Dad’s Leather Vest - Original

I look at the framed photo I removed from the bookshelf. It was one from the
eighties, or what I’d joke as the “pre-Parker” days. Dad’s hair was longer, hanging off his
head in a curl of soft blond while a do-rag covered his forehead. He had a large and
rare comical grin, leaning forward on the handles of his 1987 Softail Harley, legs
straddling either side. Hanging from his shoulders was Dad’s decorated leather vest.

I remember when I first saw his vest, more specifically, when I stole it from the
attic. It was 1993, Dad was in his office and I was bored out of my mind. I can’t
remember what drew me to the attic, but I remember stumbling upon a box with his old
club memorabilia. Inside was his do-rag and leather chaps, the usual biker gear that
most Vietnam vets had at the time, but there was also the vest. A well worn cut of
leather covered in the prettiest patches and colors. On the front are his identifiers: the
usual one percenters patch, array of year patches, USMC, Vietnam Vet, Sergeant in
Arms… you name it. On the back was my favorite and the prettiest patch, the club
patch.

Dad was a part of The Hunters, one of the biggest biker gangs in the Midwest.
On the back is their identifier patch, a large white skull with an open jaw. On it’s
forehead is an engraved pentagram. As a kid I loved the design, even now I love it- but I
will admit it’s total overkill- isn’t that the charm of it?

When I was a kid, the vest was the heaviest thing in the world. I was a wimpy
eleven year old with no upper body strength, holding a jacket that felt like it weighed half
my size, but that’s what thick leather is like when you’re a young child. It was so cool, so
different from the Dad I knew. Maybe that’s why I stole it from its box and took it back to
my room.

I remember sitting on my bed, wearing the vest and reading my favorite book,
The Secret Garden. My long hair kept getting stuck on the patches and buttons every
time I moved, but in that moment I didn’t care. I was too busy reading about Mary and
her cousin Colin, and their visits to the secret garden.

Smiling softly to myself, I place the photo into the moving box. There isn’t much I
have left of Dad, but somewhere in this house is that leather vest and the memories I
made wearing it.
Dad’s Leather Vest - Radical Revision

A worn cut of leather covered in the prettiest patches and colors sits in a
cardboard box. It’s nothing like the weird leather pants I found inside the beat up old box
earlier, this is a genuine biker vest. On the front it says ‘Bobby’ in big letters. That’s
dad’s name. His nickname.‘Sergeant in Arms,’ ‘USMC,’ and ‘Vietnam Vet.’ I don’t know
what half of them mean, but I like the rainbow of colors. They remind me of the flowers
in the junkyard out back.

I grab Dad’s biker vest out of the box and my arms shake. This thing is so heavy-
why is it so heavy?! It’s just clothes, clothes shouldn’t be so heavy. All I want to do is
look at it. I want to know more about Dad and his pre-Parker days. I know isn’t a biker
now, but maybe he was one before I came along.

Does that mean he was kinda cool?

Flipping the jacket over, I nearly drop it on the floor. On the back is a large white
skull with an open jaw and curled tongue. Its forehead has a large circle with a star in
the center. It’s scary... but totally awesome! Are all bikers this cool?

Dad is so totally cool.

Stuffing the jacket under my arm, I sneak out of the attic and back down to my
bedroom, quietly making my way past dad’s office. Once I’m back in my room, I jump
onto my bed and immediately shrug the jacket onto my shoulders. It’s still heavy, but I
don’t care. This is the coolest thing I’ve ever found.

Grabbing my favorite book off my nightstand, I flop back onto my mattress and
open it to the page I have dogeared. I’ve read this chapter so many times that I’ve
memorized it, yet I always come back to it. Dad gave it to me as a gift before he
adopted me. I love The Secret Garden and the adventures of Mary and her cousin
Colin. Their visits to the garden remind me of the days I would sneak out of my old
house just to come here and break into Dad’s junkyard. It’s not some special place, but
to me, the junkyard outside is my secret garden and I wouldn’t have it any other way.