I went into a vintage clothing store and pulled an old blue, Levi’s jean jacket off the rack. It felt sturdy—like it’s seen some shit. I could tell it had spent a lot of time in the backseat of classic cars and at the frontlines of Vietnam protests. At least that’s the history I projected onto to it.
C.C.R was playing in the store and the clerk gave me one of those slight nods that said, “lemme know if you need anything.” He was twisting wax into his mustache and wore a top hat and suspenders. I wondered how a guy dressed as an evil train conductor from the 1800’s could still look cooler than I ever have in my life.
I put on the jacket and looked in the mirror. I could see myself wearing it out in the desert somewhere, leaning against an old Ford mustang—bad moon on the rise. I don’t know why I was in the desert or whose car it was, but I had already picked out the perfect Instagram filter for me and my new jackets life together.