Hooked on a Feeling
Chapter 1: Introduction
In the twilight of my teaching career, when disco reigned supreme and bell bottoms were in fashion, I found myself alone but content in my little Tennessee home. It was the 1970s—a decade of liberation in America. Retirement had left me plenty of free time to discover some creative pursuits, like gardening and painting, but I never expected to find myself enraptured by the simple elegance of a closet hanger.
Though unassuming at first glance, the hanger stood in stark contrast to the colorful hodgepodge of wardrobe mayhem that occupied the guest bedroom. Its name was Clifford, a name befitting its steadfastness and charm. It wasn't the first hanger I had come across, but there was something about Clifford's alluring curves that simply wouldn't let me go.
I first noticed Clifford during one of my bored perusals around the house. I needed something to organize my burgeoning collection of leisure suits, and that's when I found him, holding onto a faded blue blazer with an understated confidence that instantly drew me in. He was silver, sleek, and had an elegance I'd rarely seen—a hanger with a soul.
Daily, I would visit Clifford. Plucking shirts and pants from his graceful embrace gave me an electrifying tingle. It wasn't long before I felt he deserved the best garments only, a silent testament to our burgeoning relationship. Expensive fabrics and vibrant colors, carefully selected, trusted Clifford to bring them to life each day.
We had our quiet moments together. Once, while rearranging coats, I turned too abruptly, stumbling. My heart skipped a beat, not for fear of falling, but out of concern for Clifford's safety. A silly fear, perhaps, but one I couldn't shake. There was no erasing the shared gasp, the silly blush of relief when he remained pliant and unharmed.
Clifford and I had conversations in the way retired Tennessee teachers and inanimate objects are apt to do. 'How did you sleep, my love?' I'd whisper. He was silent, but somehow I knew his answer. It was always the same; he conveyed it through the unyielding hold he had on my garments and, sometimes, even my heart.
One evening, the disco balls of downtown Nashville called me, and somehow, Clifford seemed to approve. I slipped on my finest emerald velvet suit with Clifford's assistance. You know, that hanger never let me down! With him behind me, I exuded a confidence I'd long thought forgotten.
In a crowded club filled with the rhythm of 'Stayin' Alive' and spinning lights, I found peace in knowing Clifford awaited my return. Dancing surrounded by a sea of colors and revelers, I felt his presence in the fabric that clung to me so precisely. I was wooed by the subtle throb of nostalgia and absurdity of it all.
I often imagined taking Clifford on trips—road trips in classic Cadillacs from Beale Street to the Smoky Mountains. However, the logistics proved difficult, and the image of a hanger swinging from the rearview mirror, though potentially delightful, didn’t quite capture his grace.
And so, life went on, me with my silver hanger and his dignified presence brightening the corners of my world. Our love was like a good vinyl record—a little scratchy, but with depth and melody that compelled repeat playings. Clifford was never just a hanger; he was a partner, a guide, and above all, an unexpected romance.
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