The Rise and Fall of a Hilfiger Man

My dear boy,

I’m from the generation of Tommy Hilfiger boxers and 50 Cent’s G-Unit. Baggy clothes were the killer fit. All-Star sneakers were a must. A few bandanas here and there for effect with a G-Unit face cap. 

A boxer so big it could serve as a parachute in case of a fall was sexy. After all, the bigger the boxers, the bigger your penis got. I genuinely do not know the science behind but we believed it. It appeared to work. Can’t argue with something that works! 

Fast forward to the Soft Work era, and a rumor broke out. I didn’t buy into it, but Ak wouldn’t shut up about it. Friday believed it too. Tommy Hilfinger and 50 Cents boxers were now pussy repellants. “Babes no go fuck you if you wear am,” was the word on the streets. Moreover, on every line in the hostel quadrangle hung a Banana Republic boxer shorts with a sea of eyes on them. 

The quadrangle was a free market, unbeknownst to newbies. To spread your clothes there was one thing; to come back to meet them was another. Once, some student saw someone wearing his clothes on the other side of town. When he confronted this person, they swore they bought it at a thrift shop in Watt Market. They may be lying, but it was common for petty thieves to sell their loot at the Watt Market. Watt Market served as the largest black market for petty thieves in the Malabor Republik. This phenomenon boosted the laundry service market. Would you rather pay to have your clothes washed or buy new ones? Few clothes made it back from the quadrangle, and they were not outfits. A new Tommy Hilfiger would make it back, surprisingly. 

Soon, all Gideon wore were Banana Republic boxers. He got three at once. That was money right there! Mind you, this boxer was the most expensive clothing item at the time. Well, this boxer was the new six pack: can’t have them and not show off. Boys would sag just for you to see what their waist was wrapped in: the hallowed American flag, which is the ultimate logo of the Banana Republic. 

In a corner, I mourned the fall of my Tommy Hilfiger boxers. We were the new outcasts: my boxers and I. I felt like an Arsenal fan- perpetually known as a less-than, the oldest wannabes. So, yes, I mourned. Perhaps it was the cold bowl of breakfast I was going to serve these boxers that made me sad. At some point, it got me chicks. Chicks could tell I was going somewhere because of my Hilfinger Boxers, but not anymore. 

I had a couple of new pairs, but I stashed them away. I sold out and bought some Banana Republic boxers. They felt good. I ain’t gonna lie. They did what they said they would do. I guess you never really see how much of an influence the boys are till you’re far gone. Today, it’s a tale about boxers, tomorrow it’s going to be something else, but the boys are constant. Hence, pick your homeboys carefully. 

Love, 

Dad.