The Rat
Before I headed to Andover, my mom took me to Abercrombie and Fitch in New York City. This was even better, even holier than our earlier visit to the Vatican. Among our purchases of a few button-down shirts (one of them pink), a few neckties, a pair of shoes, stood out a sports coat that was to become my boon companion and close friend. It was indeed a bold tweed that would never be cleaned, dry or otherwise, during the nine years of hard usage we shared.
I had never worn a jacket before, nor a necktie, except once as a five-year-old for a passport picture with my mom. I didn’t know such a thing as a white buck even existed.
Gravy found its way unerringly to my neckties, but also to my lapels and sleeves. Refined students would often throw food during meals. My jacket at the end of my two-year stint at Andover was a veritable archaeological layering of meals served at Commons by our Food Man, Mr. Leet. Then, during our year on an ESU exchange fellowship The Rat, as it came to be known, added English food and drink to its increasingly exotic covering that now included splotches of local ciders and draft Guinness.
And finally to Yale, where The Rat was an instant hit in Freshman Commons, and sophomore year, at Calhoun College’s dining hall, where Sister Jesse grew to hold it in some high level of reverence.
After graduation, still at Yale, I taught 34 members of the Class of ‘64 the ins and outs of Freshman English as a Carnegie Teaching Fellow. And yes, The Rat was part of the deal. Until one day I draped it on my bike on the Old Campus. After class, I retrieved my bike, but the jacket was no more. It was not there and never was to be seen again. At least not by me. To This day, I mourn The Rat.