We carried the dishes back into the kitchen. “So, Jason,” Patty asked, putting her plate in the sink, “any serious girls in your life?”
“Nah,” I said, handing her mine. “I did go out with this one girl a couple of times recently, but I haven’t heard from her in a while.”
“Bummer. How long has it been?”
“Two weeks.”
“Ooh.”
“Yeah, and the thing is, I know this is silly, but she has this pair of my pants I sort of really want back.”
“That’s awkward. It might be best to just remember them fondly.”
“I know, I know. But what’s she going to do with them, it’s not like she’s going to wear them. She could put them in the mail, or whatever.”
“Yeah, but sometimes, Jason,” said Patty turning on the tap, “you just have to go out and buy yourself a new pair of pants.”
After she washed the dishes, I busted out the ice cream and we polished off the pint. Patty lit up a cigarette and had another one of those coughing fits. It was pretty nasty, and I didn’t say anything at the time. But a half-hour later as we bid each other good night, both our eyes heavy with sleep, I couldn’t help myself.
“Hey, um, my friend who’s getting married is a resident at Cornell Med, and he could probably recommend someone who could check out those allergies, cheap, if you wanted.” We stood in her doorway.
“Thanks, neighbor. I have a doctor, though. Don’t worry.” She gave me a hug. “Sweet dreams.”
I went into my apartment. It was midnight. I washed and brushed and got under the covers feeling sated. I rolled over, got comfortable, and finally let my lids shut.
I was a little worried, though.
8
And then it was Monday. I sat at the reception desk and made a sesame bagel with butter last as long as it could. There wasn’t much to look forward to after that. Melinda was in the back running a casting session for nuns for some movie, so there were actresses trying to look nunly sitting on the benches in the waiting area. Unfortunately the specs must have been for older nuns, real ruler-slappers; there were none I wanted to tempt toward the sins of the flesh.
I hopped on Instant Messenger to see what was happening with the kids. I hadn’t caught up yet with Tina to see how her night with Brett had ended up, and I hadn’t talked with Stacey in ages. Both were on my to-do list.
doodyball5:
so…was it
tinadoll:
yes princess?
doodyball5:
proposed to over brunch?
tinadoll:
nope…but it has a crush
tinadoll:
just made out. im no slut
doodyball5:
yes u r
tinadoll:
that’s true! he is sooo cute!
doodyball5:
you guys can share gel and talk about jeans
tinadoll:
did u soil either of those two girls?
doodyball5:
nope
tinadoll:
pants?
doodyball5:
not yet
tinadoll:
im picturing a nice oven mitt
doodyball5:
i did do something tho…
tinadoll:
oh christ…you called the pants police?
doodyball5:
i drank and emailed
tinadoll:
have i taught u nothing!?
tinadoll:
how bad was it? did u tell her u love her?
doodyball5:
i just asked her to give me the damn pants back
tinadoll:
response?
doodyball5:
radio silence
tinadoll:
you should’ve went all-out crazy, threatened to kill yourself or something
tinadoll:
kidding. don’t sweat it. if it makes u feel better, ive done far worse
doodyball5:
like the time you gave the entire east village crabs?
tinadoll:
you cant prove that
doodyball5:
heh. hey have you talked to stacey lately?
tinadoll:
no. let’s start a chatroom. stacey and eric hold…
stace has entered the room.
tinadoll:
stacey!!!
doodyball5:
stace?
stace:
hi
doodyball5:
hello hello. what’re you doing tonight?
stace:
i have my women’s legal group and then i’m going to a party with ali’s friend mallory
doodyball5:
where? we’re coming!
stace:
a bar on 13 and A. some dorky internet party of some kind
doodyball5:
well, wouldn’t you like to hang out with me?
tinadoll:
speaking of internet dorks…
doodyball5:
will your party allow guests?
tinadoll:
i’m not drinking tonight
doodyball5:
lie
tinadoll:
i have alcoholism
tinadoll:
bad
e-diddy has entered the room.
tinadoll:
yes!!!!
e-diddy:
how’s my doodyball? stacey? sweetie?
doodyball5:
stacey is too busy for your love
tinadoll:
speaking of…i just fell in love
e-diddy:
w/?
tinadoll:
a boy
e-diddy:
yup, tell more
tinadoll:
shit. i gotta go rock the house. see you all in hell
e-diddy:
me too bye
e-diddy has left the room.
tinadoll has left the room.
doodyball5:
whoa—is this party over?
stace:
hi
doodyball5:
oh hi miss bizzy
stace:
that plus i cant type fast enough. all good?
doodyball5:
status quo. u? been a while…
stace:
I know! gonna have to catch up soon
doodyball5:
over ketchup
doodyball5:
btw…I wrote scott
stace:
woohoo! and…?
doodyball5:
didn’t sound too promising, but he said to send some writing samples
stace:
that’s something
doodyball5:
yeah, now i just need writing samples
stace:
you could do that fast, jason. send them soon and then keep checking in with him
doodyball5:
that’s the plan
stace:
you have to be persistent
doodyball5:
no doubt
stace:
so…you know what happens this week, rt? your first rabbi class
doodyball5:
i will pick out a good outfit
stace:
i emailed you the info. weds 7 to 10
doodyball5:
I am ready to rabbi
stace:
k gotta go. next weekend dinner or drink or something?
doodyball5:
yep
stace:
call and tell me how class goes. bye
doodyball5:
wait, don’t go yet. im bored as bloody hell
stace has left the room.
doodyball5:
balls
doodyball5 has left the room.
Melinda emerged from the back and pulled up a chair next to me at the desk.
“So, were the nuns fun?” I asked.
“So fun. They were all trying to act very serious and piou
s. Not one smile on that casting tape, that’s for sure.”
“Is it almost time for lunch? I’m getting the shakes,” I said.
Melinda glanced at the schedule. “Yeah, I think we’re cool. Let me just tell Sara that we’re going out together so she’ll answer the phone.”
“You know, I’ve never actually talked to Sara.”
“No!”
“Yeah, it’s weird. I say hi, but I’ve never been caught in the elevator with her or chitchatted. Not once. I barely talk to JB either.”
“Well, JB is totally antisocial, but Sara is nice. Someday you’ll meet by the watercooler, if it’s your destiny.” Melinda put on some lip gloss and went over to Sara’s office.
On the walk to lunch we caught up. It had been a while since we’d had a talk other than just mocking work. It turned out that Melinda’s play had gotten some interest from a well-known off-Broadway producer.
“Why the fuck didn’t you immediately tell me? That’s sick!” I shouted.
“Because nothing’s certain yet. These things take a long time and they are really flaky,” she said as we crossed the avenue.
She hid it well, but she had to be bursting on the inside. To have someone legitimize her work must have been amazing. The producer had been at the reading/party a few weeks ago and apparently was really into the play.
“But if you sell it, I’ll be all alone and I’ll have no one to go buy lunch with. I’ll be one of the lonely lunchers, feeding half my sandwich to pigeons from a bench. You should factor my mental health into your decision.” We entered what we affectionately called “Stress Deli.” It was a fine deli—a big one, really—but it got tremendously crowded during lunch. If you didn’t know exactly what kind of sandwich you wanted as you got to the front of the counter, people would actually heckle you to hurry up. Worse, the women who worked the cash registers were little balls of Korean fury who would somehow divine what denomination of bill you were going to pull out of your wallet and would shove the change in your face before you could even get your hand into your pocket. At least once a week I’d end up with a massive bruise on my leg from some asshole with one of those twenty-five-pound briefcases who was in such a rush to grab some Dentyne Ice he’d ram me on his way through the store. But it was sorta the best place nearby, so we braved it.
All conversation was put on hold until we emerged with our sandwiches.
“That was like Iwo Jima,” I said, shifting the bag from my right to my left hand.
“It sucks in there. But it’s fast,” said Melinda.
“Well, when you’re famous and you come back to the office to visit we can always go there and remember the times we’ve had,” I said, as we started walking. “Do you really think you might be leaving?”
“I don’t know. I hope. We’ll see. Anyway, business has been so bad at JB’s, odds are I’ll be laid off before I sell a play,” she said.
I stopped for a second, leaned down, and tied my shoe. Looking up I said, “Really, are we doing bad? I had no idea.”
“You had no idea? What do you do all day? Basically nothing, right? Which means we aren’t overrun with business.”
“How am I supposed to know?” I said, standing back up. “I feel like it’s always been mellow there.”
“That’s sort of the problem, I think,” she said as we continued walking. “It’s not just a lull, it’s kind of permanently slow. But we’ll see. I wouldn’t worry about it.”
We cruised back to the office, and I told Melinda about the Jane situation. I was curious as to her opinion.
“Yeah, I don’t think you’ll be seeing those pants again,” said Melinda as we reentered the office. “That’s just the way it works. You took that risk when you lent them to her.”
“Sheesh. I expected at least you’d be on my side. I figured lesbians would be a little more evolved in these matters.”
“Oh, no, we’re far worse. I still wear my ex’s stuff, she was my size.”
“Fuck, well, I guess they’re gone.”
Melinda stared at me. “Is it the pants, or do you really just want to see this girl again?”
“The pants. Honestly.”
She shrugged, looking unconvinced. “Those must be some fucking pants.”
I sat back down at the receptionist desk and commandeered the computer while Melinda leafed through an old Us Weekly. E-mail was opened and I saw that Jane hadn’t responded to my tirade. I sighed. She wasn’t ever going to. Okay, that was it. I was done. “No mas,” I said to myself. I wasn’t going to become a stalker. No, I was going to take the high road. Back to basic cable and beating off.
I closed e-mail and surfed onto Pitchfork, a hip music site I frequented, to read up on the latest and greatest. I figured I should take a good look at how they wrote their record reviews. I clicked on one after another, and each was longer and more in-depth than the last. They were filled with obscure details like bands’ favorite BPMs, and highfalutin hypotheses like, “Of all the cyclical inclinations in the post-Vietnam rock-’n’-roll oeuvre, mod revivalism stands tall as the most oxymoronic.” Jesus. As I read on, I unwrapped the butcher paper around my turkey sandwich and took a bite.
Goddamn motherfuckers forgot to put the cheese on.
9
The day ended and there I was, back at home, on the toilet. I had been sitting there quite a while.
I started thinking about the sixteen-hour drive I used to make twice a year during college, from Missouri to Ithaca and vice versa, alone in my bad little beige 1986 Honda Civic. After graduation, I made the epic drive one last time. The highway near Indiana seemed so straight and flat I probably could’ve fallen asleep and safely made it across the state. As I cracked open my fifteenth Diet Coke, an old Ford Mustang pulled up next to me. The driver shouted, “Buy American, asshole!” He sped past, his kids giving me the finger out the rear window.
The Honda had no disc player and the tape deck was busted. For a long stretch after the Mustang, all I could pick up was static. I was beat; I was like eleven hours in and starting to see visions. Desperate, I tried switching over to AM. And crackling through the speakers came a miracle, “You Are My Sunshine.” I was instantly reenergized; I rolled down my window and sang along to the chorus at the top of my lungs, drumming my hand against the car door, delirious. “You are my sunshine, my only sunshine / you make me happyyyyy, when skies are gray.” It was such a goofy, positive song. But then, speeding along, listening to all the verses for probably the first time, I realized that it really wasn’t a love song at all. It was fucking dark. “You told me once, dear, you really loved me / no one else could come between / but now you’ve left me, and love another / you have shattered all my dreams.” All sung to this smiley sing-along tune, which was disguising it. “Please don’t take my sunshine away.”
In the other room I heard the TV come back from commercial. I had left it on CNN. They were reporting that a coyote had been found and captured in Central Park. How the hell did a coyote get into Central Park? That sounded like a setup line for a cheap joke. “He took the 6 train.” When you live alone, you can go to the bathroom with the door open. That way you don’t miss the big coyote stories on TV.
I finished my business, went back toward the couch, and saw there was a message on the machine. It could’ve been there for days, I never checked it anymore. I hit PLAY.
“Hey Jason, it’s Mom.”
“And Dad!” I could hear him yell from somewhere in the back of the room.
“How’s everything? We got your e-mail. A rabbi—that’s very funny. We didn’t realize a regular person could just marry people, but we’ll take your word. Everything here is the same, it’s finally starting to get warm. Work is slow, your dad and I have been going to see a lot of movies, no big news. Oh—the next time you come home we really want you to clean out some of the old stuff you have in your room; Dad is thinking of starting a project and making it into a home office. I’ve already alerted the paramedics, don’t worry. We’ll
keep all your stuff in the closet and replace the bed with a pull-out couch for when you come visit. Which is going to be when, honey? Let’s pick a date already. Okay, I don’t want to use up your whole machine. Call us or write us. Love you!”
I had heard the threat of my room being turned into a “home office” for years now, and was pretty sure it was safe from renovation for several more to come. I made a mental note to call my folks this week and then picked up my phone and called the people who had taken on the responsibility of feeding me in lieu of my parents, Hunan Pan.
I Just Want My Pants Back Page 10
