The Sweater

“And the eyes of them both were opened, and they knew that they were naked; and they sewed fig leaves together, and made themselves aprons.” Genesis 3:7


It was a moment of absolute happenstance. Awestricken, his eyes transfixed steadily upon the glorious creation that lay before him. It was warmth; it was beauty. It was, most importantly, his size.

Willie’s body pulsed with enthusiasm as he cautiously ran his fingers over the soft, yet daring blend of cotton and cotton. He glanced around impishly, zealous in the fact he had come upon such a fine example of mass-produced clothing. He drew it near face and inhaled the sweet, store-fresh aroma from within its interwoven threads. He let forth an aberrant sigh, causing those near to ponder if wind had been broken. Gently, his lips pressed against it, giving the seeming a kiss had transpired.

It was the sweater to end all sweaters, the living end if you will. A simple pattern of lines traversed the front, while the back was left bare. Picasso, himself, could have not dreamt a more perfect design. Clearly, this sweater was not like any other. It was abnormal through and though. The thought of wearing it left Willie in a transcendental state. He drooled slightly, but quickly wiped the saliva away with an inferior turtleneck he found nearby.

With sweater in hand Willie walked toward the exit.

“Aren’t you going to pay for that,” chirped the clerk from atop her perch.

“This sweater is no whore,” blurted Willie in reply, “I shall not pay for her services!”

In those words the brassy browser left the store, leaving behind him a thick trail of stupefaction.
Once home, Willie unfurled the immaculate garment. His face gave the glow of a man before God. With reverence he paused, taking time to observe the style of it all. The sleeves were left long to fully cover the arms. There was a hole at the top for his head to protrude. Details as such left Willie confident he and this sweater were meant for each other.

Before the anticipation consumed at him wholly, the anxious observer decided to wear the grand garb. Standing, fully erect, Willie slid into the sweater more than the sweater slid onto him. Henceforth, he felt different. Not only did his outward aspect change, but as did his inner. As each moment went by he found himself growing more and more privy to his darling duds. He knew he could never take it off, for fear he might be chilled by the harsh reality of a world gone cold.

Days and even weeks went by without Willie removing his sweater. His friends soon grew distant, put off by his vanity or, perhaps, his repugnant stench. This, in Willie’s eyes, was the beginning of a mutiny.

“This sweater demands respect,” he insisted earnestly to his friends. “This isn’t just some turtleneck you can mock!”

A whooshed hush fell over the group. All his friends were stunned by the voluminous outburst. Then suddenly one spoke.

“You’ve been wearing that sweater an awful lot lately. How about you take it off?”

Willie’s body quivered in reaction to the daft proposition. His eyes welled with moisture as he gave forth a sickly laugh.

“You don’t understand,” he dementedly spoke, “this sweater wears me. It tries me...on and on again!”

From this point forward everyone knew poor Willie had lost it. His mind, once lucid, had become clouded with sickness. As a result, he was institutionalized post haste. It was within these confines that Willie’s sweater was removed and replaced by a straitjacket...and a fine one at that. The sleeves were left long to fully cover the arms. There was a hole at the top for his head to protrude. Details as such left Willie confident he and this straitjacket were meant for each other.