I wore a jacket on that cold day rather than a coat. It had a Chicago Bulls emblem on it and I just so happened to like professional sports back then. The tall, blonde fellow who signed up to take kids like me out, to show them how to do guy things like pick up girls and shoot guns and punch hard, asked if I wouldn’t rather wear a coat. I refused in childish insolence.
The rich woman standing in the corner of the record store would notice immediately–the tall, blonde fellow and I were obviously not related; it was cold out and I wasn’t wearing a proper coat. When I was looking for a CD she would approach the blonde fellow. Was I poor? Did I need money for a coat? Before he would be able offer a satisfactory answer, she would hand him a fifty-dollar bill, instruct him to buy me a coat, and then exit the record store.
He bought me a silly stocking cap that I just had to have instead of a coat. A few weeks later he disappeared from my life.
I can still punch hard, though.
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