The Leather Jacket

The Leather Jacket
By: Francis Joseph LaManna

How I came to be in possession of such magnificence was truly by chance. I recently purchased an old home not far from Manhattan’s Garment District in New York, and it was probably two or three weeks after I had moved all of my belongings in and got myself situated that I stumbled upon a hidden room on the third floor.

It was approximately six feet in height, and the dimensions of the floor were four feet by four feet. It was more like a walk-in closet than a room, but either way, I walked into this space and there it was.

I’ve always had an eye for fashion, and I’ve seen a lot, but this was a first. Hanging there, on a hook screwed in to the back wall of this closet was a vintage leather, burgundy in color. “Good heavens,” I muttered to myself. This was indeed the finest and most marvelous of all outer wear.

That evening, I tried it on, and I must admit, it looked fantastic on me. I felt like a new man, no wait, like a distinguished man. The jacket itself commanded respect, and while it was on me, I felt like I could’ve been anything I wanted. A business man, a gangster, an academic expert in a far-reaching field like psychology or philosophy-whatever, you name it, and I could’ve been it.

Without a doubt, this leather jacket belonged to me now, and as the saying goes, finders keepers. I brought the jacket downstairs, and before adding it to my own collection of coats, I made sure to place it on a hanger of good quality. Leather jackets can be quite weighty, and I didn’t want it to end up on the floor.

Several nights later, Martin Saint Pierre, a good friend of mine, came over and I implored him to try on the jacket. After several hours of making up poor excuses, he finally decided to walk upstairs with me to see what the fuss was all about. Well, his eyes lit up, and while his mouth hung open, I had to remind him not to drool on my new carpet.

“Ooh, very nice,” he said. And then, he reached for the coat. After sliding both arms in and adjusting the collar, he decided to fasten the three buttons on the front of the jacket.

Now, let me tell you this, Martin Saint Pierre was no saint, but he didn’t deserve to die the way he did that night. His face turned three different shades of blue, purple, and red before he fall backwards and hit his head on the floor. But, it wasn’t his head hitting the floor that did him in! We just couldn’t get the jacket off of him, and as he struggled in his attempts to do so, the jacket got tighter and tighter.

The leather jacket suffocated him, and a lot of other people too. I gave it as a birthday gift to people I didn’t like, and then I would just take it back and wear it home. As a matter of fact, it’s still in my closet.

The Leather Jacket is a short story fiction piece written by Francis Joseph LaManna.