Tuesday, October 12, 2004

Warm-Up Gear

A few weeks ago I noticed a dude wearing a “local’s” sweatshirt that read “FRISCO CITY.” Of course, I don’t know many people around here who call this town Frisco but that’s more of an attitude thing than anything else.  More troubling to me was the stylistic conceit of putting “City” after “Frisco.” It’s not like we’re going to be confused with Frisco Village or Frisco Acres or something like that.  Nobody has sweatshirts for those places.  It’s just “Frisco,” if you are going to call it Frisco at all.  Adding the word “city’ makes it read like some sort of adjective, something akin to “viscosity” but more highly caffeinated and eccentric: “This band presents shopworn tunes with refreshing friscocity.” Like that.  So, word to the local hoodie purveyors: less is more.  And that’s as good a reason as any for a story about a sweatshirt. 

Philadelphia was a new city, dark and rapidly growing cold.  Being an exiled Angeleno, I was underprepared for the upcoming frigid seasons, so I went to Wannamakers - an imposing solid city block’s-worth of department store.  It was wide and deep and, what, eleven stories tall? —altogether a species of commercial intensity outside my prior range of experience.  Somewhere up in its Edwardian exuberance and excess I found a sportswear department, and then looked in it for some sort of knit cotton pullover outergarment with a head covering attached at the neck - what might be described in today’s parlance as a ‘hoodie.’

And I found one, too.

It was oversized and thick enough to stand up on its own; the hood was so voluminous that it significantly impaired my peripheral vision.  It was soft cotton in soft grey, with a wonderfully enigmatic photograph of a track runner in the starting blocks, circa 1915, silkscreened on the front.  This was a $50 sweatshirt and it was 1982, back when that was some serious money.  I convinced myself, playing against character, that it was an investment - in warmth and coolness, comfort and style.  It was more than I’d wanted to spend, more than I really had to spend for this one simple item, but the call was too clear and I knew I’d regret it if I didn’t take it home. 

The next four years saw many changes and adventures in my little world, but that “Ruff-Hewn” brand hoodie got me through them all.  It was an indispensible part of several of my trademark ensembles, on which I relied, sartorially, very heavily.  If memory serves, I was wearing it when Kel and I first crossed paths, and at several climactic parties and football games, and really all the time.  By graduation it had just barely begun to show a little age, but then again, the same could be said of me.

It came back home with me and stuck around during a shadow year of scholastic hiatus, and through three years of chilly law school lecture halls and LA mornings.  I then brought it, with everything else I owned, to San Francisco.  By this time it was eight years old and I was starting to think I had too much stuff.  Every year or two we’d go through it all and jettison the surplussage.  We’d dump old furniture, books, paperwork, erstwhile-cherished mementos - even clothes.  Favorite college-era garments hit the dustbin, worn out or superceded or just out of favor, victims of the inexorable temporal juggernaut.  The grey hoodie, however, remained.  It still fit well (if no longer quite so voluminously), kept me well-warmed, and looked better every time I wore it. 

It’s autumn now and I’m 40 years old.  That first mind-blowing trip to Wannamaker’s has drifted into the realm of my personal ancient history; the me who took that center-city trip and got that hoodie now seems almost to be an article of documentary fiction.  But I remember it; I know it happened, and to me; I know, because that old grey hoodie even now sits folded on the closet shelf, keeps me warm as I take the old dog outside on a cold night.  It fits me like I sometimes wish my skin did.  I don’t reserve it for special occasions - I wear it often, appreciating it all over again each time. 

And that runner chocked up in his blocks, ready to take off?  He’s been telling me all along that he’s ready.  He hasn’t gone anywhere, while I’ve travelled to whole new worlds time and again.  I’ve carried his readiness forward like a breastplate for twenty-two years now and he still looks primed for action. I rather suspect he’ll see some, most likely sooner than later.  In fact, after all of this, I truly regret only one thing: that, on that fateful day at Wanamaker’s in 1982, I didn’t spring for the matching sweatpants.  Man, that would have been sweet.  With a kit like that, who knows where I’d have wound up?

Really enjoyed this little piece. There’s something about stories driven by inanimate objects that captures an emotion even the purplest of prose can be hard-pressed to match. I know we’re not dealing with something on the scale of, say, the baseball from Delillo’s Underworld, but still, I think you can learn much about a person’s life from the things they choose to carry along the way and the associations those possessions have. I haven’t read huge amounts of this blog yet, but I’ve liked what I’ve covered so far, and I hope there’s more like this to come.

John Wanamaker’s! That’s a name I haven’t heard in a long time… Wanamaker’s was where my mom would take me (over on the East Shore, aka Harrisburg) when we were doing serious shopping. Otherwise, we’d go to Pomeroy’s because it closer to home.

Dan, that was a very moving piece.  I was born in Philly and remember my Grandma taking me to that Wanamakers, although sometimes she would call it, “John Wanamakers”.  Whatever.

I really enjoyed this post. There are objects in my life that have stood the test of time as well, and still provide me with solace and comfort. Clothing is a little harder to conserve, because I am now 40 pounds heavier than I was twenty years ago. But there are other things…

Thanks for reminding me of them.

i too have a grey zip up hoodie that i refuse to part with.  the cuffs are tattered, the hood stretched and worn.  i even bought a replacement for it several years back that i can’t seem to get around to wearing.  seems the old one and i have too much good history together to just be tossed aside.  great post.

oh, and to the Frisco thing.  as a 42 year resident of the SF bay area i can report with confidence that no-one who is a true resident calls The City, Frisco!  it’s like calling California “Cali”—it shows that you’re tourist or transplant.

This is a cool story. Based on the comments, just reading this made everyone think of something just like that in their lives. We all touched a ‘shared plane’. I’ve known my husband since junior high school. He had an army jacket that he could open up, I could spoon him standing, and he would wrap the both of us in that jacket and still have leftover jacket. Only one of us at a time fill the jacket now, but we still have it. And we always will.

Certainly the most interesting story about a sweatshirt I’ve ever read.