The Coat

I remember clothes; a coat in particular. My grandmother gave me a new coat for my birthday one year. It was an expensive one, stadium-length, beige, with a thick quilted lining and a warm hood. Money was tight in our family, and I was growing fast. It was the only coat I owned that would fit. I wore it every day from start of the cold weather until two days after a trip to Squaw Valley. I won the trip through my newspaper route. I didn't ski and had seen snow four times in my life up until then. I borrowed a red sled from a boy down the street. It got wet from the snow and I, with no experience at all, put it under my arm. The paint ran, making a big bright red stain from armpit to hem. It didn't come out in the wash.

The stain didn't hurt the coat, it just made it look funny. I had a choice of wearing it with the stain or being cold.

The first day I wore it to school after that a dozen complete strangers thought it was their duty to call attention to me;
"Hey kid, you've got paint on your coat";
"Hey, look at the kid with blood on his coat";
some were even worse, alluding to a girlfriend's monthly cycle.

The next day it was more of the same. If it were to happen today I might thank them for stating the obvious; "Thank you, I didn't notice", with "you dufus" left unsaid. Back then I just pulled my head a little further into my shell. The third day I left the coat in the closet, wore my sweater instead and shivered. I was cold for the rest of the winter.