That old jacket
[Note: Originally written November 1998]
This is a story about a jacket. Of all things, a simple unpossessing jacket. But before we get there we need to circumnavigate somewhat to talk about the subject of travel, my nephew, past jobs, lost loves and other such odd ruminations. I hope you’ll have the patience to bear with me.
When I lived in Atlanta, I used to love to shop in places like “The Banana Republic” and “Abercrombie & Fitch”. They had good and functional clothing and the walls were adorned with memorabilia from expeditions of a forgotten past. It was fun to just go in there and window-shop. And their catalogues were works of art as well; I enjoyed perusing through the pages, imagining a time reminiscent of Indiana Jones, when the world was a more naïve place. The Abercrombie store at Phipps plaza used to have the most wonderful collection of books; books like I had never seen in one collection before. These were “guy” books with topics covering the intricacies of fly-tying and companion volumes on fly-fishing in Vermont, all beautifully bound with soft-velum. Books on the great unexplored areas of the world’s surface. Collector’s guides to Scotches & Cognacs. You get the drift – it wasn’t just one or two particular titles but a collection assembled by some brilliant soul who was driven to achieve a great eclectic stock. And there was a kindly white-bearded gentleman who always took care of me and as if by magic unfailingly remembered my name every time I came in. He was unobtrusive as I pored over these great stacks of books and when I would select one he would appear from nowhere and say “May I put this on the counter for you Mr. Hunt?”. What can one say to such an act of object politeness? “Why, yes, thank you!”. And so it would proceed until I would amble over to the clothing department touching jackets or feeling chinos.
And then one day I went in and everything had changed; the books were not there. My white-bearded friend no longer worked there. The stately adornments were replaced by posters of sullen teens wearing their ball caps backwards. This was no longer my store and in short I felt betrayed. I asked what happened to the books and no one could tell me. I made calls to the home office and said I’d purchase the entire collection sight unseen but no one could help me. I don’t go in there anymore.
Why, you are asking, am I discoursing on clothing/book stores, when my subject is allegedly one of an Old Jacket? Memories my friend, memories. Like strands of coiling DNA molecules our lives are composed of nothing more than the memories we have experienced ourselves and the memories that have been passed down to us by others. One thing that constantly evokes these memories I’ve just talked about is my jacket. It’s not just any jacket, but it’s the Jacket. All my other jackets have a more describable name, like “Please hand me my red windbreaker”, or “Let’s send that blue sport coat to the cleaners”. But my jacket is simply: the jacket.
A description is most likely in order: It’s a photojournalists’ vest actually. At last count I got up to 140 different pockets but I don’t know if that’s entirely accurate as I kept getting sidetracked. This thing has inside pockets, inside zippered pockets, inside secret pockets, and inside secret zippered pockets. There are pockets behind the jacket, behind the inside of the jacket, innumerable ones on the left & right-hand sides of the jacket. There are epaulettes on each shoulder to hang cameras or battle berets from. In short, just enough pockets so that although you have a good idea of where it is (“Is it on the left, or right-hand side, front or back?”), it always takes a little fumbling to locate and extricate the item you’re looking for.
What is so special about this jacket you ask? Well in short, the memories that are wrapped up inside it. My ex-wife Laura gave it to me while we were dating, (better times I guess), knowing that I had wanted it for quite some while. It feels so comfortable and is not unduly hot during the summer, but provides a modicum of warmth during the fall. This jacket has accompanied me on every international trip I’ve taken since I received it.
It’s been with me through North, Central and South America, Europe, Asia and Africa. With luck it’ll last me through Australia and if I’m intrepid enough, Antarctica, when I finally get there.
I used to work as a corporate network troubleshooter. My boss would call me up and say “How soon can you be on a plane to London?”, or “Do you need a work-visa for Bangalore India and can you be there by next Tuesday?”. Exciting if not exhausting work. My jacket would always be a great source of comfort because I (usually) always knew where things were in its infinite pockets and by slinging it on over my regular clothes I was ready to assault airport lines and fend off hostile customs’ inspectors with minimum delays. Passport, visas, emergency cash in the inside-secret-zipper pocket, journal and ballpoint pens in the front loose pocket to facilitate writing. Larger pockets held candy, balloons, pens, cigarettes to give to kids and to barter with locals (sometimes better than bribes!). Combined with a satchel containing all the technical gear I could ever think of, it was a pretty good system and sometimes when I think back on it I’m sorry I gave it up.
Well I don’t wear the jacket much for work anymore as the locales are not nearly as exciting. I guess one of the reasons I like wearing it are the wonderful Walter Mitty romances I have with it, dreaming of working with journalists named “Baghdad Bob” during the Gulf War, or imagining telling grand-kids about the rip in the jacket “…right there, just below the shoulder…”, while scrambling over the iron curtain at Checkpoint Charlie in East Berlin prior to the fall of communism.
I still wear it on my vacations though. Makes me feel complete, like everything is in its proper order and nothing can go wrong. For pleasure travel there are pockets which hold binoculars and camera lenses, great roomy pockets for copious quantities of film, lens cleaner, tissue and a whole host of photographic stuff. The damn thing normally weighs about 60 lbs and I usually feel like a pack-mule carrying it but can’t stand to part with any of its contents.
Another thing I’ll tell you about this jacket: it’s never been washed. While the squeamish among you are now gracefully moving away from me, I must say it’s not that dirty. Yeah, there are some remnant mud-stains on it I picked up when I fell down a mountain in Peru, and there are still annoying grains of sand in some of the pockets that I suffered from a dust-storm off the coast of Honduras threatening to scratch some of my camera filters, but again it goes to the whole effect. This jacket is me. It is part of me and I am part of it. When I wear it I look back on times much more happy than sad.
And since I mentioned my nephew at the start of the story, you may be wondering what he has to do with all this. Well, I’ve got his size and have one on order – I figure I owe it to him to teach him the basics….
Update (ca 2000): On my last trip to London with nephew & parents suitably in-tow, I realized that I might have to update my “no-wash” policy after spilling a sizable bit o’ kidney pie down the left side – we’ll see.
Latest Update (2007): Braving the 7” snow we got here in Boston last night and heading out to Stockholm.
