Rose Rouge, St. Germain

This is like Koop, the best of what people have started doing with music. I had a t-shirt that says Jazz is too good for Americans, from London, a shop under the street in Kensington, where I got the black leather jacket. Wearing that t-shirt under that black jacket was the coolest way to be. I think I still had the shirt into the modern era, when I met Jennifer, when I traveled. The jacket is on a hanger in the garage, with mold in the pockets. Torn sippers. Maybe the kids will want it. Alice will, anyway. And I can tell them an old girlfriend bought it for me and it gives you special powers. You can fly anywhere and be with anybody when you own it. That’s how I found their mom. And when you give it that person you love to wear, they’ll stand in a cotton field at sunset and you’ll take their picture and you’ll never forget it. And she might even wear your hat, your gray fedora that you don’t know where you got but you eventually leave behind in a public restroom in the Iowa Student Union. She stands there in profile with the cotton all blurry behind her and the sides of her face golden orange as the sun goes into the October ground.
‘I want you to get together.’