The Leather Jacket

Homeless people and I have an on-again/off-again relationship, and I’m not sure why. I donate to local shelters, but like many people I never give them spare change directly. I have had a soft spot on occasion on cold nights bringing them hot chocolate or buying them a sandwich, but I don’t do this frequently. The truth is, ever since I moved to Toronto, homeless people hadn’t taken a liking to me until I wore my NASCAR leather jacket one day. From that day, everything changed it seemed.

When walking past those asking for spare change, I can’t find myself walking by and just ignoring them. Typically I look at them and tell them that I’m sorry I don’t have any change (which is true, I never carry change). Other times, I inform them on a place where they can grab a hot meal, typically a local church lunch program. Despite all this, some of them treated me less than nicely. Once I was walking up Church St. on a crowded sidewalk when I tried to sidestep a homeless pedestrian walking the other way. He jarred my shoulder on purpose, but nonetheless I turned to say “Sorry”. He responded out loud without even looking back “I’m not!”

No big deal, I thought. He was just a guy hard on his luck having a tough day. A few weeks later, I was walking around downtown with a colleague of mine. Most men would say she was an attractive woman (she had some modelling in the past); I on the other hand hadn’t done push-ups in a long time to build up any upper body strength. Walking up Yonge St. from the waterfront, we passed under a bridge with two homeless men chatting with each other. Just as we passed by, one could hear one of the men yell out loud enough for all around to hear: “WHAT ARE YOU DOING WITH THAT LOSER?”

I turned around to give the guy a look in the eye, but not a malicious look like a threat. It was more of a request. “C’mon man,” I tried to convey to him telekinetically with my look, “I’m not that bad looking.” She was married anyways, so I wasn’t trying to impress her, but being called a loser from homeless drunks is never good for one’s self-esteem.

A year later, my father found a birthday gift for me at an auction. In perhaps the most surprising gift of my life, my dad gave me a #18 NASCAR leather jacket signed by legend Bobby Labonte. The gift was even harder to understand as my pop hated racing events, most specifically NASCAR. He knew I watched it on occasion, but I was by no means a true fan. Either way, the jacket was just too ostentatious not to wear. At the very least, I could wear it ironically and people would love it. The only real person against the whole aesthetic look was my sister, a future fashion illustrator and fashion aficionado. So, good brother that I am, I surprised her for lunch at work one day wearing said jacket.

Walking along King St. I asked random pedestrians what they thought. “Sporty” was an often used euphemism, while one lady asked if it was a costume for Halloween. No one loved the jacket outright until I separated from my sister and went to the St. Lawrence Market to buy some groceries. Walking alone on Front St., I got a few good looks, but as I crossed Yonge St., the very same homeless gentleman who insulted me once before got my attention from well across the street.

“HEY!” he yelled out so loud that everyone including myself had to look. He was sitting down in front of his baseball cap full of change. He saw me meet his eyes, stood up, looked across the diagonal of the intersection and pointed at me with both arms full out. “NICE JACKET!”

What could I do but smile? I’m sure he didn’t recognize me from before, but at least I had finally been accepted by the Yonge St. yeller.

It is a nice jacket, but at this point I’m pretty sure only he and I think so.

aa.