Two nights ago, I dreamed about giving the jacket from my father’s white suit to Goodwill. I did that years ago of course, I pitched it in one of my twice-a-year closet purges, it had been there, lonely and stained, for years; good-bye again Old Chum.
Somewhere, there are probably twenty-five-year-old photographs of me wearing that jacket. I wore it over my black-white-and-red U2 tee-shirt ( the one with the WAR cover) and my David Bowie “SCARY MONSTERS AND SUPER-CREEPS” tee-shirts, with jeans, black, pants and the hand-remade trousers of one of Daddy’s old pinstriped suits., miniskirts and tights. I even owned a grey suede skinny tie to go with it. Can you tell how cool I felt when I wore it? If you look at my student ID from 11th Grade, you’d see my pouting out at the camera with lipstick, eyeliner, and that jacket. Nobody was more fabulous than me.
Some people don’t love their pets as much as I loved some of my clothes. There have been a few that never even made it into the Goodwill pile; pieces that died noble deaths before I had the heart to get rid of them.
My black-leather jacket got moved from the coat-hooks to the back of my closet. Broken main zipper and all, it still hangs there in almost-retirement. When I took Liam to the U2 concert last year, I pulled it back into service as the most rock-and-roll thing I own. A few weeks ago, I wore it over my shoulders like a short-cape walking through Cambridge. “Great jacket,” the weathered fellow standing by the motorcycle told me; Black Beauty has life in her yet.
That jacket goes to the kids. While he can fit into it, Liam can have it. He’ll pass it to Emma someday, provided the jacket hasn’t totally disintegrated.
After sixteen years, the rose-printed button-down dress Jamie gave me for my birthday lay slung over the banister for months before it made it into the trash. Sixteen Summers, two-and-a-half pregnancies, that sweetheart never got pushed to the dusty back of the closet. I always said that I’d wear her until she fell apart in my hands, and that’s what finally happened. Heading out for the first Spring afternoon party, I pulled it on, and heard that exhausted cotton rip. That dress deserved a decent burial, so I didn’t lump her in with the shorts I’d expanded out of or the fading tee-shirts.
What do I miss most this Summer; my madras capris of course. I pulled them off the rock-bottom Sale rack at Marshel’s thinking that they had to be worth five dollars. All Summer, for a few Summers, I wore them everywhere.
I wore them to the funeral of my dear friend David. “David, my gay ex-boyfriend”; I’d called him that since college. He was the handsomest Preppie boy you could imagine, and the sweetest too. His sweater collection rivalled for splendour Jay Gatsby’s closet-full of shirts. David’s dream-date was afternoon tea at the Ritz Carlton. I showed him the door when I realised that he drank to heavily and I sure as hell didn’t need that.
Somehow, David and I stayed friends. Through his waking up in the closet and coming right out, through his owning up to heavily he drank and what it had done to him. Through my years at Vassar with their assorted crushes, though two hospitals stays and my falling in love with Jamie, I could give David a call. We went to see “Au Revior Les Enfants” and escaped from our families once or twice. Good old David!
About two weeks after Liam was born, a friend of Jamie’s who worked with David and knew that I knew him told me that David was in California dying with AIDS. Just sat at my dining-room table and blamed it on too much casual sex. I wanted to kill that messenger, or at least kick him to the curb, but he had brought me dinner so I didn’t.
A week later, I got up the nerve to call David, and to my surprise, his father handed him the phone. Not in California and not dying of AIDS, dear David was living in Sudbury with cancer that just wouldn’t quit. We talked for ten minutes, maybe less, until I had to leave. He begged me to call back, and I said I would.
For the next eighteen months, I called when I could; always when he couldn’t make it to the phone. I’d talk to his mother; she’d tell me how her son was doing, and I’d tell her how my son was doing. I listened to that dear lady for half an hour at a time. Because I knew her voice, she barely had to say anything the one time she called me.
Now, what was I talking about?; oh yes,, the best Summer pants in history. I ended up wearing them to David’s wake because Jamie and I drove there straight from my mother’s house. A yellow tee shirt, the pants and pearls; I wore the same thing I’d been in all day. I had a black dress hanging in the back of the car, but I’d totally forgotten it was there until I was standing in the parking-lot. The only dressing-up I’d done was the necklace which I’d put on that morning because I knew I’d have no time to go back for it. I had no choice but to walk on in and as was.
One more thing about David, he always thought I could stand a little preppying-up. He agreed with my with my Mama, I wore too much black. He would have loved those pants. In the car going home, I imagined what he might have said, “oh Mel, you look so pretty! Finally a little color; and pearls too!” Those cheapo pants always reminded me of a well-dressed friend who never did see them, and they always made me smile.
Somewhere, there are probably twenty-five-year-old photographs of me wearing that jacket. I wore it over my black-white-and-red U2 tee-shirt ( the one with the WAR cover) and my David Bowie “SCARY MONSTERS AND SUPER-CREEPS” tee-shirts, with jeans, black, pants and the hand-remade trousers of one of Daddy’s old pinstriped suits., miniskirts and tights. I even owned a grey suede skinny tie to go with it. Can you tell how cool I felt when I wore it? If you look at my student ID from 11th Grade, you’d see my pouting out at the camera with lipstick, eyeliner, and that jacket. Nobody was more fabulous than me.
Some people don’t love their pets as much as I loved some of my clothes. There have been a few that never even made it into the Goodwill pile; pieces that died noble deaths before I had the heart to get rid of them.
My black-leather jacket got moved from the coat-hooks to the back of my closet. Broken main zipper and all, it still hangs there in almost-retirement. When I took Liam to the U2 concert last year, I pulled it back into service as the most rock-and-roll thing I own. A few weeks ago, I wore it over my shoulders like a short-cape walking through Cambridge. “Great jacket,” the weathered fellow standing by the motorcycle told me; Black Beauty has life in her yet.
That jacket goes to the kids. While he can fit into it, Liam can have it. He’ll pass it to Emma someday, provided the jacket hasn’t totally disintegrated.
After sixteen years, the rose-printed button-down dress Jamie gave me for my birthday lay slung over the banister for months before it made it into the trash. Sixteen Summers, two-and-a-half pregnancies, that sweetheart never got pushed to the dusty back of the closet. I always said that I’d wear her until she fell apart in my hands, and that’s what finally happened. Heading out for the first Spring afternoon party, I pulled it on, and heard that exhausted cotton rip. That dress deserved a decent burial, so I didn’t lump her in with the shorts I’d expanded out of or the fading tee-shirts.
What do I miss most this Summer; my madras capris of course. I pulled them off the rock-bottom Sale rack at Marshel’s thinking that they had to be worth five dollars. All Summer, for a few Summers, I wore them everywhere.
I wore them to the funeral of my dear friend David. “David, my gay ex-boyfriend”; I’d called him that since college. He was the handsomest Preppie boy you could imagine, and the sweetest too. His sweater collection rivalled for splendour Jay Gatsby’s closet-full of shirts. David’s dream-date was afternoon tea at the Ritz Carlton. I showed him the door when I realised that he drank to heavily and I sure as hell didn’t need that.
Somehow, David and I stayed friends. Through his waking up in the closet and coming right out, through his owning up to heavily he drank and what it had done to him. Through my years at Vassar with their assorted crushes, though two hospitals stays and my falling in love with Jamie, I could give David a call. We went to see “Au Revior Les Enfants” and escaped from our families once or twice. Good old David!
About two weeks after Liam was born, a friend of Jamie’s who worked with David and knew that I knew him told me that David was in California dying with AIDS. Just sat at my dining-room table and blamed it on too much casual sex. I wanted to kill that messenger, or at least kick him to the curb, but he had brought me dinner so I didn’t.
A week later, I got up the nerve to call David, and to my surprise, his father handed him the phone. Not in California and not dying of AIDS, dear David was living in Sudbury with cancer that just wouldn’t quit. We talked for ten minutes, maybe less, until I had to leave. He begged me to call back, and I said I would.
For the next eighteen months, I called when I could; always when he couldn’t make it to the phone. I’d talk to his mother; she’d tell me how her son was doing, and I’d tell her how my son was doing. I listened to that dear lady for half an hour at a time. Because I knew her voice, she barely had to say anything the one time she called me.
Now, what was I talking about?; oh yes,, the best Summer pants in history. I ended up wearing them to David’s wake because Jamie and I drove there straight from my mother’s house. A yellow tee shirt, the pants and pearls; I wore the same thing I’d been in all day. I had a black dress hanging in the back of the car, but I’d totally forgotten it was there until I was standing in the parking-lot. The only dressing-up I’d done was the necklace which I’d put on that morning because I knew I’d have no time to go back for it. I had no choice but to walk on in and as was.
One more thing about David, he always thought I could stand a little preppying-up. He agreed with my with my Mama, I wore too much black. He would have loved those pants. In the car going home, I imagined what he might have said, “oh Mel, you look so pretty! Finally a little color; and pearls too!” Those cheapo pants always reminded me of a well-dressed friend who never did see them, and they always made me smile.
