I started freaking out when I saw the vintage coat. It was Saturday, a sunny and unusually warm day, the first day of spring, and I wanted a break from the endless immigrant rights meetings, the sign-making prep for No Kings 3, the bleak New York Times, Free Free Free Palestine, the strictly correct Guardian, the internet in general. I wanted the buzzy, soothing, wacky, shopping of a good flea market. I went to the one in Chelsea, at 25th and Sixth.