My first was from a head shop in Deep Ellum that also had a small but well-chosen selection of used, vintage clothing. This was more of a coat than a jacket, hip length with a quilted lining. The leather was worn, scratched in places. I was only 20, but I was serious. I wanted a life filled with Meaning, Art, Beauty, Ideas, Work. The jacket was all of these. I would button it across my chest and shove my hands into the deep pockets. I kept a pack of Camels and a small notebook and pen in each. I spent my nights burning through both, nothing but ashes and fragments to show for it. The jacket hanging empty on the door knob.
Next, I bought a beautiful long-fringed, deer-brown suede jacket. I moved away from serious, away from vigilance of calculating the importance of each day, toward the more lighthearted. I went to Grateful Dead concerts, taking the train down to Pennsylvania to catch them playing near Philly, day trips to Ithaca just to drive in the countryside. With a friend, we planned to hitchhike for the summer and decided one day to practice by getting around town. In my leather jacket, walking down Vestal Parkway, I jam my thumb into the air as a car approaches. The driver pulls over and gets out. It’s our friend, Frances. “You’re gonna get yourself killed,” he says. The smell of leather fills the car. We never try it again.
The last one I bought was from a mail-order catalog. I was working at the Dallas Theater Center and for the first time in my life, I had a salary and benefits. Health insurance paid for by my job. I bought a 4 door sedan. I found the jacket in a mail order catalog. The model was a working woman with a briefcase, but young. It was tailored like a man’s sportcoat, but just a little longer, a little more narrow. I wore it Friday nights to Club Dada. After hours, we’d make our way to the Green Parrot jazz bar, my serious self trying to make peace with my frivolous self over rum and cokes and improvised saxophones.
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