I Just Want My Pants Back

by David J. Rosen

  “I’m a buyer for a toy company. I source stuff from China and the Far East that we think we could sell here.” The knocking began again.

  “Oh, that sounds fun.”

  “Kinda.” She stubbed out the joint in the sink. “Well, now that that’s resolved…” She moved in and kissed me sloppily. Her hand trailed down my stomach and grabbed Petey through my pants. Instantly I was as hard as a left turn in Midtown. I slipped my hand up her skirt. No underwear. Or pubic hair, for that matter. What a difference a day made.

  “Not here,” she said suddenly, straightening her skirt. “Too cheesy.” Then she took my wet finger that had just been inside her and licked it sensuously. We opened the bathroom door and stepped out past a girl who glared at us.

  Miss Manners and I hopped into a cab and pointed it west toward my apartment. She had my jeans unbuttoned and her tongue in my mouth. A radio sports reporter jabbered at us through the lone rear speaker—the Knicks had lost again. Jane suddenly jerked away. “Hang on, what time is it?” she asked, looking up through the partition to the radio. “Shit, it’s almost two! I can’t go to your place. I’m sorry, I have to get up early tomorrow for a really big presentation I’m giving.”

  “Don’t worry, we’ll be fast,” I said, leaning in to continue the kissing. “You won’t even remember it.”

  She avoided my lips. “No, I can’t. I’m sorry, I totally spaced. I have to be on the ball, it’s a huge meeting! You know how those are.”

  Oh yeah, I hated those. The driver switched the station to some percussive Tito Puente number I couldn’t put my finger on. “C’mon, we’re almost there. You’ll sleep over, there’ll be pancakes and a full continental breakfast.”

  “I can’t sleep over! I have no clothes.” She thought for a moment. “Okay, what if I, uh, ‘take care of you’ before we get to your place? Then I can drop you and take this cab straight home.”

  Good sport that I was…

  The mambo music pulsed as she went down on me with a fury. What a motivated little worker she was. I looked out the window at the bleary lights while she did her voodoo. I watched people in suits trudging home from late nights at the office, others I could see in all-night restaurant windows eating, laughing. A girl smoked a cigarette lazily, leaning against a parking meter. An old man with too-short pants lumbered along while his tiny dog pranced near his white-socked ankles. Something was happening in every nook and cranny of the city. Even the two of us in this cab, we were part of it. I looked down at Jane, her head pumping up and down, one hand up her skirt, fiddling about. I was quite enjoying my particular nook and cranny, I wouldn’t trade it. I opened the window and let in the breeze, the sound of the streets overtaking Tito. We weren’t that far from my apartment, only about two avenues and five blocks. I leaned back and closed my eyes against the wind.

  Stopped at a light only a block from my house, I came. She skillfully milked every last drop from me: a mess-free operation. Clearly she had done this before. The driver pulled over as I quickly buttoned my jeans. I caught a glance of his tired eyes in the mirror and looked away.

  “That was fucking hot.” She smiled, and we hugged good night. I slid across the seat and out of the cab.

  “Hey!” she said out the window. “I think you better at least split this ride with me, don’t you think?” I laughed, and pulled out my wallet. I had two dollars.

  I held them up to her. “Shit,” I frowned. “Sorry.”

  Jane grabbed them and fumbled through her bag. “Fuck, I only have five myself.” She handed all of our cash to the driver and got out of the car, grinning. “Looks like you got yourself a slumber party.”

  * * * * *

  After a stop at the cash machine we quickly got ready for bed. Jane made me set the alarm for six, which I was fairly unenthused about, because she had to go home first thing and put on her “meeting outfit.” We rubbed each other all over but neither of us was up for round two. I wasn’t a real fan of round two; if you did it right, in my opinion, once was more than enough. We put our eyeglasses next to each other on the nightstand and spooned for warmth. Jane made a joke about me “owing her one” and gently tangled her leg between mine. I could hardly keep my eyes open. We lay still, and I started drifting off.

  “Do you think I’m a slut because I texted you for sex?” Jane whispered in my ear.

  I turned over so we were nose to nose. “Only in the best, most positive way.”

  She smiled. Her teeth were like Chiclets. I sort of wanted to touch them. She propped herself up on her arm. “So, there’s good sluts and bad sluts?”

  “Sluts are people too, sweetie. There’s all kinds.” I yawned, and covered my mouth. “Ooh—sorry.”

  Jane yawned back, and then lay down against me. “I’m glad you checked your phone, cowboy,” she said, taking my hand.

  “Me too,” I said. “I was happy to hear from you.”

  She kissed me softly on the mouth. We whispered good night and I sank into the pillow.

  The next thing I knew the clock radio was blaring. Apparently, it was raining men. I slapped the thing silly until it stopped. Jane was up like a shot and into the bathroom. I heard tinkling and the balling of toilet paper followed by a flush and the slurping of water from the tap. She reemerged.

  “Hey,” she whispered. “Can I borrow these pants?” I rolled over to see her wearing my favorite pair of Dickies, ones I’d had forever, made supersoft by thousands of washings. Despite the small white paint splotch I had gotten on the hem of the left leg (from sloppily painting the apartment—like father, like son), they were a key player in the very limited trouser rotation of new jeans, old jeans, old Dickies that I relied on. “Just to get home,” Jane explained. “I don’t want to wear my skirt right now, it feels too cold.” She turned around and wiggled her ass at me.

  “Sure,” I croaked. I closed my eyes again. I heard some more getting-ready noises, and then warm lips pressed against my forehead and I opened one eye wide enough to see Jane and my pants quietly make their exit.

  4

  The week flew by, and to paraphrase Ray Davies, “I wished I was a different guy—different friends and a new set of clothes.” Well, that wasn’t really true; I had spent a good amount of time breaking in both and was quite content with them.

  It was now Saturday morning. I lay with the pillow over my head, trying to block the sun out for at least another hour. I had just awoken from my recurring Godfather dream, wherein I made love to two hairless Sicilian girls who, after I finished pleasing them, plied me with decadent desserts. “Tiramisu, signore?” they’d giggle. “Profiterole?”

  The ringing of my home phone shattered my sleep plans. Jesus, who called my home number anymore? Four agonizing rings later I got the answer as the machine picked up. BEEP. “Jason. It’s Stacey. Are you there? Are you sleeping? Is someone sleeping with you? Yeah, didn’t think so. Just kidding! I’m getting sick of the phone tag, so when you get up, call me. I really need to talk to you, call my cell.”

  It was closing in on eleven, so I got out of bed and let the poison drain out of my system. Then I curled up on the couch with the phone, dialed, and caught Stacey on her way to the gym. We decided to meet for brunch at twelve-thirty so I could hear the giant secret that had apparently taken Manhattan by storm.

  Since she was exercising, I decided to do some myself. Hell, I was hoping to be seen naked again soon—Jane wasn’t exactly a prude. Although I was thinking maybe we should grab dinner the next time we hung out, you know, something somewhat normal before the next sexplosion. I pulled off my shirt and did three sets of push-ups, three sets of sit-ups, and three sets of curls with the dumbbells I kept in my one itty-bitty closet. I had calculated my square footage at about three hundred, so I guess the closet wasn’t as much tiny as it was proportional. I managed to work up a bit of a sweat lifting, so I showered, bringing a cold glass of water in with me for hydrating purposes.

  At a quarter to noon I exited my apartment and ran into Patty
, my neighbor from across the hall, who was coming back from the grocery store, her numerous white plastic bags a dead giveaway. She had a red bandanna tied around her head Aunt Jemina–style, and a weird-looking cigar/twig in her mouth. Or maybe it was some sort of sugarcane. Hard to tell. I helped her get her stuff inside her apartment.

  This was a groundbreaking moment. I’d never seen the inside of her place; by her low rent I figured she must’ve lived there thirty years, and I was dying to see what it looked like. I stepped inside carrying two bags. Her door opened right into the kitchen. Disappointingly, the kitchen didn’t reveal much—it was pretty much identical to mine, just flipped, and cleaner. She had a bunch of magnets on her fridge; one big one in the middle was an illustration of a cowboy on a bronco with the words WYOMING IS BUCKING AWESOME!

  “Nice magnet,” I said, putting the bags on the counter. “Have you been to Wyoming?”

  “Been there?” She started to empty one of them. “I escaped from there. Don’t get me wrong, it’s great if you like cattle, or beef jerky or Republicans. But if you don’t, just fly over and see it out the window.” She put some bottles of tonic water on top of the fridge. “Anywho, so how’s life, neighbor?”

  “All’s pretty good, I guess,” I said, putting the last bag on the counter. “Just working, playing. You?”

  “Oh me, who cares? I’m old and boring.” She gathered up the empty bags and stuffed them in the cabinet under the sink. “But I expect more from you. Details, stories! These are the years you get all that stuff, don’t you know that? Then you spend the rest of your life looking back at the so-called good ol’ days.”

  “That’s um, a little depressing, Patty,” I said with an “I’m just kidding” smile. I could tell her some stories, all right, but they weren’t the PG-13 kind you shared with your older neighbor. Maybe they’d bore her anyway, if she really lived the bon vivant life I pictured.

  “Oh, you didn’t know that about me?” she laughed. “I’m a huge buzzkill. I fear it might become my defining characteristic.” She reached into the fridge. “Want some OJ? It’s fresh, I just got it at the farmers’ market.”

  I saw by the clock on her microwave that I was going to be late, and Stacey was punctual as hell. I edged toward the door. “I’m actually meeting a friend for lunch who has some big secret to tell me. I should probably get going.”

  Patty finished pouring herself some juice and took a sip. “Big secret, huh? I hope it’s something good!” She started coughing. She put the glass on the counter and leaned against it as she hacked, doubling over with the strength of it. I could hear large wet things flying around inside her, like mattresses in a hurricane.

  “Whoa, hey, you okay there?” I asked.

  Her eyes were watery. “Oh yeah, phew.” She smiled thinly, caught her breath, and turned away from me. “Wrong pipe.”

  * * * * *

  I met Stacey at a diner that was sort of halfway between our homes. She and Eric lived in Murray Hill, a neighborhood that was bland by NYC standards. I didn’t like Murray Hill much. First off, bad name. Also, and maybe this was the bigger issue, people from Murray Hill—or people who seemed like they could be from Murray Hill (it had become a symbol to me more than an actual place)—tended to come down to my neighborhood en masse and take all the seats at the good restaurants. Thursday to Sunday, there was literally nowhere I could afford to eat that didn’t have at least an hour’s wait. These Murray Hillers and their ilk had subscriptions to Time Out and they were good at calling ahead and making plans. They could not be stopped.

  We grabbed a table by the window, made fast work with the menus, and got our orders in; we were both starving. Only once our respective Diet Cokes arrived, and with them the assurance that the system worked, were we able to relax and begin talking.

  Stacey had her brown hair pulled back in a post-workout ponytail, a few stray wisps hanging above her eyes. She unwrapped the scarf that hung loosely around her neck, revealing an NYU Law sweatshirt; she was in her third year there. Eric was a resident at Cornell Med, which was located in the city, uptown. They were on the cusp of being a power couple. Soon they could help me with any legal troubles I might have, and with any social diseases I might stumble upon. They were going to be Number One on the speed dial.

  “You’re so proud of your law school,” I said teasingly, pointing to her sweatshirt.

  “Yeah, that’s why I wear it to the gym and sweat on it,” she laughed. She brought her straw to her lips and took a long sip of her Diet Coke. “So do you want to talk about things and stuff, or do you want to get right to it?”

  “I guess right to it,” I said, glancing hopefully toward the kitchen. “With a five-minute break when the food arrives when there shall be no talking, only eating and digesting. Nothing is that new with me anyway, although thank God, the slump is over.”

  “Yay! So who is she, do you like her?”

  “Her name is Jane. Sure, I like her fine, I guess, but it’s a little early for all that, Stace. We’ve only”—I made air quotes—“‘gone out’ twice. And actually, I wrote her Tuesday to see how this big meeting of hers went, and I haven’t heard back yet.”

  Stacey wrinkled her brow. “Tuesday? Eh, I wouldn’t worry about it, I’m sure she’ll call soon. Anyway, I’m glad at least you have a ‘good possibility.’” She knocked wood. “Oh hey, whatever happened with Scott?”

  Scott Langford, fuck. He was a guy from Cornell who I was never really friends with, but we knew each other. He went to Columbia Journalism straight from college and was now an editor at Fader magazine. Stacey had run into him at some gallery and had thought he’d be a good person for me to contact. She even got his e-mail for me.

  “I uh, I haven’t gotten in touch with him yet, actually.” I mock-cringed and held my hands in front of my face. “Don’t hit me!”

  “Jason! C’mon, that was like a month ago. You need to write him.”

  “I know, I know. I will.”

  She gave me her stern Stacey look. “Just do it today, when you get home.”

  “I will. For sure.” I played with the white paper wrapper from my straw, twisting it around my finger. “But that’s not why you called me here today, I take it.”

  “No.” She leaned across the table, serious. “Okay, how long have we been friends, Jason—like seven years now, right?”

  I nodded. We had met the first day of freshman year, which was sadly that long ago. I wondered what I’d been wearing. It’s funny, it was probably a huge deal, my first-day-of-college outfit choice, and yet I couldn’t even remember it.

  “It’s crazy, right? I’ve known you longer than I’ve known Eric even. And he considers you as good a friend as I do, which I hope you know.”

  “That’s nice. I feel the same way.”

  “Yeah, but if it came down to it, you’re my friend first, right?” She smiled and winked. She was a big winker.

  “Sure. I mean, by a couple of days.” Behind Stacey’s head I saw our waiter walking toward us with two plates of food. But then he continued past, damn it. The digestive juices in my stomach were bubbling like a witch’s cauldron.

  “Those days count,” Stacey said, winking again. “Anyway, Eric really wanted to come today but he had a rotation. We both love you, you are so important to us, and um, we wanted to ask a big favor of you, for the wedding.”

  “Am I going to be the best man?” I asked. “That’d be pretty cool. I get to make the embarrassing toast! Yes!” Eric and I weren’t crazy close, but I knew he didn’t have a ton of guy friends.

  “No, actually, Eric’s brother Jeff and my brother are going to be co–best men.”

  “That’s nice.” I wrinkled my forehead, confused. “So, what can I do for you guys then? I can usher. I’m pretty good at ushing.”

  She took another sip of soda. “Okay, here goes. You introduced us. You get all the credit for that.”

  True, although it wasn’t like I was a matchmaker or anything. Stacey had lived in my dorm,
and Eric was in my geology class. It was supposed to be “rocks for jocks” but was one of the most difficult classes I had taken in college; in retrospect I’m sure the professor was fuming to himself, “Gut course, eh? I’ll show you!” I’d sat next to Eric a few times and we’d become friendly. He was a junior when we were freshmen, but it was never an issue. He came over to my dorm one night to study for the midterm and Stacey popped in to say hi. He thought she was “intriguing,” so the next time there was a party I made sure they were both there. Cut to fireworks and cherubs and lush string music.

  “You brought us together, and we were thinking it would be really nice if you could bring us together again, officially. What I’m trying to say is, we’d be honored if you, Jason, would officiate at our wedding.”

  The waiter clanked our dishes on the table. “The spinach omelet is for the lady, and the bacon cheeseburger is for—”

  “The rabbi,” Stacey said.

  After a few silent bites, Stacey explained that since neither of them was really religious, they didn’t care if they had a real rabbi marry them. It wasn’t like they knew any, and they didn’t want to just hire some stranger. Apparently, it was fairly easy for someone like me to get the necessary paperwork to be able to perform the ceremony. The fact was that once they got the wedding license from the state they were legally married; the ceremony was just, well, ceremonial. Stacey, ever thorough, slid across the table a very thick packet of printouts she had culled from various sources. Some were testimonials from other amateur ministers who had had a “joyous” experience, others were essays from wedding sites that explained what made for a good wedding ceremony and what did not. Most important were the ones that explained exactly what I would need to do, which basically entailed going to an Internet site, filling out forms, and becoming something called a “Universal Life Minister.” This title legally allowed me to sign the civil license and send it in to the state for official processing. And although it wasn’t required, Stacey and Eric also wanted me to take a two-session class (that they’d pay for) at a temple where I’d learn how to structure a ceremony and incorporate some Jewish traditions within it.