When a man loves a leather jacket

Can’t keep his mind on nothing else

We boarded the SS Kia Sportage at half past 10 in the morning. The roads were choppy, but a welcoming bright December sun perched near the top of a deep blue sky, and our GPS navigated the way to our downtown destination. We were a family of four swashbucklers, our masks hoisted over our mouths, as we disembarked to treasure hunt.

Vintage, pristine lounge chairs dotted the sidewalk. My wife and I shared knowing glances. Great finds awaited us as our nine-year-old girl walked by my side and our four-year-old clasped my wife’s hand.

We were always on the lookout for stylish furniture and fixtures but I was infatuated with acquiring a specific leather jacket. I wanted a brown, not black, bomber-style from a bygone era. Years of searching every retail store, vintage store, flea market, and yard sale yielded no results but confirmed one thing. I was a leather jacket person even if I didn’t have one yet. Like any obsession, I would know it when I saw it.

As I meandered around the stuffed yet organized collection of goods, a beam of light bounced into the corner of my eye. A silver, metal rack of coats stood at attention near the far end of the wide warehouse entrance. Windbreakers and checkered knits hung neatly like broad-shouldered, headless bodies. In the middle was the only…