Key points are not available for this paper at this time.
Vintage MerchBuying someone else's history Hanif Abdurraqib If it is an ex-anything selling off a batch of some fella's old vintage ephemera, you learn not to ask too many questions. If I am going to inherit the once-beloved goods of some man who couldn't get right or who did someone wrong, the less I know, the better. If I don't know the ills and evils that might still be embedded in the fading fabric of an old T-shirt, I won't have to account for the weight of those evils when I inevitably pull the shirt on. But you know, of course. You know by the price. At least you do if you are me, hip to the histories of vintage band shirts at a level that easily crosses into the obsessive. For example, the woman selling me a batch of rare 1980s tour T-shirts—including a near-glistening Purple Rain tour shirt—for one hundred bucks, total? She was done wrong and wants no part of End Page 61 the residue of whoever did her wrong. I suppose I have no problem being the beneficiary. I'm not without my own sins. I'm not above leaving my sins behind; I'd be glad to share them with whoever might want to carry them. But then there is the other type of exchange. The Bruce Springsteen jacket is from 1978. It's white, frayed, and tearing in all the spots you'd expect an old nylon jacket to tear. A small hole in the cuffs of the sleeves, a slight rip along the side. Blue lettering, across the left torso, reads "MUSIC SCENE." Along the back, a handful of words in blue read: BRUCE SPRINGSTEEN DARKNESS ON THE EDGE OF TOWN The jacket is a promotional item, something labels would put out in limited batches to send to radio stations along with a record. They're hard to find—unless, of course, you know an old radio DJ. One who loved the jacket well, wore it even after it barely fit him, wore it even as his body shrank inside it. I am a fan of Springsteen, someone always seeking ephemera from his 1970s run, the era of albums that first invited me to fall in love with his music as a kid in Ohio, listening on headphones, dreaming of other landscapes. The woman who sold the jacket to me in her townhome (I will call her Mary) ran her hands along its small and fading fractures. I found her because she posted about the jacket on an auction site that I sometimes peruse for vintage clothing. In her late seventies, she had hair awash in silver streaks and dark blue eyes that seemed to remain fixed on a single spot at a time—right now on the jacket. Not too many wears left in this. You sure you wanna take it? she asked me without looking up. I couldn't tell if she was asking out of concern for me or a desire to keep it for herself, and so I mumbled and meandered, told her sure, but only if she wanted to part with it. Johnny—at least I'll call him Johnny—was a DJ at an old radio station up in Cleveland. When I walked in, Mary nodded over at the stack of Johnny's old records, told me I could go through those, End Page 62 too, if I wanted. And so I did, timidly taking a few old promo copies: New York Dolls, Patti Smith, a LaBelle record. Mary had just moved in, out of the house she and Johnny shared for more than twenty-five years. For the past five years, it had been only her. It's harder to carry memories than sins, I imagine—though I suppose it depends on the memories and the sins. When she asked what I thought a fair price was, I again mumbled and meandered. Mary had not posted a price; the listing just said, "All reasonable offers would be considered." But what is or isn't "reasonable" shifts in the process of bearing all...
Hanif Abdurraqib (Sat,) studied this question.