“Whole country’s goin’ to hell in a handcart,” said Iroquois Red. “They can’t even make a good belt anymore.”

“Oh?” I said.

“Yeah. This is the third one I’ve bought since summer …” he said, pointing at a chrome snap-on buckle as big as a hubcap, “… and it’s as crappy as the other ones.”

He pounded his fist on the bar for emphasis, which may have made him feel better, but was ignored by everyone else in P-2’s.

The sound and the fury, I thought.

Now, some vital background: Iroquois Red has no link to Native Americans. Instead, the name was bestowed on him for his constant patronage in the Iroquois Hotel’s bar, and his claim (unsubstantiated) that he was at last call in the beloved Tupper Lake landmark, the night before it burned down.

As for the label Red? Yes, he was a carrot top of the first water from birth till middle age. Now, he could more accurately be dubbed Whitey, or if cruelty’s your thing, Liver Spots. But that’s the thing with small towns: You get a nickname in grade school and if it’s there under your yearbook’s senior picture, you’ve got it for life. And you can bet it’ll be atop your obit too, so the town’s non-natives will find out you had a real name too.

Some hypothetical, but plausible examples: After high school, Tubbs may have taken up running and become lean and mean, but at the 25th reunion, he’s still Tubbs. And Rocky, the indomitable three-letter man with the 50-inch chest and 32-inch waist may show up at the same reunion pear-shaped and pooped-out, but he’s still The Rock. Stony, famous for an adolescence of wake-n-bakes, became drug-free in his 20s and a respected member of the NA community, but by the G and J, at his 25th reunion, his name hasn’t changed, no matter how much HE has. Hoping to shed one’s childhood handle is as futile as trying to tattoo a cloud.

Now back to P-2’s…

“There’s nothing wrong with your belt,” I said. “Or for that matter ALL your belts.”

“Oh yeah?” he said. “And what are you now — the Blue Line’s belt expert?”

“Not at all,” I said. “But I can sure recognize a case of Gutzover Syndrome when I see it. And I can sure see it with you.”

“The hell is Gutzover Syndrome?” he snapped.

“Simple,” I snapped back. “It’s when your gut hangs over your belt.”

He immediately sat up straight on his stool and tried to suck in his gut … and failed miserably.

“Lemme explain it, OK?” I said.

“Go ahead,” he said, crossing his arms, and with his lips turned down in a half-sneer, half-pout.

I decided to take the most direct and easily understood approach. That is, I spoke slowly and distinctly, much like when you’re trying to explain to a little kid why he has to do something he doesn’t want to do.

I know my effort’ll be in vain. But I’ll make it because it’s one all Gutzover Syndrome sufferers need to hear, both for their own sake and for the sakes of their kith and kin, who have to bear witness to their ongoing losing war.

Here’s how it works … or more exactly, how it DOESN’T work:

When you’re young and fit, your pants stay up by resting on your hips. It doesn’t matter if you wear a belt or not, cuz your pants are gonna stay up anyway. In your 20s and a while beyond, you’re no longer a boy, but you can still keep your pants up with a belt. Unfortunately, it also lulls you into a false sense of security: You think because a belt keeps your pants up now, it always will. Oh, ’twas ever thus …

Let’s zoom ahead 35 years and 35 pounds. You’re now officially middle-aged and UNofficially a Gutzover Syndrome sufferer, and at that point a belt is as useful as an Esperanto dictionary. The sad truth is gravity wins, and you lose: Keeping your pants up with a belt is as hopeless as keeping them up with a grin. While this is obvious to all onlookers, it eludes the GS dudes themselves, so every 15 minutes or so, they hitch up their drooping drawers up, completely oblivious that they’re doing it.

If they don’t want to keep fighting their losing “tug of war,” they have two options.

One is called The Rudy Retainer, named after Fun City’s former mayor and disbarred shyster, Rudy Guiliani. It requires two conditions to make it work. First, you need to wear your pants snugged up to your armpits. And second, you need to KEEP them up by clamping your chin on your sternum. It works, but for obvious reasons seriously impedes any dining or romantic experiences.

The only other choice, and the only sensible one, is to first admit you have a problem. Then you need to buy a pair of suspenders.

–

Tracin’ the braces

–

Suspenders have a long and glorious history, even though they’ve only occupied a supporting role. The first of what we’d consider modern suspenders were made around 1820 by a London tailor named Albert Thurston. They caught on immediately and hung on as a fixture of men’s outfits for over a century. Every man, from baron to bricklayer, wore them, for both dressy and workday occasions.

They ruled the roost till WWII, when almost every man (and many women) in North America and Europe served in the military, who at that time were issued belts. After the war, belts were in and suspenders were out. Workmen like loggers and construction workers kept wearing suspenders (and still do) because they can comfortably hold up heavy pants with tool belts, but the average man in the street didn’t. And that change was hastened by a change in fashion: Vests quit being a standard garment.

Check out almost any picture of a group of men (and in a lot of cases, boys) from time memorial till the 1950s, and you’ll see they’re all wearing vests. They’re also wearing suspenders, which you can’t see. And there’s the rub: Suspenders, because they were always under vests or jackets, were actually considered underwear. And as such, public decency of the times dictated they should not be seen.

In the ’50s, the trend shifted and things became less formal. Men didn’t wear vests as much, and even quit wearing jackets indoors on many occasions. But suspenders were still considered underwear, and quaintly old-fashioned as well, so the belt came to reign supreme, which it still does.

But just because something is labeled “supreme” doesn’t mean it is. F’rintstance, there’s Esso Supreme gasoline that claims to be superior to good old “Regular.” But is it? I’ve been running my cars on the low octane as long as I’ve had cars and haven’t seen ’em suddenly give up the ghost due to their low-end rating.

Or how about the Motown group, the Supremes? Yeah, sure, they were fine singers. But just because they were Barry Gordy’s rave-faves didn’t make them any better than the Shirelles, the Chiffons, the Ronettes or the Marvelettes. And frankly, I considered them a distant second to my rave-faves, Martha and the Vandellas.

Then of course we’ve got good ole Kim Jong Un, North Korea’s “Supreme Leader,” and about him and his superiority, the less said, the better.

I laid that rap on Red and ended with a stirring peroration about how when it comes to GS, not only are belts not superior to suspenders, but they’re pretty much dead-in-the water useless.

“That it?” he said.

“Yep,” I said.

“Good,” he said.

He stood up, emptied his PBR, and walked to the door. Once there, he looked back and gave me a disgusted scowl. Then he opened the door and walked out, unsupported by either fact or fashion.