophy after all those years of sitting.

Doing hours and hours of nothing. 

And after a while, his sinewy legs (which had hiked a thousand miles of fairways) twisted weakly beneath him; while cherished faces and times and places steadily stepped into the darkness.

Rare became the instants, during my all-too-brief, long-distance visits, when I saw that certain twinkle that came to his eyes when he was pleased, or about to be funny… or silly, or sweet.  

Dad’s wheezy, cartoon dog laughter was something, however, that endured and could happily be summoned to the great relief of everyone hovering uncomfortably in his small room scattered with pictures of loved ones, now mostly strangers.

Rarest was the sound of his powerful, steady, low voice, which throughout my life would sing in my ear when he used my pet name, or make my heart (and feet) leap when he used my middle, “Anne Elizabeth!”  

The years had made it weak and weary; a whisper of a voice, ever shaken by unaccountable emotions. 

I last heard Dad during a regular Sunday phone call. Jim handed him the receiver and he began to speak. I don’t recall a word of what he said because all I heard was this forgotten voice – strong and clear and compelling – which I hadn’t heard in ages and the instant made me ache for and anxious.

Anxious to hear Dad speak again. But Dad never did.

Yet in that flash, in those few words, he once again was my wings, my warden, my beacon, my banker, my mentor, my tormentor, my knight in shining armor. 

And everything felt right.

Then it didn’t.

And I cursed myself for not plucking the ether of that very brief moment and stealing that voice to stuff deep in my pockets, where I’d keep it to remind me of the Dad he used to be. 

The dad who’d gather us beneath the covers of their covers on stormy nights, when thunder rolled across Lake Michigan like a mighty wave and lightening set a gnarly, old oak outside their wall of windows afire with its flash of ghostly, silver-blue light. 

In our small tent of sheets, with our heads tucked close together, he’d tell us ghost stories – while Mom helped us count the seconds between the lightening and thunder – and make us giggle with gentle tickles, until the storm passed and we were brave enough to return to our beds upstairs. 

The dad who’d grab the garden hose on hot summer days and with a devilish grin, spray little children who’d dare to cross his thick, green lawn.

The dad who’d takes us on Sunday drives to special, secret destinations, inspiring me to seek out my very own adventures.

And who always gave long, strong hugs of immeasurable comfort.

Who, after raising five children excelling in bad behavior, gradually mellowed and raised the white flag in the form of a hanger he’d found in a closet, draped with some stuff we grew on the bluff and planned to smoke later. 

Walking into the family room where three-fifths of us were lounging and asking very calmly about what he was holding and its reason for hanging, Dad reached for a bud, gave it a squeeze, and hung the harvest from the nearest lampshade.

“It’s not dry yet,” was all he said before leaving the room and all of us slack-jawed.

Such a dry sense of humor.

But Dad also had a temper that no one liked seeing, when all that charm and good looks disappeared behind a mask of unreason, and I was left angry, helpless and confused about how a man so loving and generous could have such potent demons.

But then I got older and my very own demons got bolder, as most people’s do.

So, the Dad I choose to remember is the one that no matter how mad we’d get at each other, by day’s end, “I love you” were always the last words I heard.

As a powerful presence. 

A stubborn dreamer.

A cocky, passionate schemer, who pursued his passions head first, wholeheartedly, sometimes very foolishly, with great success and equal failure. 

His greatest achievement  – a bountiful life, not only in the hearth, but in the home, until off we flew to foster big dreams and face demons of our own.

So, I’m grateful for the moments I talked to him about nothing, apologized for everything, and thanked him for the lives he set in motion – even though he wouldn’t remember any of it by the time the call was over.

But love is in the giving. 

In the moments Dad heard, “I love you.” 

So, I’d tell him different stories about our faraway lives, and in between the same questions and his uncontrollable tears, I‘d try to fill his soon forgotten moments with love and laughter.

And long distance hugs of immeasurable strength and comfort.

Within Close Range: Good Friends and Bad Decisions

Meeting Betsy after dinner at Nonnie and Papa’s. But not before swiping a bottle of booze from their liquor cabinet. Having just been dumped, Betsy’s determined to drown her sorrows. As her best friend, I’m determined to be right by her side. Swig for swig.

Bad Decision Number One.

The cabinet where Nonnie and Papa keep the liquor is in the apartment’s entryway. I’ve rarely – if ever – seen a bottle taken from inside. I’d come across the contents years ago while searching for sweets Nonnie always tucked away in little, glass dishes and old, plastic boxes, in closets, pockets, drawers and, in cabinets, throughout the apartment. The non-candy contents of this particular cabinet meant nothing to me.

Until now.

Taking a moment before dinner to slip into the entry, I squat in front of the small cabinet and quietly open the door. My knees crackle (reminding me of Sunday’s forced genuflecting), and I cringe, as if the telltale sound can surely be heard above the TV.

My heart is pounding through my chest. Catholic guilt is coursing through my veins.

I see bottles of all shapes and sizes. Some look old, dusty, half-drunk and wholly forgotten; while others, still in their special holiday wrapping, look ready for a party they’d never be invited to, and in front all of these, a brand new, unopened quart of Jack Daniels. THIS is the bottle I’ve decided to get drunk with for the very first time.

Bad Decision Number Two.

I’m antsy, anxious and on edge about the heist all through dinner, causing Nonnie and Papa to give each other sideway glances. But I worry myself over nothing. With Nonnie washing up in the kitchen and Papa already in his recliner snoring, I say my good-byes, slip the bottle into my purse, and slide out the door; wondering how soon – if ever – the missing bottle will be discovered, and who will be the first blamed.

Jim, likely… I can live with that.

In minutes, Betsy’s in the car with Jack and me, and we’re heading to Janet Kerf’s party, already in full swing. Scuttling through the crowded, parentless house, to the backyard and the back of a garden shed, we crack the seal.

Bad Decision Number Three.

Timid first sips burn our throats, but quickly warm our insides against the evening’s autumn chill. The more we pass the bottle to each other, the less we care about the burning, the cold, or the dangerous level of alcohol we’re consuming.

Blurred Decision Number Four.

Betsy’s Ex, who we knew to be there by reports from friends making their way in and out of the packed party, becomes the slurred focus.

Blurred Decision Number Five.

Emboldened by my best friend’s broken heart and half a quart of Tennessee’s finest, I wobble my way through the backyard, the kitchen and into the Kerf’s living room where – in the very center of the Lake Forest High School student body – I proclaim at the top of my extremely powerful set of lungs: “Kelly Walsh is an asshole!”

Bold Decision Number Six.

I shout it loud enough to be heard over the blaring music AND din of teenage voices. All heads within earshot – including Betsy’s Ex – turn my way. Having never met, I don’t really know Kelly Walsh and I couldn’t really say whether or not he is, in fact, an asshole. But my best friend – and Jack Daniels – said he is, so I feel justified in my stunning outburst, which momentarily catapults me out of high school obscurity.

The swaying crowd is more confused than concerned and I abruptly stumble from the house and back to my very drunk friend before anyone has a chance to question my center-of-the-party proclamation.

With the ex-boyfriend properly cursed, Jack Daniels completely consumed and friends really concerned, I’m led to a phone where someone helps me dial home and Chris answers. I babble and burble and beg for her help, then return to the back of the garden shed, where me and my best friend wait to be poured into the back of Mom’s car.

The next morning, after having spent most of the evening taking turns hovering over the toilet, Betsy and I are woken at 7 a.m. with a head-splitting phone call and unwelcome reminder that I’d promised to drive friends to an away football game – which would mean following behind a bus filled with a merciless multitude who witnessed my really bad date with Jack last night.

Bad Decision Number – oh, screw it.

Within Close Range: Within Close Range

It’s early spring and still outnumbered are the days of thawing, when the sun shines through the nearly impermeable grey just long enough to make the corral thick and pliable for the heavily-coated ponies to imprint the half-frozen peaks of ice and manure.  

With little inclination to be out of doors, Mia, Mark, Jim and I, along with cousins Mary, Gina and Bill, are all hanging out in the kid’s room upstairs, twitching and giggling and getting riled by Jim, the regular instigator of such behavior. 

But this time, instead of hanging around to help control the chaos, Jim leaves, leaving his younger siblings and cousins to deal with the consequences – the most important of which is that Mark is wound-up and dangerously near the one thing in the room Jim should have taken with him: his Benjamin Air Rifle.

Jim got the rifle for Christmas and had been target practicing with it that morning. Dad doesn’t like the idea of the eight-pump, .177 caliber pellet gun, but Mom’s Missouri farm roots makes her believe that it’s every boy’s initiation into manhood.

In Jim’s defense, he never shoots at living things – mostly targets, trees and tin cans. However, he does get an enormous amount of satisfaction turning its site on siblings for the sheer satisfaction of watching faces contort; which is likely where Mark got the idea.

Picking up the air rifle, he aims it across the room at Gina, sitting on the sofa. Each of us demands he put the weapon down, but Mark already has that look in his eyes which tells us he’s stopped listening, and before anyone can say another word, Mark presses the trigger and discharges what he thinks is air through an empty chamber.

Gina, already curled into a defensive ball, is hit. The lead pellet rips through her jeans and grazes the skin on the back of her left thigh, already bruising when we gather around to inspect the wound.

Everyone – including Mark – is stunned and silent.

Gina’s eyes grow wide and wild.

“You little fucker! You shot me!”

We all look to Mark for an explanation, but he’s off – like his shot – out of the room, down the back stairs, and out the door.

Having returned to the scene at the sound of Gina’s scream, it takes mere moments for Jim to form an angry mob to go in search of the lone shooter, now taking refuge somewhere in the damp, barren woods surrounding our house. We follow the leader around the backyard and back woods, looking for a spark of tell-tale color among the sullen, gray tree trunks. 

Then something turns… Jim’s allegiance. In an instant, we’re all in his sights and half-heartedly running for our lives. Finding a safe spot from his line of vision, I’m watching from the barn stalls when Jim spots Mark weaving through the trees and across the frozen patches of slippery leaves in the back circle by the cottage. 

He’s trying to make a break for the large stretch of trees just across the driveway. From there, it’s certain he can outmaneuver Jim through the woods to safety. The problem is the twenty foot stretch of open pavement.

But spring is in the air and Mark is feeling a little wild.

We all are.

Jim gives the rifle an extra pump and takes aim at the small figure now bounding across the asphalt. In one very lucky shot… he hits his target, and like a plastic carnival duck floating atop a painted carnival pond, Mark is knocked flat. 

Jim insists it was meant to be a “warning” shot.

As all games are officially over at the first sign of blood, Mark limps toward the house where he pulls down his sock to reveal the day’s second wound on the back of his ankle. Mom’s soon on the scene, shaking her head, calloused by the long history of Jim’s overzealous rough-housing; when Mark ends up with stitches and bruises and we end up with a friendly visit from social services. 

Ordering him into the kitchen (with everyone following close behind), she cleans and examines the wound and declares the pellet must have skimmed the surface of his skin (just like Gina’s had, but we felt best not to mention).

Satisfied with Mom’s answer, the hunter and all those hunted walk – and limp – away.

_______

Forty years later, having just had x-rays taken for an orthopedic shoe insert, Mark’s doctor enters the room and hangs the film on the light box, and with a strange look on his face, points to a light spot behind Mark’s left ankle.

“This is a metal object,” he says, “… and it looks like a bullet.”

Both Mark and the doctor stare at the very clear, small, rounded object appearing on the screen. 

“No, that can’t be right,” Mark insists. “There must be a glitch on your x-ray machine.”

But the doctor assures Mark that the object is no glitch.

“Do you happen to know how it got there?” the doctor asks, now looking a little sideways at his patient.

Mark stares at the small metal object imbedded in his achilles tendon and suddenly it all comes flooding back to him. 

Before leaving the parking lot of the doctor’s office, he sent this out to remind us all of a childhood within close range.

Within Close Range: Wisdom Teeth, or The Heart of Darkness

I’m still lying back in the dentist’s chair when I open my eyes. It’s hard to lift my heavy lids, even harder trying to wake from a syrupy haze.

The first clear thing I see are my wisdom teeth – all four – on a pad of cotton laying on my miserably undeveloped chest. 

A smiling nurse takes hold of my forearm and gently guides me off the reclining chair and onto my feet. Legs buckling, a second nurse appears, and with each as a crutch, we wind our way through doorways, down hallways and into the waiting room. 

To Mom. 

The sight of her makes me smile, which makes it hurt, and makes me cry out; making patients sitting patiently, jump in their waiting room seats and glare at me. 

Stare at me. 

Aghast.

Seeing exactly what they don’t want to see.

I couldn’t care less. I just want to sit. 

But Mom and the nurse keep me moving forward toward the exit door.

______

Nothing looks sweeter than the car where, for the first time in years, Mom has to buckle me in. Her steely, blue eyes filled with fuss and concern, and a little horror. But the haze hasn’t lifted and I’m happily floating in it… and out the car window, toward the warm, autumn sun.

And Mom’s taking me home.

With a heavy hand, I lower the window and turn to face the breezes. I smell hot pavement and mid-day traffic and hear the sounds of a motorbike approaching from behind. As the biker passes, his helmeted head looks my way, so I smile in response, leaning heavily against the car door. 

He swerves – suddenly – and passes, quickly. 

Seeing such a knee-jerk reaction makes me fumble for the visor’s mirror, where I find a reflection like B-Science-Fiction: swollen cheeks, a misshapen face, and by the looks of the dry and wet tracks trailing down both sides of my chin, I’ve been drooling. A lot. My lips are also cracked and bloody – as if stranded for weeks in the desert – and it appears as if they’ve been pulled apart by some horrible dental device which has left indentations, still visible on my face.

I’m the goddamn monster’s bride. 

But the care is lost in thoughts of home and Mom and Dad’s blue, velvet sofa, with dogs at my feet, a box of tissue at my side, and a channel changer near at hand – which is where Mom leaves me with a kiss on the forehead and errands on her mind, one of which includes filling a prescription for pain medicine for when the strong stuff wears off.

Propped up with pillows, covered with a quilt and a Labrador, the cloud is beginning to clear from my brain, and although my jaws are sore, I’m relishing a day away from school.

The clock in the living room chimes the eleventh hour and I have nothing but a whole day of sleeping and watching television ahead.

Piece of cake.

_______

It’s been two hours since Mom left. The meds have warn off, the haze has lifted, and everything is very, very clear. The pain – which began as a dull ache in my jaws has turned into something hot and angry. 

And my mood, gruesome. 

Dark thoughts come to mind on the crest of each unmedicated, tear-filled minute. 

“Where is she?” I moan as our Labrador, Heather, lets me squeeze tighter.

But the throbbing grows stronger and the darkness grows darker, and my groans are too much even for Heather, who squirms from my grasp and slinks away, tail between her legs.

_______

The chimes of the clock reminds me that Mom’s been gone for three hours and it feels as if my head will explode.

I now consider my mother, my captor and my tormentor.

And the blue velvet sofa, my prison of pain, where I dig my way deeper into its darkness and despair.

_______

In the fourth hour since Mom abandoned me, Jim and Mark approach my body beneath the blanket. Jim attempts a taunt, but when I slither from the covers and hiss, “Where’ssssss Mom?”, my gloom and sullen glare frightens even him. 

He gently, but firmly, grabs Mark’s shoulder and they retreat from the brooding scene… Misery is my only acceptable companion this afternoon. 

And we’re inseparable.

Wretched and contemptible.

_______

The damned clock mocks me again, making it the fifth hour since our return and still no sign of Mom.

Shrouded in the pain and the darkness, still hidden beneath the blankets, my breath, my mood, and the TV, are disagreeable and inconsolable, and my thoughts, matricidal.

“How could she have forgotten about me?” I hiss into the drool-drenched pillow, unable to think of anything beyond the pain and this painful disappointment. 

_______

As the seventh hour tolls and the sky grows dim, the sound of Mom’s approaching footsteps – which should signal the end of my suffering – instead fills me with rage. 

Seething in my blanketed underworld, hurtful words I’ve practiced for hours stand ready at the tip of my tongue. 

I can hear the crinkle of the white, paper bag from the pharmacy and Mom whispering, “Annie”. 

Both sounds try to pull me from the darkness, but I remain hidden.

“Where have you been!?” is all that squeaks out. 

I don’t really listen to her answer. 

I just take the bitter pill and turn over.

Within Close Range: Whiplash Willie

Barely able to see over the dashboard of the ample sedan, toes stretching to reach the pedals, Nonnie is an Italian force on four wheels navigating the gridlock of suburban Chicago.

Her style is unique – driving with more emotion than convention, more conversation than paying attention – usually resulting in last minute lane changes and unpredictable turns, and me sliding from one side of the bountiful back seat to the other.

When the story she’s spinning is a doozy and Nonnie gets roused (which it usually is, and she usually does), up goes her pitch and its volume, and down goes her tiny, bunion-ed foot on the gas pedal, causing the great, lumbering beast of a car – and all its passengers – to lurch forward.

To compensate for accelerating while accentuating, Nonnie then braces herself against the steering wheel and brakes, throwing her kin back against the pristine upholstery.

Repeating this action with each grand inflection.

It’s how she got the nickname, Whiplash Willie, and why, when I see her begin an earful of a tale to whoever called “Dibs on the front seat!” first, I know what’s coming.

We all do.

Buckling up, I pray the story’s short.

And my neck’s strong.

Within Close Range: Uncle John’s Burgundy Velvet Tuxedo Jacket

Uncle John has a burgundy, velvet tuxedo jacket.

For decades, he’s worn it to every black tie event and Aunt Ar makes sure there are plenty.

Atop a sea of black and white convention
the tall, dark man moves quietly in his curious, velvet burgundy.

Well-heeled and headstrong, he ever insists,
as long as the jacket fits – it fits.

Unswayed by the loud public statement
his offbeat fashion statement makes
for such a guarded, taciturn, conventional man.