The Raincoat

Mads, my Norwegain companion, and I went out to dinner, just the two of us, and when we left, Mads stopped over at the coat check booth. I thought it odd, considering he didn't check anything. That's when he gave me his trademark sly grin. He handed the woman his ticket and $20, and she gave him back this long, off-white, London Fog-esque rain coat, a black umbrella, and a fedora. I found out later that Mads had picked the pocket of the guy urinating next to him in the bathroom.

I don't know what it was, but something in that coat imbued Mads with a certain vivacity. He was jumping around like Gene Kelly, handing women roses and girls ice cream cones. It took about two blocks before I noticed the trail of people following behind us, dancing with him. He stopped at a police officer, who really wasn't a police officer but a London Bobby. The Bobby spinned his billy club, then did a wall walk.

I started to feel uncomfortable, so I made a fast escape. Two days later Mads came home, wearing a wife beater and white boxer briefs. He had a thick coating of foundation on his face and mascara around his eyes. He went to the fridge and grabbed a Sammy Adams, opening it with his teeth. He sat on the couch, lit a Parliament, took a drag, then sighed and slumped back.

"I will never steal another man's coat as long as I live."