On that day, wearing the corduroy coat with my round glasses and unruly hair, being a hippy and all, Patty Cake said, “You look like Bob Dylan.”
I said, “Who?”
The next day she brought a record album to my cool apartment, and she gave it to me. It showed Mr. Zimmerman walking down the street in NYC, head down, hair unruly, jeans and a jacket only slightly like mine.
I listened to the album. It was wierd, and good. I asked around. People liked Bob Dylan. I supposed that looking like Bob Dylan would be a good thing; though, as I recall, nobody ever again accused me of it, probably because in truth I don’t resemble him much at all.
What I’m getting at is that I kept the corduroy jacket almost forever. I suppose it eventually got returned, but it went everywhere with me. I have a picture of myself in a Villa Acuna bar wearing this jacket. Somewhere another photo shows me in the jacket and the knickerbockers from Madame X’s store.
Jeans, t-shirt, and this jacket became my official hippy garb.
Come winter, I froze. The rest of the time it was fine.
Why do we become so attached to these things?
Looking back now — no matter how mad it may sound — I can’t help feeling that, if only I could wear that corduroy jacket again … then everything would be fun again, the grief and sorrows of later years would fade into a mist, and I’d again be young forever, laughing into eternity, as we did.