Corduroy
Fall had arrived and a bit of chill was in the air so I donned my beloved and half century old tan corduroy car coat before walking to the neighborhood Thai joint on a weekend afternoon.
Some 15 years ago, one of my students purchased the 6-wail (that's a corduroy term!) coat for me in an animal welfare thrift store for 99 cents. She claimed the coat was “pure Mr. Love” and from the moment I slipped it on, I agreed.
Mark and Donny were on the sidewalk, as was Tammy in her wheelchair, and another woman I'd occasionally seen collecting cans and bottles in the park, approximately 60-65 years old, shaved head, talking angrily to herself, eating chocolate pudding an exuding and unmistakable meth vibe.
The crew saw me coming and threw up welcomes. They all fist bumped me. It always excited me to see how excited these people were to see me. All the people I know living in houses don't act that way when they seem me.
“I love that jacket!” said Donny. So did Mark and Tammy. I showed it off, the suede patches on the front pockets, the leather buttons, the plaid flannel lining, the MADE IN YUGOSLAVIA label, and the squirrel pen on the lapel, which especially drove them nuts.
I'd probably walked 5000 miles along Oregon's ocean beaches in that coat. I'd received compliments on it all over Oregon from old and young alike. I will never forget wearing it a Newport wine shop and a beautiful woman wielding a cane came up to me, rested her left hand on my shoulder, looked the coat up and down, looked me in the eyes and said, “You and that jacket really have it going on.”
And to think I'd almost left the coat hanging on driftwood fort at the ocean's edge because it was coming apart and I wanted it to end its long, being swept away by a storm tide. But a friend convinced me should could salvage it with a sewing machine and some patches and she did with remarkably sturdy and fashionable results! The next time I consider ending this coat's life at the ocean I'll be wearing it when I plunge off Hart's Cove or Otter Point and return to the sea where all life began.
At several points during our conversation about the coat, the meth woman would interrupt with a non sequitur, such as, “What do you do for a living?” or “What day is it?”
I answered each time.
Finally, she bolted to her feet, cursed, threw down her pudding container and some papers and walked away.
Mark's disdain for her was obvious. He called her a “fucking tweaker.” So did Tammy. Tammy added that she'd given up meth in her 30s after seeing her ravaged face in the mirror. Donny added something about his meth use or non use. What a weird sensation it is to have held a conversation that began with corduroy and ended with meth.
It was time to go and get some Thai food (at the restaurant, the female Thai server would compliment the coat as well, and said it made me look like a writer or professor!).
As I walked away, it occurred to me that I needed to outfit members of the book club in corduroy jackets because they were the perfect autumn attire for any homeless person sleeping or sitting on a sidewalk. They also dried pretty fast and you could throw them in a dryer. It wouldn't cost me a cent because in addition to my car coat, I had two corduroy blazers at home I practically never wore and one had suede patches on the elbows. It would go great with the fine pipe tobacco!
It also occurred to me that I'd never seen a homeless man wearing any corduroy garment. Why was that? They were surely donated to thrift stores and street missions. It made no sense.