The Fringe Element

My mother bought me a leather fringed vest for my 18th birthday. It was genuine cowhide leather, and believe me when I tell you it looked better on me than it did the cow. It had a real Western look and feel to it; I think Dale Evans had one just like it.  When I wore it I looked like I had stepped right out of a John Ford movie; the Shootout at the Yahoo Corral. I loved it.

My mother bought it for me because I was scheduled to go to college in Montana in the fall. Montana was the Big Sky country where men dressed like men and so did the women. The only problem was that summer I had been forced to move against my will to Greece, NY, a suburb of Rochester.  Greece was the Big Mall country. The only grass found in it was the kind you smoked. Greece had taken Joni Mitchell’s lyric;  “They paved Paradise and put up a parking lot” and made it their National Anthem. The malls were packed so close together they were forever begetting little mini-malls everywhere. And nobody wore a fringed vest.

The first time I wore it out in public was when my older brother Bob and I went to a small coffee house in the basement of a local church. I was the picture of a robust cowboy hunk; jeans, boots, a denim shirt and my fringed vest. I looked like I was scouting for Custer.

The image lasted for as long as it took to walk in the front door.  Some fourteen year old kid at a table of fourteen-year old kids pointed his finger at me, giggled and said to his friends, in a voice that sounded like it was blasted from a loudspeaker; “Get a load of him!.”

Instantly I no longer felt like the Marlborough Man. I felt like the love child of Buffalo Bob and Howdy Doody.  And it was so unfair. After all, I hadn’t pointed out to everybody (just Bob) the nice field of acne growing on the north forty of the kid’s face. At least I could go home and change (I did); he would still look like a wanted poster for Clearasil.

Not to be permanently dissuaded by some punk, I wore it out again, this time when Bob and I went to a strip club. As a young buck the idea of watching some girls take off their clothes seemed like a good idea at the time. But the anticipation quickly disappeared when I saw the clothing they were supposed to strip off. Vests were in!  At least for the first five minutes. And a lot of them had fringe on them.  I looked like their wardrobe consultant. I spent the night trying to tell people “No I didn’t drop a wad of hundred dollar bills to get this vest; my Mommy gave it to me.”  When they’d ask “Which one is she?” I knew it was time to go. It was also time to ditch the vest.

I thought about that vest when I moved out to Bloomfield. Bloomfield was the country! Corn in the fields and cows in every barn. It was like heaven. The local bar was a converted barn called The Purple Pig.  All the girls wore fringed vests. I would have fit right in, except for one thing. They all looked like Dale Evans. After she had been kicked by Trigger.

Today I work at home and am a little less fashion conscious. I do have my underwear sorted by days of the week. There’s Tuesday’s pair, and there’s Next Tuesday’s pair.The only vests I wear today are sweater vests, and I only wear them when I’m  covering up some stain on my shirt. 

I know it’s sad, but I still think of that vest from time to time.

Thanks Mom, you tried.