Christ, what a whiner I was. I reminded myself that I was one lucky son-of-a-bitch living a pretty fucking cool life, and my complaints, compared to most people’s in the world, were so minimal and stupid and small it was incredible I even bothered with them. I watched as a bird landed on the tip of a lamppost across the street. It fluttered its wings, teetered, fluttered again, and finally found its balance. “That’s me,” I told myself. “I’m just like that bird.”
Then something deep inside me asserted itself. “What in the fuck are you talking about?” I muttered, then half-laughed aloud. Geez Louise. Maybe I had my period.
My phone buzzed in my pants pocket and I stood up.
“Hello?” I asked; the number was blocked. The sun was low in the sky now. I felt a little regal answering my phone outside, standing above the world, stretching. It was truly gorgeous out, what the hell was I griping about?
“Jason? It’s Tina!” She was yelling and enunciating. “What are you doing?” I could hear loud music and laughter in the background.
She was calling from a pay phone, her cell was dead. Apparently some new restaurant had opened by her apartment on the Lower East Side and was giving out free drinks and free food for the next few hours. They had a big backyard and a rockabilly band was playing. Was I or was I not man enough to haul ass over there and get in on the good times?
I crawled inside, twisted two joints, and drained a Diet Coke for strength. I swallowed three Advil with a palmful of toothpaste water. I checked myself in the mirror, stepped into the hall, locked the door, and braced myself for the night. The good times were killing me.
I slipped one of the joints under Patty’s door and was on the street in a flash. It was just as bucolic on the pavement as it had been above it. Trees were blooming and birds were chirping and the sun began to set. It felt like this was it, the official beginning of the good weather. Patty was right, it was like spring snuck up behind me and slapped me on the back of the neck saying, “I’m here!”
I walked toward the West Fourth Street subway and inevitable inebriation. I pulled out my iPod, earphoned up, and clicked PLAY. The Vaselines’ “Son of a Gun” came on and I was happy to hear it. It was thick with distortion to start, angry as a Japanese monster, but then a catchy tune cut through and eviscerated the opening fuzz. I turned it up loud enough to drown out the rest of the Western world, loud enough to inspire tsk-tsking PSAs on tinnitus. My steps began unconsciously landing on the downbeat, my hands were slapping at my sides like they were a percussive instrument. As I crossed Seventh Avenue a sombrero perched atop a fire hydrant at the corner caught my eye. A dry cleaner pulled down the shiny new metal gate in front of his store; someone had already written “neckmeat” in black spray paint on it. There were male and female vocal parts to the song, and the Scottish girl singer had this bittersweet, nostalgic voice that made me smile and gave me a stomachache at the same time. I floated toward the train, safe in a musical bubble that none of the other New Yorkers screaming into their cell phones or setting off their car alarms could penetrate, not even a delivery guy riding his bike on the sidewalk who seemed determined to cripple me. The drums marched along at the perfect clip, and as I moved down Sixth I considered swinging from a lamppost like Gene fucking Kelly. I reached the subway entrance, fished out my MetroCard, and descended on beat into the underworld.
6
I got out of the subway at First and Houston and hoofed it down to Ludlow and Rivington. The Lower East Side had changed a lot just in the few years I had lived here. It went from being a slightly scary neighborhood whose only real nighttime draw was the odd rock-’n’-roll dive, to fancy new bars and cafés blooming on almost every street. And according to the alcohol-soaked rants of late-night bar prognosticators, this was only the beginning. The vintage clothing stores that gave way to the funky boutiques with new clothes would give way, eventually, to a Banana Republic. It was inevitable. The whole city would one day be a giant mall. Like everyone, I was against this sort of mallification, although I secretly looked forward to the escalators and free air-conditioning.
The restaurant Tina was at was called Old Devil. A couple made out in the entrance; I squeezed past them and into the fray that was the bar. I bumped into some guy in a cowboy hat and a T-shirt that read “Thou shalt not BlackBerry on the toilet.” He leaned in close to me, his breath flammable, and imparted, “Life ain’t nothing but bitches and money.” He had something there.
I took a look around, scanning for Tina. It was a retro, rockabilly dream inside. Someone who must’ve owned very stiff dark-blue Levi’s and a lot of pomade had dropped a big fat pile of cash to make the place look authentic—not in some Bennigan’s version of the fifties, but in a real The Wild Bunch way. Stainless-steel walls, pies under glass, red-vinyl booths, even a gas-powered Wurlitzer jukebox pumping out Jerry Lee. I dug it. I was ready to scream “Go, daddy, go!”
Tina was nowhere in sight inside. Past the bar and through a small dining room, I saw a screen door to the backyard. I stepped through it. The sun had set, and the whole yard was lit up by Christmas lights strung on the surrounding buildings that walled it in. For New York, the yard was just enormous; it had a full-on oak tree in the middle, complete with a tire swing. On one side, a couple of guys were working a large Texas-style half-barrel smoker grill; burgers and dogs were sizzling atop its flame. Across from them a three-piece rockabilly band, with even the hard-to-fit-in-a-cab stand-up bass, were ripping it up, tearing through what I was pretty sure was “Chicken Flop,” an old Hasil Adkins gem. The name of the band was on the drum, “Thee Hellcats.” They must have been Olde-English-type honkytonkers, I reckoned.
I walked past some drunken swing dancers and found Tina leaning against a brick wall, a Pabst in one hand and a paper plate with half a burger in the other. A tiny bit of ketchup dotted the corner of her mouth.
“I know what you’re thinking, Rebbe,” she said, air-kissing me near the cheek. “I usually mock the ironic popularity of shitty Pabst with the hipsters, but it’s free, and thus, I am drinking it.” She took a long pull from the metal can.
“Actually, I was thinking, ‘Wow, she’s eating the bun of her burger’ I mean, that’s a lot of carbs for a girl like you,” I said. Tina was thin; she knew it.
“Comments like that are why I vomit myself to sleep,” she said, straightening up. “Follow me to las cervezas.” As we serpentined through the people, she asked over her shoulder, “So, what ever happened with freezerface?”
“Nothing,” I said. “Haven’t heard from her in like two weeks. And she still has my pants, my good Dickies, she borrowed them the night she slept over. Any advice on getting those back?”
“Give up. Those are on eBay by now, Papi.”
I grimaced. “But why? We’re adults, she should return them. I mean, wouldn’t you?”
“Many of my dishrags are the clothes of former lovers.”
“Great.”
Tina was drunk, and she was a dangerous drunk, like a boxer on rubbery legs who still somehow managed to counter-punch with ferocity. I followed her swagger over to a tub filled with ice and Pabst cans. I grabbed one, cracked it open, and spilled the cold liquid down my throat. I had some catching up to do.
Tina smacked her can into mine. “A toast,” she said, “to your old Dickies. I wish them well.”
“I might get them still. I was thinking of maybe giving her a call.”
“Who, the girl you fucked in your freezer, who blew you in a cab the next night, who you haven’t heard from since? Give me a break.” She let out a small burp. “Those pants have twenty different kinds of DNA on them by now.”
“Ugh,” I said. I put the beer can to my lips and drank until my teeth were numb.
Three beers and a burger later, I felt whole again. The melancholy of the day was fully flushed out of my system. The Vicodin Tina gave me probably didn’t hurt either. I mean it definitely didn’t hurt, you know, being a painkiller and all. There were things to look at, and s
o I did. Girls had obviously tried on every shirt and skirt in their collections before deciding what to wear for this lovely evening, and bras thankfully seemed to be forgotten on the bed. Tina needed the bathroom and I was almost there myself, so we made our way inside. Along the way I fell in love with several girls, who—through a combination of my smudged glasses, the neon lights of the bar, and a magical mix of intoxicants—seemed to glow. Goddamn New York City girls. They had sass.
The line to the restrooms was somewhat long, as it tends to be in a bar passing out free Pabst. “Tell you what,” I said to Tina. “Drinks are only free until ten, right? So you go first and I’ll head to the bar, and then I’ll go after.”
“That’s the most ingenious idea you’ve had since I met you,” she said, and leaned against the wall at the back of the line.
I burrowed my way toward the bar, which was three deep with people. Miraculously, a sliver of daylight appeared, and I was in. I smiled at the beauty of it and began the game wherein I tried to catch the bartender’s attention.
On my left, perched on stools, were two slinky little minxes, one blond, one brunette, both in jeans and those deconstructed T-shirts girls either buy or cut up themselves, the ones that show off soft shoulders and bra straps (or no bra straps) and fit just right. Girls really knew what they were doing. The little sassters were facing forward, I soon realized, trying to avoid the guy pressed behind them, a very drunk man with an un-ironic mustache in one of those button-up dress shirts that have no collar. He resembled Jeff Foxworthy. I felt like saying to him, “If two girls are ignoring you for this long and you’re still harassing them, you might be a redneck. Or, possibly…an asshole.”
I stood there, somewhat entertained, somewhat horrified, plenty drunk, possibly swaying, but for a full five minutes unable to get the bartender to acknowledge my existence.
“So come on, what’s up with you two?” Foxworthy asked. “What, do you like girls?”
The girls shifted uncomfortably. “Yeah, that’s it,” one said.
“No? Well, do you like guys?” He leaned on the blonde’s shoulder. She tried to shrug him off. “Tell me. Do you like girls, do you like guys…?”
“Do you like robots?” I turned and said to them. Popped out before I could stop it. The grapes that go ripe in the sun loosen the screws at the back of the tongue. The Clash. London Calling, side three. “Get the vinyl,” Mike had told me, “the lyrics are on the sleeve.”
The girls’ eyes lit up and they nodded and laughed. “Yes. We are in love with our robots, so leave us alone,” said the girl with the brown hair, turning on her stool and giving me a smile with a “thank you” built into it. If I was ever to make a movie entitled, Cute Postgraduate Girls Who Love Indie Rock and Are Certified to Teach Pilates, she might star.
Foxworthy looked at me. “How ’bout you go fuck yourself?”
I should’ve had about a million witty retorts to that, it was so lame. But as this guy had, in the way that men have done throughout the centuries, instantly turned his spurned advances into hatred for another male, and stepped directly up into my piece, about all I could muster up was, “Sure. I’ll go off and do that. I’ll fuck myself real nice-like.”
“You’re a fucking wiseass,” he breathed into my face. His eyes were glazed like a bad piece of pottery. That’s when I knew it. I was going to get into a fight. I hadn’t been in one since I was sixteen. Noah Lewis, in the smoking section behind the high school. He was bigger than me, a bit of a bully, but somehow I had knocked him down, and so remained undefeated to this day. That record was in jeopardy, as this guy looked a scootch more challenging. And my glasses were not a plus. I reached in my pocket for my keys, and balled them in my fist, like I had seen in some movie.
“How about backing the fuck up?” I said, as tough as I could. I wanted to sound like a hard bastard, like they did in those British gangster movies. Like I just might glass the cunt. But I was an average lanky doofus, so it wasn’t very believable. To be a badass, I needed some sort of a twitch or scar or at least a tattoo, something.
“Make me,” he said, inching in closer. Goddamnit. I was feeling a lot more sober. I had the sudden idea that I should just step in and blast him in the face first, with my fist weighted with keys, before he could take a smack at me. Just cold-cock him before he could make a fucking move. I tightened my fist.
“Hey, asshole!” Tina had arrived out of nowhere, and was yelling at the top of her lungs at Foxworthy. So loud people started to look. He turned to face her. “Yeah, how about the next time you go to the bathroom, you don’t pee all over the fucking seat! What the fuck is wrong with you, dickhead?”
“I wasn’t even in the bathroom,” he said, holding up his hands in innocence.
“Yeah you were, fuckwad!” Tina kept aggressively screaming. “I was right behind you on line and there was fucking man-piss everywhere. Ugh! You’re a goddamn pig!” People gathered around us, curious. The tide had turned. I wasn’t going to get in a fight after all.
“You got the wrong guy. Fuck you.” He walked off, as onlookers pointed and chuckled.
Tina put her arm around my shoulders. “Who’s got your back, Papi?” she smiled.
“I was so about to kick that guy’s ass.” I grinned with relief, relaxing my arms.
“I’m sure. I didn’t want you to get arrested, though.” She yawned. “Where’re them drinks?”
Two shots of tequila, offered to us by the blonde and the brunette (I wasn’t finished with them just yet; I didn’t know what chivalry was worth these days, but I hoped with inflation it was at least up to heavy petting), were followed by several Pabsts, which we were now buying with American currency. Tina’s new guy Brett arrived and we all went back outside with our drinks. Tina climbed into the tire swing and Brett gave her a gentle push. He was sporting a white belt and a complicated haircut. He was just Tina’s type—sort of good-looking, kinda rock-’n’-roll, with a pocketful of pills. I took some Percoset and slipped them in my own pocket for a rainy day.
It was really a funny scene there, outside. Who were all these people in their hip clothes, where did they all come from? It was a perfect mix of hyper-cool whites and blacks and Latinos and Asians. I felt like I was in the middle of a Benetton ad or a bad Lenny Kravitz video. My God, the effort these people were making to be super-stylish, it seemed exhausting. Sometimes I loved that everyone knew what was going on minute to minute on the pop-culture countdown, and other times I was like, enough with all this presto-chango shit, find a style and go with it. I went with the lazy/myopic look. Jeans, Converse, old shrunken Izod, glasses. Occasionally a “Kiss me, I’m Irish!” pin. Consistent and sloppy. With a wink.
Tina had fallen off the swing; now she and Brett were sprawled out on the dirt below it, cackling. She was toying with Brett’s hair, about two minutes away from either puking or making out with him. They were like Sid and Nancy, but with 401k’s and pants from Barney’s. I wiped my forehead with the cold of the Pabst can. Suddenly I was at this party alone. I looked at my cell. Nothing.
I made my way inside, figuring I could hang out with the minxes. Perhaps I might even collect my bounty from one. I allowed myself the momentary erotic daydream of them both paying up. I had never had a threesome, but it sounded like something for the memoir. Although it was probably a little nerve-racking. There were a lot of holes and things that a guy needed to tend to in a situation like that, a lot of sexual multitasking. You had to bring your A-game.
I moved into the light of the bar—well, the light compared with the dark of the backyard anyway—and my God, was I drunk. Fuck you I was. I confirmed this by knocking over a stool, but luckily no one really seemed to notice. The key was confidence. I screwed a smile onto my face, straightened my posture, and stepped forward, trying to seem cool, unflappable, like Bogart. I wasn’t sure of Bogie’s gait, though; all I could remember was the omnipresent fedora and the hill of beans and “the Germans wore gray, you wore blue.” Man I was silly with it all.
I saw the girls still in their same spots. I was probably too fucked up to be trying to touch anybody, including myself. But I wiped my forehead with the back of my hand to degrease it, and closed in.
“Ladies, may I join you?” I said like a proper prince, and pulled up a stool.
“Hi,” said the blonde. She had a name, but who could remember it? It wasn’t a sexist thing, I was just terrible with names, men or women. Dogs I did okay with. I was always preparing myself to say my own name and I forgot all about remembering theirs. I was going to order one of those late-night memory tapes someday soon. Then I’d have a system and would be pretty much unstoppable.
“Thanks again for before.” She tucked a stray hair behind her ear.
“I’m almost, I’m sort of like a hero, right?” I said, smiling. “You guys need another a drink?”
I got us another round of fucking shitty Pabst, I have no idea why I hadn’t switched off of it. I had no business having another drink anyway. No business. The brunette, whose name I’d also forgotten, excused herself to the bathroom. I debated whether or not this was a move to let me and the blonde get chummier.
“Thanks for helping me and Sue before,” she said.
Sue. One name regained. “Ah, it was nothing.”
“So…?” she said.
I Just Want My Pants Back Page 7
