Big "E" Levi's, big history.

Payday was always a religious experience for me when I began my first job at Caribou Coffee in Minneapolis. After two long weeks of slaving over espresso shots and steamed milk, I’d finally receive that long-awaited paycheck and head straight to my favorite vintage store, B-Squad. 

Prior to my earning money, B-Squad seemed like more of a museum than a clothing store. I’d spend hours fingering through their selection, dreaming of what I’d go home with if I had the money. To appease my desires, I’d purchase battered Prince records and $15 tour tees, leaving behind the pricier pieces to gather dust.

Hidden within a rack of leather jackets was a standout denim Levi’s vest with dozens of golden, star-shaped studs across the front and a giant black barcode printed across the back. At the time, I’d just begun listening to The Velvet Underground and watching Andy Warhol documentaries, so this particular piece seemed like the perfect way to realize my ’60s fantasy. I wanted so badly to look like Lou Reed—a struggling artist with no money and an irreversible drug addiction.

Unlike most Levi’s denim, this vest had a capital “E” on its signature red label, which indicated that it had been manufactured after 1950 and before 1971. Today, “Big E” Levi’s denim is so rare that many have resorted to creating fake labels to turn a profit.

Despite a month filled with visits to B-Squad, I could never justify that daunting $100 price tag. For weeks, I continued patiently saving my paltry barista paychecks, while the vest seemed to patiently wait for me, as well. Finally, on my 17th birthday, all this drawn-out waiting ended.

Like all previous paydays, I rode my lime green bicycle to South Minneapolis, but this time I was equipped with a crisp, white envelope proudly packed with $100. Like all previous paydays, I walked straight to that denim vest, but this time I wasn’t just window-shopping. And like all previous paydays, the owner of B-Squad warmly welcomed me, but this time she approached me with an undeniable proposal.

“How about you take that vest off my hands for $60 instead of $100,” she suggested, slyly. “Watching you drool every week is more painful to me than losing $40.”

I remember so clearly the feeling of leaving that hole-in-the-wall store with such a special piece of clothing—something I’d waited so long to acquire. In a high school filled with Sperry’s and Lululemon, that rugged, vintage vest really stood out in those boring, beige halls. This, however, is exactly what I wanted and still crave today—that reckless Lou Reed aesthetic.