Suddenly they are gone. The late-night partiers, they noticed the loosening at their waists, the random embarrassment of skirts falling in the midst of ordering a drink, of standing up to say goodbye, of appearing like it happened on purpose, because of that look in his eyes.
All the belts have disappeared. And all of Madagascar is finding out that they relied quite a bit on the belts they didn’t really give much thought to before this. The next morning, every man getting ready to look sharp at the office was suddenly stricken. How do you make a belt when no belts are there? Try to find a pair of older pants that don’t quite fit, but at least won’t fall; or a sash, who even has sashes anymore? We aren’t a country of big closets.
He thinks it’s just him. As he gets dressed in the morning, going through boxes in his closets, looking under the bed, behind the curtains, anyplace where he might find where a belt could have slinked off. There are no belts. He only had two. One black, one brown. Belts are so utilitarian, he can’t remember the last time he had to buy one, he’s certainly never lost one before. How can one possibly lose a belt?
He lives in a small apartment. He prides himself on being tidy and clean, in a country where striking out from family at his age is uncommon. There aren’t many places for a belt to escape to. He thinks back on the night before. He changed out of his work clothes when he got home, as he always did, draping the pants over the end of his bed, to be scraped off at the end of the night into a laundry pile. The belt stayed with the pants, it’s easier just to find yesterday’s pants and pull it off, then to go through the work of taking it off, hanging it on those nifty hangers his mom had given him when he first moved in. Sometimes, when he’s on a cleaning frenzy, the belts find their way to a proper place. As do the shirts on hangers, pants in drawers, all where it’s supposed to be. But not usually, and not recently.
He wonders about the last time he cleaned, of course losing a belt makes no sense, but it also makes him think about what he’s been missing out on. What else has he lost because he didn’t take care? Why does he have these things if he’s not going to grant them the care they deserve?
He whispers an apology to the belts, wherever they are, and reaches for the phone. He lets his boss know he’s sick today, that he won’t make it into the office after all. Fake coughing as he hangs up, he looks around his space. There’s so much to be done, it’s time for him to make a change.
Digging into the closet, he pulls out several boxes, certain that sorting his past is the best way to be clean and prepared for the future. He settles onto the floor, reminiscing through various photo albums, pictures of him, happily swimming, climbing trees, arms wrapped around his brother. He notes, none of these photos show him wearing a belt. He keeps moving through time, stopping to enjoy the remembrances, the people he hasn’t seen, the moments that once were so important. How had he forgotten so much already, life hasn’t half passed him by and he already has missed so much of what he once thought monumental, critical to his happiness.
He realizes, in the middle of the clutter of books and photos and trophies and reminders, that he did it all mostly without belts.
He gives thanks, to whatever has taken away the cage he had belted himself into, and resolves, that from this day forward, he’ll be free, the person he once was and thought he would be. He’ll start fresh.
He starts to scoop up the memories back into their boxes, and pushes them aside, hiking up his pants by the empty belt loops, and heads out into the world.
Worlds 