The Gift of Hand-sewn Leather Goods
It was one of those parties where time stretches out like a yawn and stretches some more, without any end in sight. By the time I got a chance to introduce myself to Young Werther, he was Worn and Ancient Werther. He went on about the leather goodies he sewed by hand: knapsacks, studded horse whips, and those little sacks filled with dog teeth that the kids kick around under fluorescent lamps by the dumpsters out back of the taco joints around here.
Years passed.
Werther continued to send me those leather goodies. Every year on Bastille Day, I got a package in the mail--no return address, only “Worn and Ancient” scrawled in the corner. Sometimes the thing in the package was a steering wheel cover; Others, a glove with no fingers or a beaded loin cloth with a matching belt. With each gift, with each passing year, the leather was softer, more pliant, and rich and deep and varied in its streaked and mottled browns and tans. On September 3, 2002, I received a package that said "250th anniversary of the Gregorian Reformation!" Inside the box: a leather rosary complete with polished hematite beads and a matching cinch sack to keep it in. That sack nearly melted in my hand. Boy, oh boy, did that leather feel good on my raw, rosary-calloused fingers. No packages came after that.
Years passed.
At some random party (Cinco De Mayo, I think) I got a rare chance to corner Werther.
“You outdid yourself with that rosary,” I said, “What will you come up with next? See-through leather?”
Unfluttered, he said, “Actually . . .”
“Give it up, man” I said, “How do you get that leather so soft?”
He wouldn’t answer, just stretched his lips over his wide, blunt teeth.
I was cocky: too much wine and gorgonzola on my breath.
“Seriously now,” I said, “I think I’ve nailed your secret.”
“Do tell,” Werther said, pulling his pipe from his jacket pocket.
I fidgeted so much you could just say I was dancing.
“Human skin,” I said, all giddy to watch his face change.
He just tapped the pipe stem against his teeth and said,
“Actually . . .”
Years passed.
Years passed.
Werther continued to send me those leather goodies. Every year on Bastille Day, I got a package in the mail--no return address, only “Worn and Ancient” scrawled in the corner. Sometimes the thing in the package was a steering wheel cover; Others, a glove with no fingers or a beaded loin cloth with a matching belt. With each gift, with each passing year, the leather was softer, more pliant, and rich and deep and varied in its streaked and mottled browns and tans. On September 3, 2002, I received a package that said "250th anniversary of the Gregorian Reformation!" Inside the box: a leather rosary complete with polished hematite beads and a matching cinch sack to keep it in. That sack nearly melted in my hand. Boy, oh boy, did that leather feel good on my raw, rosary-calloused fingers. No packages came after that.
Years passed.
At some random party (Cinco De Mayo, I think) I got a rare chance to corner Werther.
“You outdid yourself with that rosary,” I said, “What will you come up with next? See-through leather?”
Unfluttered, he said, “Actually . . .”
“Give it up, man” I said, “How do you get that leather so soft?”
He wouldn’t answer, just stretched his lips over his wide, blunt teeth.
I was cocky: too much wine and gorgonzola on my breath.
“Seriously now,” I said, “I think I’ve nailed your secret.”
“Do tell,” Werther said, pulling his pipe from his jacket pocket.
I fidgeted so much you could just say I was dancing.
“Human skin,” I said, all giddy to watch his face change.
He just tapped the pipe stem against his teeth and said,
“Actually . . .”
Years passed.
posted by Rhino Benedetti at 1:12 PM
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