Watching Paul Newman Try on a Brown Suede Jacket

Winchell’s was the upscale clothing retailer in town. Upscale being an understatement. Selvage denim jeans lounged in splendor with come-hither tags boasting a thousand dollars or more. Cashmere sweaters from the wool of microbrew-drinking llamas produced a texture softer than a baby’s breath. Made-to-measure suits of imported silk from Saville Row cost more than my first car.

There was a time I shopped here. I hadn’t earned it. Purchases were few and far between, typically reserved for their annual clearance sale. I bought the previous seasons’ clothes and sold some online for a small profit. I kept a few things for myself and wore them any time I visited so it appeared I belonged.

Now I came for the free cappuccinos and bagels they served on weekends. Occasionally, I tried on clothes but was ignored by the staff who all made more money than I did.

But I dreamed bigger than any of them.

I tried on a $17,000 off-the-rack suit by Kiton, the same brand President Kennedy wore. Instantly, I lorded over Camelot.

Slipping on a pair of Gucci driving mocs, I careened around the piazzas of Umbria in an Alfa Romeo. My dark-eyed, raven-haired companion giggled deliriously, urging me, “Andare! Andare!” Faster! Faster!

These brief moments of escape, coupled with the cappuccinos and bagels, nourished me and helped me plod through an otherwise meaningless existence.

On my last visit, I wrestled with a cable-knit sweater that weighed more than a lamb itself. I staggered under its glorious weight into the spa-like lounge area of the dressing room.

A distinguished, diminutive older gentleman tried on a gorgeous brown suede blazer that appeared to have waited for him its entire life. It was wholly incongruous with the eclectic-blue nylon tracksuit the patron wore. The tracksuit was blinding in its gaudy audacity. Even with my entire life’s savings folded into my wallet, I was offended.

A sea of indigo radiated around me, drawing me in with a tractor beam-like intensity. I surfed the waves higher and higher until I reached the source from which they emanated. The patron’s eyes beckoned me, and I was lost, languid in a pool of blue I once spied in a Bahamian cove a lifetime ago.

Only then it dawned on me whose eyes I had locked onto.

It was goddamn Cool Hand Luke himself. Paul Newman.

He was in his late seventies or early eighties, but unmistakable. Star-struck and slack-jawed, I forgot about the sheep that strangled my throat as I basked in wave after wave of soothing cool, aquamarine vibes.

He opened the jacket and struck a modest pose, turning ever so slightly as he returned my stare.

“What do you think,” he cooed.

Paul Newman.

Spoke to ME.

Butch Cassidy wanted my opinion on the coat he was trying on.

I wanted to be that coat. Ached for the loving care it would have received. I was contented to hang in the closet with what I assumed were hundreds of other coats, all of which had thousands of stories. Lurking in the cool, dark recesses of the closet gossiping like a high school cafeteria, regaled by tales from a life that existed only in fairy tales.

“It’s magnificent,” I stammered.

He smiled and turned to face the mirror, before looking back. He wanted my reassurance.

Brimming with confidence, my new best friend needed radical honesty and I didn’t hold back.

“I love it. Truly. But I hate it with the tracksuit.”

Furious that I dared opine on the subject of Paul Newman’s sartorial splendor, his handler sniffed, “I think HE can pull it off.”

Emboldened, I refused to let my dear friend be subjected to the blind musings of some sycophant.

“Unless he’s an Eastern European mobster, he needs to lose the tracksuit. ESPECIALLY with the blazer.”

The standoff was broken up by Mr. Newman’s genuine, raucous laughter. His laugh resonated with the hearty vibrancy of a younger man. If only I could bathe in the indigo of his aura. I was rejuvenated in his presence. I mattered.

He struck out his hand.

“I’m Paul.”

It was as if the Christ himself had said, “Hey pal... Call me J.”

I nodded; my slick one-liners expended. He removed the blazer gingerly, proving frailer than I willed myself to notice. As he walked past, he gazed at the cable-knit sweater that had become a second skin.

“Nice sweater. I love the color.”

“It’s a dream. I’ll never afford this.” I regretted it the moment the words trickled out.

Sensing my self-loathing, he smiled. “Hey… You never know.”

He winked and disappeared. I felt reborn. I folded the sweater and left it behind, waiting a few moments before leaving to appear respectful.

His handler brushed past me having forgotten something in the changing room. He refused to make eye contact as he rushed out. Nothing fazed me. I had been baptized.

The cashiers were near the main entrance. My buddy paused and looked at his jacket once more.

I couldn’t resist and shouted, “It’s got your name written all over it!”

The store clerk shot me a dirty look for harassing a VIP. I dodged the daggers launched from his handler’s jaundiced eyes.

He smiled back. “I think you’re right, buddy. You got great taste.”

His words were lavender-scented blankets that swaddled my soul.

The clerk softened her stance towards me. Paul Newman was a god and I was his friend; that made me a demi-god at the very least. Her smile grew warmer.

He winked again as he walked out. I turned to follow, but the clerk stopped me.

“Don’t forget this,” she said and handed me their signature brown paper box with their orange logo emblazoned on it. “Mr. Newman said it was yours.”

I knew what was in that brown paper box.

Saying nothing, I cradled it like a newborn as I left.

I was the Sunset Kid.

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