A Book and His Cover

He was a large and encompassing man, with a woodsy feel to him. He walked with a defiant limp, powerful and determined though he was. His ratted brown beard caught every branch like Velcro. Inside he was sure to find moss, leaves, and a minimum of two honey roasted peanuts from that afternoon’s snack. There was a burlap shirt over his enormous frame and tan cotton pants held up by a tight black rope. His shoes were no more than animal skin tied to his feet – two skunks to be precise, making as near an attempt at fashion as he possibly could. He was a man I imagined to be carrying an axe, walking through the forest, dead squirrel pelts thrown over his shoulder as he meandered home to a small shack in the middle of the woods with a warm fire glowing and hot venison soup simmering on a wrought iron pot slung over a rail inside the fireplace.

And yet, there he was, smack dab in the middle of one of the most pretentious department stores: Nordstrom's. He had a black Armani wool pants suit and Boconi leather messenger bag slung over his shoulder as he thumbed through small cocktail dresses for the skinny, high class woman that wasn’t anywhere near him. All of the skinny, high class women, in fact, had expanded into a 20 foot diameter encircling this man watching him with sidelong glances trying to be nonchalant. The cashiers were all whispering to their managers. Even the pants suit over his shoulder seemed confused and distraught.

Twenty minutes after his merry perusing he ducked into a changing room disregarding any contemptuous looks. Ten minutes later, like men on a plane trip leaving Las Vegas, he exited the room wearing the suit. His hair was clean, brushed, and gelled back into a small pretentious ponytail. He had black Gucci sunglasses that matched a pair of spit-shined Ferragamo Loris Oxfords. He sat down the tags on the checkout counter and was rung up by a flamboyant young man wearing a fake Burberry watch and a petrified smile.