He stood at 5’7″ and combed his fingers through a manicured beard. His laugh was higher pitched than you’d imagine because he looked like he was cut out for a mountain life.
But instead of a mountain life, he lived in an art community, 45 minutes away from any semblance of a hill, in a flatland town of Lafayette. His two dogs chased neighborhood cats and cars instead of mountain goats and fox.
What was he wearing? A red and brown plaid shirt tucked into jeans. Unfastened snow boots flopped that lazily as he walked. On his shoulder he carried a knapsack that he discovered in a window display in a vintage shop in Brooklyn.
“Is that bag in the window for sale?” he had asked the shop keeper.
“The displays are for display,” the shop keeper replied.
“How much would you want for it?”
“$50.”
And so it was.
It was leather and warn where it rubbed his hips. A brass buckle clasped the pocket of the main case which was decorated with traces of scars etched into the leather. Warn. Used. Never thrown away.
It was similar to the ways he kept his other clothing, home décor, and other possessions: worn and used, but never thrown away. Form over fashion. A whiteshirt with a stain on it, was just as good as one without a stain.
One day, Jesse said he was going to take a loaf of bread home from the office. It was light rye. He loaded it into his knapsack, but then pulled it out before heading home. It sat on his desk for the next three weeks until I said, “Jesse don’t you think that bread is getting a little old?”
To which he replied, No. But later the bread was in the wastebasket next to his desk.
