I bought this houndstooth jacket from a suspicious-looking thrift store in LA. A woman was sitting at the front, eating half a watermelon while a fan blew on her. The coat was $20 and they only accepted cash, and I was a couple cents off but they gave it to me anyway.

I imagined what the story of this coat was. The tag on the inside says it’s certified vintage wool from Portland.

Read the story below to learn what I imagine is the story behind this series.


I climbed onto the train, holding a suitcase full of nothing, feeling nothing. As men shoveled coal into the steaming belly of the train engine, I couldn’t help but wonder where these tracks would take me.

Hopefully to a better story. Anything would be better than the nothing glaring at me through the windows.

I took a seat across from an old man and, although I didn’t want to, began a conversation with him. I couldn’t sit in the silence, in the lack.

“Tell me, old friend—where are you from? Where are you going?”

“I come from the corn stalks of Nebraska,” he said, white mustache swaying with his words. “And I’m headed to the pearly gates of heaven. Whatever happens in between? Who knows. But I’ve got my freedom and a brain and working eyes and lungs and limbs, so I’d say the rest doesn’t quite matter.”

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