Jack savored clothing. His vintage Hawaiian shirts, the spectator shoes with eyelet-worked brown leather, gleefully mismatched in the heedless California style, were charged with memories. Top to bottom, he dressed himself in loyalties: This piece a gift from his lady, Anjelica; that one from his great pal, Harry Dean Stanton; a stalwart bomber jacket, picked up on location, thrown over a Lakers T-shirt; “a black porkpie hat that I’d gotten from the freeway in a motor accident that involved a priest”; those spectator shoes, the trademark image of one of his father figures from back in New
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