Free Dress Your Family in Corduroy and Denim by David Sedaris Page A

cuckoo cuckoo — and I understood that our friendship was coming to an end. Guys weren’t supposed to be hurt by things like that, and so instead I settled into a quiet jealousy, which grew increasingly difficult to hide.
The state fair arrived in mid-September, and the concessions crew moved back and forth between concerts at the arena and smaller events held at the speedway. Dan and I were setting up for the first stock-car race when Jerry announced that instead of Coke, we’d be selling cans of something called Near Beer.
What separated near beer from the real thing was alcohol content. Beer had one, and Near Beer didn’t. It tasted like carbonated oatmeal, but Jerry hoped the customers might be deceived by the label, which was robust and boozy-looking. “The mind can play tricks,” he said.
Maybe he was right, but the minds that mistook a sugar tablet for an aspirin were not the minds that gathered to witness a North Carolina stock-car race. Our first load sold instantly, but come our second time out, people had begun to catch on. “Beer, my ass,” they shouted. “Ya’lls is deceivers.”
“It’ll pick up when the heat kicks in,” Jerry said, but no one believed him.
There was an hourlong break between the first and second stock-car event, and as Dan and I walked along the midway I thought about a suede vest I’d seen the previous week at J. C. Penney’s. It was what the saleswoman described as “a masculine cherry red,” with lines of fringe swaying like bangs from the yoke. Eighteen dollars was a lot of money, but a vest like that would not go unnoticed. Couple it with a turtleneck or the right button-down shirt and it announced that you were sensitive and no stranger to peace. Wear it bare-chested and it suggested that, long hair or not, yours was a life lived in that devil-may-care region best described as “out there.” I’d hoped that by working all weekend, I might earn enough to buy it, but what with the Near Beer, that was pretty much out of the question. Now I’d have to put it on my Christmas list, which definitely neutered the allure. What had seemed hip and dangerous would appear just the opposite when wrapped in a box marked “From Santa.”
The bleachers were filling up for the second race, and as we headed back to the speedway I noticed a pair of squarely dressed boys staring up at the Ferris wheel. They looked like me, but a bit younger, brothers probably, wearing identical black-framed glasses secured to their heads with tight elastic bands. I saw them looking upward with their mouths open, and in that instant I saw my red suede vest.
“Spare change?”
The brothers looked at each other, and then back at me. “Okay, sure,” the older one said. “Gene, give this guy some money.”
“Why do I have to?” Gene asked.
“Because I said so, that’s why.” The older brother unstrapped his glasses and rubbed a raw spot on the bridge of his nose. “You’re a hippie, right?” He spoke as if, like Canadians or Methodists, hippies walked quietly among us, indistinguishable to the naked eye.
“Well, course he’s a hippie,” Gene said. “Otherwise, he wouldn’t be bothering people.” He sorted through his change and handed me a dime.
“Right on,” I said.
It was the easiest thing in the world. Dan worked one side of the Ferris wheel, and I took the other. We asked for money the way you might ask for the time, and when someone gave it we blessed them with a peace sign or the squinty nod that translated to “I’m glad you know where I’m coming from.” Adults were cheap, and too judgmental, so we stuck to people our own age, concentrating on the obvious out-of-towners who had heard about hippies but had never seen one in real life. People either gave or they didn’t, but no one asked what we needed the money for or why two seemingly healthy teenagers would trouble complete strangers for change.
This was freedom, and to make it taste just that much sweeter, we worked our way