Chelsea I Want My Flannel Back.
Jon, 27, Freelance Illustrator / Bookseller
After spending three hours intoxicating myself to the point of slurred speech and questionable decision-making, my two companions and I decided that, yes, approaching the pretty girl at the bar was clearly the right thing for me to do. I went up to her at last call and, through some form of charm I surely could not replicate now, managed to convince her that I was worth chatting with.
Soon the bartender turned the lights on (She’s still hot, whew!), and we walked outside to discover that a friend of mine and a friend of hers had managed to reach a level of hate normally reserved for divorces involving child support. It turns out she had asked my friend if she could wear his sweatshirt, and his rejection lead to a curse-ridden tirade.
Said friend of hers then asked if I had a sweatshirt she could borrow. I said yes, reached into my satchel, and grabbed my newly bought flannel. I had been searching for a flannel that fit me the way this one does forever, and this flannel was the find of my life. They had it at a second-hand store in Berkeley for $16, but, oh, it was worth so much more.
So after I, in a drunken carefree manner, handed over the only piece of clothing I’ve ever cared this much about, she graciously said thank you, and immediately proceeded to revisit the argument with my friend. The last straw in the debate was when she called my friend a rather immature name, and he countered by littering vulgarity all over the conversation, ending the argument with “you’re a stupid fucking bitch.” The friend apparently felt this was a good time to leave.
The girl I was talking to said she had to go but that we should hang out sometime.
What was your name again?
She put her number in my phone, and then did that thing where I call her and she saves my number. She then ran off to track her friend down, leaving me happy because I somehow got a number, and also drunkenly laughing at the ridiculousness of the fight. No more than ten minutes later, Chelsea texted me apologizing for our friends’ drama, to which I responded that it wasn’t a big deal. We texted back and forth for about an hour, and then I passed out.
I woke up the next morning, or afternoon more likely, and remembered that I totally gave that girl my flannel. I figured, hey, no problem, I’ll just text Chelsea to hang out and she’ll probably bring it with her whenever we see each other.
So I text Chelsea on Monday to see if she wants to meet up, and I get no response. Now, since I’m one of those people who never officially trusts that my texts get where they’re supposed to go, I start thinking maybe she never got it. But I’m also thinking, well, more importantly, I want my flannel back. So I called on Thursday and left a very polite (and well rehearsed) message indicating that I’d like to get a drink sometime, and if she happened to know the whereabouts of my flannel, that I would like to have it back. I emphasized that I normally wouldn’t worry about something like this, but I really really liked this article of clothing. This message was also left unacknowledged.
A couple of weeks went by, and with each foggy bay area summer night, I would open my closet door and reach in to grab a jacket, or sweatshirt, or hoodie, and be reminded by the one lonely, empty hanger, that I no longer had my flannel to keep me warm. And the reason for its exit from my life could be so simply resolved. Chelsea, could you drop it off at my job? Chelsea, could you mail it to my house? Chelsea, could you leave it behind the third bush in front of the Andronicos on University?
I know it’s odd to care this deeply about a flannel, but seriously, what the fuck? How hard is it to just say “You know what, no thanks on the drinks, but, yes, I do have your flannel, and since I have no beef with you whatsoever, lets meet and I’ll just hand you the damn thing.” So I sent her one last text explaining that drinks aren’t necessary, but can I just have my flannel back.
Chelsea I want my flannel back.