Corduroy Compliment

I’d just scored a $1 Western at the Salvation Army Thrift Store in Coos Bay. I was heading toward the natural foods co-op’s free street library to peruse the offerings. I had two of my published books to donate. Why do I derive such joy giving them away to perfect strangers?

The cupboard was bare. I began walking to the car when a bearded homeless man in his 40s or 50s clad in red rapper clothing from the 90s, replete with a big gold chain, came up to me. He had a nice smile. No sign of being addled.

He said he loved my corduroy coat! Why do all the homeless people love this coat? He said it must be French. I said it was made in Yugoslavia, most likely in the 1970s. I’d owned it for 16 years. There is clearly mystique in this coat, some kind of secret weapon for soliciting storytelling encounters.

His name was Rick. He fist bumped me. He asked if I had a buck to spare.

You’re damn right I had a buck to spare to anyone who compliments my corduroy coat!

We wished each other a good day and went along our way.