The Magic Coat

Sometimes, I still pine for it.

It's been a ritual, in fact, these past few years, when the cold season has proven anything but; more like an extension of a fair to middling spring.

It was black, had buttons the size of chocolate chip cookies, and went down past my knees. It weighed more than I did, and as a result, no doubt contributed to my already slouchy appearance.

Its best feature, though, was hidden to the eye.

If you slipped your hand into the left pocket, your fingers would continue past the torn lining. If your arms were long enough - and no one's, excepting the then popular Harlem Globetrotters' maybe, were - you might be able to touch the very hem of this extremely long coat. And if you were dexterous enough - and again, no one was - you might be able to bring your hand from that area all the way around to the bottom of the coat's middle, a deep, dark no man's land not even a speck of lint had ever found its way to.

Whether or not this coat had this accidental feature when I first inherited it, I don't remember - only that its existence seriously furthered, by way of fattening my book collection, my love of movies.

For if, say, you were a poor, movie-struck kid with a touch of the juvenile delinquent about you, you could sneak a thin, glossy novelization of the latest cinematic hit into that aforementioned pocket, where it would silently drop through the hole. Then, by fastening your coat a little too jerkily, you could nonchalantly work the book all the way to that special spot at the rear, where no store detective, should he have framed you in his eagle eye, could find it, even if he put his hand through the damaged pocket.

Don't get me wrong. I did not like the idea of stealing things. It was simply the easiest way I knew to get my fix, to enjoy, in some semblance, the movies I could not afford to go to, or that were restricted to me by virtue of the censorship of the times.

It was also, I thrillingly discovered, a great way to meet intelligent and sexually curious girls.

It started when I spotted one on a bus, reading the new edition of Looking For Mr Goodbar, the one that tied-in to the then just released film version, going over the choicest passages. Inspired, a swiped a copy - Thank you, Magic Coat! - read it, and had basis for conversation with a class of female hitherto completely out of my league. Repeat with any controversial female-themed movie.

Winters came and went. I grew, I tried my hand at menial jobs, I earned money, I eschewed my wanton ways.

I outgrew the coat, too...or maybe I just ditched it, I hope not ungratefully, as I didn't need it anymore - for I can't attest to its ultimate fate.

Every now and then, however, grown-up me finds himself light on spending cash, and sees an intriguing young woman reading a risqué movie adaptation on a bus.

I curse mild winters, and the bastard who invented bar codes.