Except from Suburban Soliloquy #113 The Overcoat
When I was a young man, I tumbled into a deep unrequited love for a certain Kathleen, a great beauty who turned heads wherever we strolled, which was not comfortable for me. It wasn't so much that I was jealous,
although there was probably that too, but it felt disruptive, as if she was knocking things over wherever she passed. The attention denied me the privacy with her that I craved.
She accompanied me one day into Manhattan to visit the Garment District, an area of several blocks chockfull of wholesalers, designers, and factories. My father sent me in to buy a couple of suits from a distant relative or friend in the business, I can't remember, who owned or supervised a manufacturing operation that took up an entire floor of a building in the heart of this bustling center. Everywhere were men pushing racks crammed with hanging items of clothing, people rushing with samples, papers, or carts of fabric. Trucks of every size shoved in and out of parking slots. We found the place and rode a freight elevator to the particular floor of my father's connection.
Among the steady buzz and blurts of machinery, cutting and sewing, the scraping of hanging conveyors, the people shouting to be heard over the din, I tried on suits. But I didn't buy two suits. I bought one suit and an overcoat. It was a beautiful, double-breasted tweed overcoat that Kathleen thought unusual and said looked excellent on me. I hadn't been sent to New York to buy an overcoat, especially not one costing more than two suits, but in acknowledgement of Kathleen's superb eye for fashion and an unremitting need to be more appealing to her, I bought the overcoat instead of a second suit. My father was not happy with the bill that was sent to him.
Did I ever own an overcoat prior to that one? If I did, I don't remember it. I quickly came to love that overcoat. It became a constant companion whenever the weather would permit. I found that wearing it open it would
bellow like a cape and gather cooling air about my torso. Best of all were the additional pockets; I discovered I had an affinity for pockets. And long after Kathleen was gone, the overcoat remained, until one day someone broke into the trunk of my car and absconded with it.
Bruce Bentzman
http://www.snakeskin.org.uk/
although there was probably that too, but it felt disruptive, as if she was knocking things over wherever she passed. The attention denied me the privacy with her that I craved.
She accompanied me one day into Manhattan to visit the Garment District, an area of several blocks chockfull of wholesalers, designers, and factories. My father sent me in to buy a couple of suits from a distant relative or friend in the business, I can't remember, who owned or supervised a manufacturing operation that took up an entire floor of a building in the heart of this bustling center. Everywhere were men pushing racks crammed with hanging items of clothing, people rushing with samples, papers, or carts of fabric. Trucks of every size shoved in and out of parking slots. We found the place and rode a freight elevator to the particular floor of my father's connection.
Among the steady buzz and blurts of machinery, cutting and sewing, the scraping of hanging conveyors, the people shouting to be heard over the din, I tried on suits. But I didn't buy two suits. I bought one suit and an overcoat. It was a beautiful, double-breasted tweed overcoat that Kathleen thought unusual and said looked excellent on me. I hadn't been sent to New York to buy an overcoat, especially not one costing more than two suits, but in acknowledgement of Kathleen's superb eye for fashion and an unremitting need to be more appealing to her, I bought the overcoat instead of a second suit. My father was not happy with the bill that was sent to him.
Did I ever own an overcoat prior to that one? If I did, I don't remember it. I quickly came to love that overcoat. It became a constant companion whenever the weather would permit. I found that wearing it open it would
bellow like a cape and gather cooling air about my torso. Best of all were the additional pockets; I discovered I had an affinity for pockets. And long after Kathleen was gone, the overcoat remained, until one day someone broke into the trunk of my car and absconded with it.
Bruce Bentzman
http://www.snakeskin.org.uk/
Response from OMF
Bruce, your beautiful soliloquy reminds me of the long leather coat my parents bought me on a trip to London when I was 17. It was terribly cold, and my father convinced me the leather would keep me warm. Not true. But it often made me feel dark and strong.
