© 1994 J. B. Chevallier






                                     COATS
                                      by
                              J. B. Chevallier

	The woman in front of him smelled like his last apartment after a 
party, when the beer and cigarette ash had stuck to cups and tabletops, 
turning sour and stale. The white plastic bags she dragged with her were 
battered and creased, crammed full of old papers.  Even in his bad 
moments, he'd never collected old papers. And he sure hoped he didn't 
have that smell.
	Her orange sweatshirt was split at the arms, showing a lavender 
blouse.  It couldn't have kept her warmer than his large gray sweater.  But 
she stood stolidly along the wall, balancing her bags, while he hugged and 
patted himself against the cold.
	Three more, then her, then he'd be in the converted storefront.  
Behind the plate glass, he saw two volunteers sorting through coats on a 
long counter. Tweed, canvas, vinyl: all kinds were mixed in together.  
How did they choose who got what?  Size?  The volunteer on the left, a 
slim blonde with no chest, hung a tan raincoat beside a tall thin man with 
pimpled cheeks. It stopped short of his ankles. She spoke to him, then 
laughed. But he just shrugged.  Swap watched her buttocks shape her 
dress as she bent over the counter.
	The one she'd put down was a Burberry.  He was hoping for a 
Brooks, himself.  Not too beaten up.  You could get through a lot more 
doors with the right coat.  And no odor.  He wished there was some way 
to check that.  You could never tell yourself.  That much he knew.  You 
got too used to it.
	How many of the others cared what they got?  How many even 
knew the word "Burberry"?  They'd probably think it was some kind of 
gin.  Maybe if he asked.  The blonde might be impressed.  Surprised at his 
taste. Maybe she'd buy him coffee.  Maybe she'd take him home. Maybe 
she'd... 
	Like hell.  Here he was, back in overdrive.  She was probably 
Junior League.  Or her company gave her brownie points for charity work.  
This was her night to be a point of light, and he was just another lump of 
darkness.
	Still, he'd pulled off worse.  How about that lawyer in the high-
rise?  A great-granddaughter of Gustav Mahler. Red hair, and a 
thoroughbred butt. Of course, she was a drunk.  So she'd probably 
forgotten him once she'd dried out.  
	Was this what his brother got?  Well-bred debs with no hips?  How 
did you hit on  a filly like that?  "Might I interest you my dear in a 
mutually beneficial carnal exchange?"
	Life was a pisser.  His brother got the nooky and his brother got 
the bucks.  All by being fucking boring.  Connect the dots.  Play by the 
rules.  Live like a four-year-old and you'll glide to the top.
	Swap was the one who'd jumped the tracks, who'd taken the 
sideroads, checked out the scenery.  And who was it got the glory?  The 
one who'd played it safe.  The one who'd toed the line.
	Even his brother's quirks were standard issue. When he'd done 
drugs, he'd done the ones that were socially acceptable.  Rated "PG".  
What the fuck did he know about psychotic episodes? But he could talk 
about hallucinations if he had to, along with spreadsheets and market 
share. 
	Then there were the turtles.  His brother's little vice.  Turtle 
statues, turtle etchings.  Turtles made of chocolate, turtles made of soap.  
No real turtles - they'd all died.  But even his business clothes bore the 
theme: turtle ties, turtle cufflinks, turtle lapelpins.
	That was how he stood out.  Made his stand.  Swap imagined him 
in a boardroom, with a silver-haired boss straight out of "L.A. Law". "A 
terrapin tiepin?  How original.  No, no, not at all.  I like a little color in my 
men.  Shows character."
	During one of his episodes, Swap had been busted at a pet shop, 
after spilling all the turtle tanks.  He'd made the papers with that one.  
"Homeless man evicts hardbacks."  He hoped his brother had seen that 
item.  Not that he'd ever hurt a human being.  But turtles were special.  
His brother would know what they meant.
	The line had moved up.  The floppy wool cap of the woman before 
him was inches from the door.  He watched jealously as a short, red-nosed 
man limped out wearing a camel hair coat with a wide brown collar, then 
noted with satisfaction that a large stain marred the back. Still, it was a hell 
of a coat.
	Now he noticed the other volunteer.  She looked Hispanic.  A 
short, dark woman with enormous glasses.  She frowned and licked her 
pencil before checking off a list.  Inventory?  How did she expect to track 
a bunch of secondhand coats?  Swap prayed he didn't get her.  She'd be 
no frills, cut the bullshit, on your way.  He needed time to make his case.  
You couldn't hurry these things. He was sure she'd stick him with a 
windbreaker from Woolworth's and shove him out the door.
	She looked like one of his social workers.  Most of them actually.  
The ones who grudgingly OK'ed his checks, after asking severely if he 
was taking his pills.  Sometimes he could make them laugh.  But it was an 
effort.  And for nothing in the end.  They wouldn't budge.
	His brother'd deal well with women like that.  Like they were a 
form to fill out, or the right line at the bank.  "Business accounts, this 
window ONLY."  He'd like that they didn't wobble, that you knew where 
they stood. Not that he'd date one of them.  Too low-income, too ethnic.  
White bread only for him.  Like getting laid was a class thing.  Like social 
credentials could shine in the dark.
	He had to get horny, though, didn't he? He'd never picked food 
from a restaurant's trash or waited in line for a stranger's coat. But his 
pecker itched as bad as Swap's.  At least they had that in common. Not 
cold, not hungry. But horny.  Just now, Swap hoped he was good and 
horny.
	The door opened.  A skeletal woman with stringy brown hair 
paraded out in a rabbit fur coat, her foul teeth displayed in a proud grin.  
Swap thought of yelling "Bunny killer!", but just then he heard "Next two, 
please!" and saw the hipless blonde holding the door.
	"Right over there, sir," she said, as if he were a banker getting 
fitted at Saks.  He stood for a moment, tasting the warmth on his grateful 
skin.
	"We don't have all day, mister."
	To his right, he saw a scowling face, looking up at him and 
measuring him by eye. He shuffled over to her.
	"Stand still."
	He winced as she slapped a black vinyl coat against his back.  It 
looked like an officer's costume from "Zombies of the SS".  He prayed 
that it wouldn't fit.  It didn't.
	"Your shoulders are too big." Like he'd made them that way on 
purpose.
	With one hand, she tugged at the limp lengths of cloth on the 
counter, still clutching her pen and clipboard in the other.  The selection 
was grim: a khaki trenchcoat covered with insignias, a metallized 
greatcoat, a candy-striped parka, a fluffy green synthetic fur, a chewing-
gum colored slicker, an over-sized lumberjack's shirt with a giant plaid.  
And these were the ones with character. The rest were a jumble of stained 
raincoats and battered blacks, browns and grays.
	Swap put on his humblest voice. "I'd really like a tweed, if you've 
got one."
	Behind her large glasses, the woman's eyes sprang wide.
	"What?"
	"To tell you the truth, none of that stuff catches me.  If you had 
something a little more, you know, English?"
	Her tone ripped a hole in his hopes.
	"What are you telling me, that you think you're special?  That you 
think you're better than the rest of these people?"
	Well, actually, yes.  As a matter of fact he did think he was a cut 
above that woman with her sacks full of papers, or the man who'd stood 
behind him on line, snot running down his chin.  Just because Swap was 
homeless didn't mean he was a goddamn egalitarian. How many of these 
people had read Toynbee? Or Eric Hoffer?
	But he suspected this position wouldn't get him far.
	"Sorry," he said.  "Just asking."
	Spinning away, the woman yanked a multi-colored monstrosity 
from the bottom of the pile.  The fabric was indeed an attempt at a tweed, 
woven from purple and yellow and green threads into a kind of Eastern 
European plaid.  Swap had seen vomit in more tasteful shades.
	He recoiled as she shoved it at him.  Only the thought of the 
blistering cold outside made him take it.  And already he had a sickening 
feeling that it would fit.  Perfectly.
	"Dolly!"
	The Spence-Chapin chimes of the tall blonde's voice were a balm 
to his shattered spirit.  At the same time, he tried to fit the babytalk name 
to the human can-opener in front of him.
	"Perhaps this gentleman would like to try this on.  It hasn't fit 
anyone else."
	Zephyrs swept through Swap's chest as he turned to see a Brooks 
tweed, hanging, erect and noble, from that gracile hand.  No blemish 
marred the close march of black and gray strands, proceeding in sturdy 
rows down the garment's surface.  The lapels swept down like dark 
swans' wings.  Every embossed button shone, as polished as a man 
servant, in its appointed place.  Only the hem was frayed.  But slightly.  
Ever so slightly.
	Inside, Swap knew, it would be a different story.  The lining would 
be shredded, the pockets worn.  The sleeves would tear at too harsh a tug.  
But small matter.  It was the outward glory that counted. That badge of 
quality, proclaiming his true self to the world.
	What's more, it was a passport. With such garments did one blend 
unseen among hotel guests, using the better bathrooms on the ground floor.  
With this outward shell of genteel poverty, he could wander unremarked 
through openings and readings, filling up on wine and cheese.
	Them that's got, gets. That was the real Golden Rule, and no lie.
	"Thank you," he said, dumping the bilious plaid on the counter.  
"Thank you so much."  He cupped one fleshy hand over that of his blonde 
savior.
	"Not at all sir.  That's what we're here for, after all."
	A dull snort reminded Swap that the first woman still stood behind 
him. He hurried to try on his treasure before she clawed it from his grip.
	The arms at least were intact.  As the sides came across his 
shoulders, he sighed with satisfaction.  Perfect.  The damned coat was 
perfect.  Like it had been made for him. Or at least, someone just like him.
	"My, don't you look handsome."
	"You think so?  You really think so?"
	"I certainly do.  You look dashing.  Simply dashing."
	Minutes before, he'd been part of the crowd, one more clumping, 
shivering bit of meat in that human stew.  Now, in a flash, he'd become 
"dashing".  He savored the sound of it on those flawless lips.
	The heady momentum of this score made all things seem possible.  
He leaned his large, unkempt head towards his benefactor, an invitation on 
his lips.  But before the words were formed, he closed his mouth, bent 
from the waist and placed a dry kiss on the back of her hand.
	"Such chivalry!" she said, as Swap stepped to the door and waved 
elaborately good-bye to the mismatched pair.
	Along the wall outside, none of the slumped, drab crowd showed 
any interest in his new status, though he preened for them royally as he 
passed.  He'd done well.  The perfect coat, and on top of that, he'd 
behaved himself.  For a moment, he regretted not having tried.  But no.  
He'd kept in touch, hadn't let the big red kite of fantasy tug him off solid 
ground.  That was worth more than any make-believe date. 
	Of such small victories were his days made.  His brother might 
close deals or hit a good run in the market.  Fine.  Let him keep his boring, 
protected life.  Swap had his own battles and just now he was doing fine in 
them without worrying about his brother's petty, predictable success. 
They'd gone their separate ways, that was all.  His brother had nothing he 
needed.  Nothing.
	A mirrored window stopped him in mid-thought.  He drank in his 
own image, sheathed and substantial in the patrician coat. Then he saw an 
object in the lapel.  Small, dark green, it resembled a fat button, hatched 
across its humped back.
	A turtle.  A goddamn turtle.
	Numb, he ignored a man trying to pass.  As the man stepped 
around him, he muttered, "You stink, fella, you know that?  Ever thought 
about taking a bath?"	

THE END