My Sweatshirt In Lost Time: A Memoir

By David R. Topper

One might say – looking back figuratively – that my sweatshirt had Proust written all over it. 

Is this worth pursuing? Depends. Let’s see. It came about when I remembered this almost sixty-year-old episode in my life.  

I was in Pittsburgh, my hometown. It was 1964, a late-summer evening. My close friend called and asked if I would go with him. I said Sure. It was a bit chilly, and so I put on a pullover sweatshirt.

That was the setting. And now? I’m deeply engrossed in Proust’s reminiscences. Reading him obsessively. I’m fixated on “lost time.”

In 1964 I was a student in my last year of university, with a dual major in physics and math, and was eagerly looking forward to going off to grad school in the fall to study at Case Tech in Cleveland, on an assistantship in the Physics Department. My friend, in contrast, got a job at a printing company right after high school, and was going to a park on the other side of town where the company was having an annual picnic. As I said, it was evening because, for some reason, my friend didn’t in fact go to the picnic; but he still was going to pick up people to drive them home.

If this doesn’t make much sense, it’s not my fault. These are the facts as I recall them. I know, if he was going to take people home then why was I going along – since I would just take up another space? And how did everyone get there in the first place? Maybe it had something to do with drinking at the picnic, and he was a designated driver. Although, come to think of it – unlike today – that was not an issue back then.

When we arrived at the picnic, we mingled. I may have had something to eat – hot dog or hamburger? I suppose, but don’t recall. Probably something to drink – a beer? I don’t know. But what I do remember is that I met a girl, about my age. Either she said Hi to me, or I to her. Either way, we started chatting. She was cute. But that’s all I can remember, visually. Cute. I don’t know the color of her hair, surely not her eyes, nor the sound of her voice. I also don’t know what she was wearing, nor me – except for my sweatshirt, of course.

Why only this sweatshirt? 

Since this isn’t a work of fiction, I can’t render anything else visual or aural. Oh, but I can report some olfactive information. Yes, she smelled nice. I liked the way she smelled. I remember that vividly.

I should point out that I’m talking about scented fragrance, not body odor. This was the 60s, when such fragrances, along with aftershaves, were ubiquitous. This was before everyone had allergies: from perfumes to peanuts. Then came the asthma plague – but I digress.  

So that’s what I mean when I say she smelled nice.

And that brings up Proust. The role of the scent of things that triggers memory. And there’s a link to lost time. Oh, incidentally, Proust had asthma. 

Another memory from that picnic is this. Somehow, she and I ended up on two swings, side-by-side, slowly swaying together, with feet dragging in the dust and sand, and talking about physics.

Don’t bother telling me that that’s not very romantic. Real-world events seldom transpire according to prescribed literary precepts. 

As we were swaying back and forth, I started to explain to her how swings work: when you lean back and push your legs straight as you swing forward, and then bow forward and bending your legs under the swing as you sway back, etc. In doing so you are using the principle of the conservation of angular momentum, where a thing spins faster when it contracts and vice versa. She was quite enthralled at this explanation; at least she seemed to be, for she asked me how I know this, and so I told her about my university courses.

By the way, I just realized why she didn’t have to ask me where I went, for she already knew this: the sweatshirt I was wearing I bought at the university bookstore, and it had its logo emblazoned across my chest.

The other detail I remember from that episode on the swings is that as it was getting dark the discussion turned to astronomy. It was a clear night and so I started pointing to and naming stars and constellations. She seemed truly engrossed in what I said – or, at least, in me.

Surely this was blissfully a promising romantic situation – with darkness coming on and the stars and all.  

But just then we were all called to get into the cars to go home.

When we got into my friend’s car and were cramped into the back seat with others, she amiably snuggled up to me as I put my arm around her. She was cuddled, with her head on my chest, nuzzled into my university logo – all the way to her home. And she smelled so nice. Especially up-close like this.

I need to point out that 1964, although mathematically it’s the 1960s, sociologically it’s not “the 60s.” What today is called “the 60s” really started in the very late 1960s and flourished in the 1970s and after. Human behavior in 1964 – at least, where I lived – was still part of the world of the 1950s. So, if you want this story to end with us in bed, you may stop reading right here. Oh, I just realized: I don’t even know her first name! Of course, today that would not preclude such a story ending up in bed – but, again, I’ve drifted off course.

After we dropped her off at her home, along with all the others in the car, my friend told me that he could get me her phone number.

I’m sure I pondered this, but never followed it up. You see, I’m a very practical person, and I need to explain something about geography. Hilly Pittsburgh, in the city, consists of the north side and the south side. Beyond that in the suburbs are the north hills (where I lived) and the south hills (where the unnamed “she” lived). And, to get from my home to hers it took (at that time, and with the roads as they were then) over an hour in a car. Moreover, this was no time to start a relationship because I was moving out-of-town in a few weeks or so.

Accordingly, pragmatic me didn’t take her phone number. Hence, end of story.

Well, not quite. When I got home and got undressed for bed, I now vividly recall that before putting that sweatshirt away on a shelf, I took it in my arms, cuddled it to my face, and breathed in deeply. Mumm, so nice.

Okay, my story does end up in bed, but with me, alone. More importantly, it brings back Proust and the olfactive focus. Yes, Proust again.

Indeed, every day I did the same thing before getting into bed. Like a religious ritual, I made sure to get a whiff of her lingering olfactive presence. Mumm, nice.

Even so, over the next few days her residual presence gradually ebbed – as less and less scent remained – until all I could smell was the sweatshirt’s fabric itself. Ugh, not nice.

And so, I tossed the sweater in the laundry bin, and completely forgot about it. 

Until now.

And why now? Proust, of course. His fixation has triggered my memory of this unnamed girl’s residual fragrance in my sweater many years ago on that cool late-summer evening. Plus, I swear, I can still smell that mumm-sweater. Mumm, nice. Well, maybe. And, then again, probably not. You know, I’m fooling myself.

Nonetheless – and thinking it through – all of this analysis is, in fact, the reversed causality of Proust. For Proust himself triggered my memory. Thus, fundamentally, it’s not at all what he had in mind. Really not. 

Even further, the Proustian moment was based more on the sense of taste than of smell. Whereas my residual contact with the unnamed “she” was sadly devoid of even a fragmentary sense of taste. So much for Proust.

 And, finally, you must realize that I am not in any way comparing myself to Proust. Wouldn’t even think of it. No, never. Not with Proust, at least.

But, you know, say I did. Just say. Well, what’s the point? It obviously would never be taken seriously by anyone. No. never. For one thing: my sentences are w-a-y too short.  

David R. Topper is a published writer living in Winnipeg, Canada, who derives pleasure & satisfaction from writing, as well as sharing his writings with family & friends – and others, if they want to read his work