If I had a yellow jumpsuit, I would wear it all the time. Parties, class, church, political fundraisers – it wouldn’t matter. My yellow jumpsuit would go everywhere with me. The two of us could never be separated, like Tango and Cash. I would wear it proudly around campus, from the expansive hallways of Angell Hall to the dungeons of the Frieze building. If only I had a yellow jumpsuit.

Paul Wong
Jeff Dickerson

Not just any yellow jumpsuit will suffice. This is a specific kind, not the everyday run of the mill, garden variety jumpsuit hanging in the confines of Bivouac’s rustic main showroom. My jumpsuit would be sun yellow, unisex and with long sleeves. My jumpsuit would be identical to Dignan’s.

Dignan is, of course, one of the main characters in the indie comedy “Bottle Rocket.” Along with his cohorts Anthony Adams and Bob Maplethorp, Dignan leads a small group of bandits dubbed “The Lawn Wranglers.” These were no ordinary criminals. They wore jumpsuits. Sun yellow jumpsuits. Unisex. With long sleeves. I had to have one.

Ever since I rented Wes Anderson’s debut, “Bottle Rocket” in the cold months of ’99, mere days after the theatrical release of “Rushmore,” I desired the luminescent coveralls. I needed one. A yellow jumpsuit. And ever since that day of infamy, I have not been able to find a suitable jumpsuit.

My first inclination was to search eBay, the ultimate source for everything that is obscure. The online auction house seemed to be the logical choice, with millions of items available on a daily basis. My repeated searches came up empty, but I pressed on.

I found a vast assortment of jumpsuits on assorted mom and pop web sites, but none that fit my precise criteria. There were many close matches, but none exact. Failure was not an option.

Intensive research led me to the phone number of a Mr. Ramirez (not his real name, but a name nonetheless) in central Texas, the apparent epicenter of jumpsuit production. The web site promised me the exact match I was looking for, sun yellow, unisex and long sleeves. I had hit the metaphorical jumpsuit jackpot.

That is until I actually got a hold of Mr. Ramirez.

The calm voice on the other end explained to me that the color sun yellow was no longer available. I halted for a moment, trying to collect my thoughts, post aftermath. In the brief moment of silence, I realized he didn’t have an office. Mr. Ramirez worked out of his house, complete with a live action wife and kids. He assured me the jumpsuit could be purchased in orange or red, among several other hues. But not sun yellow.

I was devastated.

My hopes, dreams and ambitions, gone in the span on seconds talking to a stranger in Texas.

This is of course, as any good English major would tell you, a metaphor, albeit not a good one.

Good writers saturate their work with complex metaphors and hidden symbolism, giving the writing an inherent sense of importance.

That obscure object of desire, as that same English major will confirm, is not a jumpsuit, but a girl.

This is not any ordinary girl, rather a unique culmination of every specific detail I look for in the opposite sex. Strangely enough, this amalgamation is identical to one of my friend’s girlfriend. You know, like Rick Springfield’s ballad “Jesse’s Girl.”

But that’s just an English major’s interpretation. Any metaphors are purely coincidental. Truth be told, I really just want a jumpsuit. Sun yellow. Unisex. Long sleeves. Please.

-Jeff Dickerson needs a yellow

jumpsuit. If you have any information relating to the whereabouts of said object, he can be reached at

jsdicker@umich.edu.

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