The Bomber Jacket

I was at a meeting last night in The Old City that I attended regularly for many years, until it pissed me off or otherwise alienated me for reasons that I can no longer remember but probably had something to do with me being an ass, in the general sense.  It was great to see old friends that I haven’t been in regular contact with since I made the big move to The New City.  There is such a powerful sense of connection among men and women who have gotten sober together.  I  got to catch up with some ancient and important people who have had a big impact on my sobriety.  This is a steady meeting of long standing with a lot sobriety in attendance and I still knew most of the people there.

A guy spoke that I didn’t recognize.  I enjoyed what this man shared.  He was rough looking; definitely not slick, hip, and cool, and I know today how little that means.  There are plenty of wealthy and highly educated folks that shouldn’t open their mouths as often as they should and plenty of wisdom to be had from those of us who have struggled through difficult circumstances.

He came over to me after the meeting and shook my hand.

“It’s good to see you,” he said.

“It’s good to see you, too,” I replied, trying to disguise the fact that I didn’t have a clue who this guy was.  I didn’t recall ever setting eyes on him before.  This isn’t unusual for me.  I’m not that bright and my memory is shot and I spent half of my adult life in a black out and I’m so wrapped up in myself that I can’t remember most people I meet.  And let’s face it, a lot of people come in for a short stay and then we never see them again.

“I still have your coat,” he said.  “I wore it all winter.  It’s a good, warm coat.  I think of you every time I put it on.”

A light snapped on.

When we were getting ready to leave for The New City we got rid of a lot of stuff.  Like many fortunate people I was able to buy a new winter coat every 6 or 7 years.  I put the old coats in the closet and didn’t ever wear them again, even though they were still good coats.  This was an old brown leather bomber jacket that was all the rage like a hundred and ten years ago.  I bet I spent $200 for it in 1990.  It was the first expensive-ish coat I bought in sobriety.  It was a little worn but it was still a good coat.  Every now and then I’d come across it and think: “Why did I need a new coat again?”  Then I’d forget about it for a few years.

I attended an early morning meeting that was at a clubhouse in a rough neighborhood when I lived here.  A friend of mine brought along this new guy who had just gotten off the streets and was living in a downtown shelter.  Like a lot of shelters and half-way houses the  residents were fed at night and given a bed to sleep in but were expected to clear out in the morning to look for work or go to meetings.   I liked this guy.  He was wearing a hooded sweatshirt and a down vest.  This in winter in the upper Midwest.  It’s goddam cold outside in the winter here.

I wore this jacket in one day and motioned my friend off to the side. I didn't want to embarrass him.  It's embarrassing enough coming in to The Program from the streets.

“Here, try this on,” I said.

He stripped off his hoodie and put on the coat, and stood there looking at me with the strangest, most confused expression on his face.

I patted his shoulders and said:  “You’re welcome to the coat if you want it.

“Thanks,” he said, before he walked stiffly away.  Today I know that he didn’t have any recent experience with kindness.  It was unfamiliar territory for him.  I'm sure he was very uncomfortable with the whole exchange.

I saw him a few more times before we moved and we always talked for a bit.  He always had the coat on and he never thanked me again.  I was glad to see the coat getting used even though I thought he should have continued to thank me effusively for many years and then gotten a job and paid me like $300 for the coat since it’s now vintage and therefore cool.  It’s still hard for me to give up my stuff even if it’s old and not being used and worth like $15.  If I had any humility at all I could have given the coat to my friend to give to the new guy anonymously.  Deep down inside I’m sure I wanted to be a Big Man.

I assumed this guy had gotten drunk and stoned and drifted off to some miserable existence.  We show up and help others to the best of our ability - helping ourselves most of all - because we never know what flimsy reed is going to save someone’s life.  Maybe this was the flimsy reed.  We don’t give up on anyone as long as they show up and don’t cause too much of a ruckus.

How good do you think I felt after that exchange?