I Just Want My Pants Back

by David J. Rosen

  “You’ll decide how the ceremony will flow, you’ll provide the words of love and guidance. You are not here to become a rabbi, you are only here to learn some of the Jewish tradition. After all, you will be a Universal Life Minister. You know the Internet site to go to, right?” We all nodded. “Our work here is only to offer guidance and advice for how you can structure your personalized ceremony. For you, not a rabbi like myself, were chosen by your friends to bring them together. But if you are here in my class, they want a bit of tradition, yes? Yes. You know, a great rabbi was once asked by a man to teach him the entire meaning of the Torah while he stood on one foot. The rabbi told him, “Do not do unto others what you would not have them do unto you. The rest is commentary.” He smiled at us. “Piece of cake, don’t worry!”

  He asked the others why they were there. Mark was going to perform a small second marriage for his friend. Nora was going to be the rabbi for her sister’s wedding. Jennifer of the teacup tits was, like me, going to be a rabbi for her friends from college.

  Now that he knew our stories, Rabbi Stan rolled up his sleeves. “Today we are going to talk about Jewish law a tiny bit. But we will talk more about love. Love is a word we use a lot in society today. We use it too much, I think, it’s lost the meat of its meaning. You love your dog. You love the Yankees, and ice cream, and vacations to the Poconos. I heard a girl in shul today say she loved her new sandals. Just loved them! But these aren’t really loves, these are very strong likes. Things adored. Things perhaps treasured. But loved? Not in the old sense of the word.”

  As Rabbi Stan gesticulated I could see half moons of sweat forming under his arms. My eyelids were getting heavy, so I bit my tongue to help stay awake. It was the same trick I had used throughout high school and college. A little pain kept the eyes open.

  Rabbi Stan continued. “‘Would you dive in front of a bullet to protect those sandals?’ I asked the girl in shul. ‘No, of course not,’ the girl told me. ‘Then you are not in love with them,’ I said. Now, I’m joking of course, but to marry two people you must have a grasp of the meaning of love. It seems at the very least that would be something you ought to know if you are to say, ‘By the power invested in me I pronounce you man and wife.’ Can I teach you love? No, it can’t be taught. But I can tell you a few things about it.

  “True love is more than anything a responsibility. It is the greatest responsibility, for lovers are the caretakers of each other’s hearts, and lives. And to fulfill this responsibility requires great compromise and sacrifice. That is why the mother cleans the child’s behind, even though it is quite unpleasant. You laugh, Jennifer, but have you changed a newborn?” Jennifer shook her head. “I’m kidding, but truly, you can’t underestimate the importance of sacrifice. Willingness to do the things you don’t want to do for the sake of someone else. It may not sound as exciting as lust and sex and God forbid getting a tattoo with a heart, but sacrifice and compromise are the Krazy Glue of love. It is what keeps a marriage together.”

  I began playing with a loose thread at the bottom hem of my shirt. Was a rabbi really the right person to be defining love? I mean, spiritual matters or morals maybe, but love? I would have liked to see his résumé. Not that I doubted him, or could think of a better person off the top of my head; I just wasn’t sure this guy in the outfit from Sy Sym’s had the “Love Ph.D.” He was wearing a wedding ring, but was it his first marriage? How did he know she was the one, did he have an epiphany, was it a lightning bolt at first sight? Did that shit even exist? It felt like maybe Hollywood and Hallmark conspired to invent it. These were things I wanted to understand; sacrifice I had heard about. I kept pulling at the thread. I wondered whether, if I kept unraveling it, I’d eventually be sitting there topless. Or maybe just the torso part would disappear, and I’d still be wearing sleeves. It would be an interesting experiment. The rabbi cleared his throat and I was back in the classroom.

  “Now, the other side of sacrifice and compromise is passion. Because in a marriage, you are willing to sacrifice and compromise on things that, in the end, aren’t as important, so as to improve the ones you are most passionate about. For example, a man might take a lesser job so as to have more time with his family, et cetera.” He held up his hands. “Or a woman, I do not mean to be sexist. Responsibility, sacrifice, compromise, and passion. The four horsemen of love, all perfect topics for a wedding ceremony. Okay, now, have any of you thought about your ceremonies?”

  Nora had. “My sister and her fiancé are both English professors, so I was going to start with a reading of a poem, either a Shelley or a Donne, their favorites. Then I was going to tell the story of how they met, and then get into the vows, which I’m going to help them write.” She crinkled her forehead. “How does that sound?”

  Rabbi Stan took off his glasses and cleaned them with a small piece of cloth he pulled from his pocket. “Well, Nora,” he said, “I think the poetry is a nice personalized touch. But you must also think about how you will bring their friends and family into this emotional setting. Please do not think this cynical, but you must understand that a wedding is not a private ceremony. No, this is a stage show for two people to tell the world they love each other, to declare it to the four winds, and you shall be the master of ceremonies.” Again he cleared his throat. “Think of this as the Super Bowl of their life. Never will they have more people gather to see them, rooting for not only a win, but also for a good game. So as they say, you will need some sizzle to help sell this steak. Because you can make it beautiful for the bride and groom, but if the rest of the congregation does not feel included, there will be coughing and talking and the worst thing you could have, which is grandparents audibly complaining. If you hear, ‘What is she talking about?’ from a senior, the ceremony is in trouble. It is the Jewish equivalent of a tomato thrown at a comedian. Trust me. I have been heckled by many of our elderly congregants when they don’t like a sermon.” He smiled.

  “Has anyone else thought about their ceremonies?” We looked at one another. I sure as shit hadn’t. I shifted awkwardly in my seat.

  “That’s fine,” he said. “Let’s take fifteen minutes and each of you brainstorm a bit what you think you might want to talk about. Then we will have a starting place for each of you.” He passed out some paper, and I bummed a pen from Nora, who fished out a spare from the bottom of her bag. Rabbi Stan turned his back to us and went to the computer on his desk.

  Everyone leaned forward and began scratching out wedding ideas. I wanted to think about Stacey and Eric, but sitting there, the rabbi’s back to me, I had what alcoholics call a moment of clarity. In the not-too-distant future I was going to be standing on a stage in front of three hundred people wearing a suit. A suit I probably needed to buy, because I hadn’t worn the one I owned—the “interview suit” my parents had bought me after college—in years, and it probably didn’t fit. The word “oy” struck me as appropriate.

  I attempted to think about what made Stacey and Eric special. They were incredibly dependable, rock-solid, the perfect candidates to hold your spare set of keys. Yeah, that sounded really romantic. What was I going to say? I hadn’t given the whole thing too much meditation, but in the back of my head I had been thinking I might try to do a fun, sort of comic ceremony. But I could see now from the rabbi’s whole love spiel that this was pretty serious. Still, it was hard to be sincere without also being dull. I tried to think of wedding scenes from books or movies, but all that was really coming to me was The Graduate. “Hello darkness, my old friend…” Great, now “The Sounds of Silence” was going to be stuck in my head. I began to doodle just so I wasn’t sitting there with my pen in the air.

  The fifteen minutes were up, and Rabbi Stan had each of us talk about the people we were going to marry, and then go through our first thoughts for the ceremony. When my turn came I talked about the only thing I scribbled that was even close, that most friends of Stacey and Eric’s had only ever known them as a couple, since they had been dating so long. I th
ought it might have potential. After we each took our turn, the group gave pointers to and critiques of each person’s idea. The comments I received were mostly, “You need to dig a little deeper,” which, yeah, I knew. The class came to a close, and Rabbi Stan told us that we were to continue to work on our “ceremony starts.” Next week he would spend some one-on-one time with each of us, helping us get to a place where we were comfortable enough to go the rest of the way on our own. I already felt like I needed a tutor. I wondered if there was a place you could buy wedding ceremonies like you could buy term papers.

  We shuffled out of the temple and said our good-byes. Nora lived in Jersey and asked if any of us needed a ride to the Upper West Side. Mark lived there, so he hopped into her Lexus SUV and off they rode. Jennifer and I walked up Lexington; I toward the subway, she toward her apartment on Ninety-eighth Street. That worked out quite nicely for me. She was cute, American, and didn’t strike me as a trouser thief. I was curious.

  “So, what did you think of the class?” I asked.

  “It was different from what I expected.” She smiled. “I mean it was really casual. ‘Rabbi Stan’? I’m Orthodox, so anything in temple for me is a lot more formal.”

  Orthodox? I looked at her. She was fairly stylish, I would have never guessed. Well, she was rocking that signature long jean skirt, but it wasn’t ankle-length or anything. “Yeah, I’ve never met any first-name rabbis either,” I said. We waited at the corner as the light was just changing in our favor. “So, I guess your friends aren’t Orthodox, right?”

  She laughed and pushed her curls out of her face. “Oh, no way. They are total hippies. The wedding is going to be in Rhinebeck on a horse farm, and they’re roasting a pig! You know, a big one on a spit with an apple in its mouth? It’s not going to be Jewish at all. I know that stuff anyway.”

  We walked some more and I decided to keep going past the first subway entrance at Eighty-sixth Street to the one at Ninety-sixth. We traded stories, bitched about the city a little. I told her about Stacey and Eric, and found out that Jennifer was in med school as well, not a resident yet but on her way. She asked me what I did, and I sort of panicked and told her I was an assistant producer. It wasn’t a huge lie, just a one-word lie. I was an assistant, after all.

  Jennifer also happened to have a great can, which I hadn’t noticed in the temple. Yep, overall the whole thing she had there was a tight little package. I considered asking her if she wanted to get a drink as we were walking past bar after bar, but the Orthodox thing threw me. So when we hit the next subway, I gave her a pat on the shoulder and said my good-bye.

  “Hey, next week after our class, there’s a med school party if you want to check it out. You can bring whoever you want, if you want to come,” she said, the breeze blowing her sweater tight against her body. She was confident, I liked that. She wasn’t posturing.

  “Definitely. That sounds fun,” I said, halfway down the stairs. “I’ll bring Rabbi Stan.”

  She laughed, turned, and continued on her way. I cruised into the subway and through the turnstiles. I could hear the train arriving, so I raced down the pockmarked concrete stairs two at a time and slipped into the car just as the doors closed. Huffing, I flopped into an empty seat. The train hiccupped and then shuddered down the tracks, and I wondered if religious girls were good kissers.

  11

  It was almost midnight by the time I got downtown. I walked west on Eleventh Street, away from the hubbub of Union Square, where the train dropped me. I whistled “God Save the Queen” as I crossed Seventh Avenue. It was always amazing to me how once you crossed Seventh, the din of the city died down and, just like that, you were alone on a peaceful street lined with beautiful old townhouses. Uma Thurman lived somewhere on this block, and I looked into the oversized windows as I walked past, hoping for a glimpse of her or any other wealthy, naked woman who might care to put on a show for the have-lesses. Nothing doing, though. Empty rooms and fancy chandeliers were all that was on display. I kept moving through the light and shadows, looking this way and that, soaking it in. I was in no rush. I turned the corner and sidestepped two men kissing against a mailbox, taking up a good chunk of sidewalk. The air felt delicious and nutritious, even though I was a bit anxious about this wedding thing. I’d put some work into that soon, I told myself. Maybe this weekend.

  I opened the door to that good old eyesore, 99 Perry, and went in. I walked over to the mailboxes; I hadn’t checked mine earlier. They were located underneath and behind the staircase in a little area I liked to call the “Rats’ Nest.” I opened mine up, just coupons, a postcard for some band I didn’t remember hearing, and a cell-phone bill. Suddenly I felt something on my back and I spun around.

  “Oh, did I scare you?” asked a skinny, scraggly-ass white guy. He was wearing a blue T-shirt and ripped jeans, his short brown hair a mess. You could play connect-the-dots with his acne and probably draw The Last Supper. “Sorry, sir.” He realized he was looming over me and backed up a step.

  “Who are you?” I asked, trying to seem casual. It was cramped back there. Something felt weird and I didn’t like it.

  “I’m a friend of Robert’s,” he said. “I’ve been waiting for him, but it was cold out so I just came in. The front door wasn’t locked.”

  It was true, the lock on the door sucked. I edged past him toward the stairs. This was definitely one of those guys I had seen out my apartment window that day with Patty. “Yeah, well if he’s not here, you should probably wait outside, know what I mean? Robert doesn’t like people waiting inside the building.” I was bluffing but figured Robert would be with me on that.

  “I know, but it’s getting cold, man,” he said, scratching his scalp vigorously. “I think he’s up there, just sleeping is all. Could you knock on his door for me, sir? I’ll wait down here, I don’t want to intrude. I just think he may be sleeping.” No, I didn’t like this sketchy motherfucker who called me “sir” at all.

  “No,” I said firmly. “He must be out, the buzzer is really loud. C’mon, you gotta go. Robert will be pissed.” I moved toward the stairs. I figured if I had to, I could outrun this junkie up to my apartment.

  He took a small step toward me. His voice was pleading and getting louder. “Please, sir. Just knock on his door. Two-A. Pleaseeee! I really need to see him!”

  “No, it’s late, man. Go wait outside or I’m calling the cops. Come on, don’t make me be an asshole.” I pulled my phone out of my pocket. The guy looked more than a little jittery. I had seen Trainspotting ten million times on cable; I wasn’t taking any chances that this guy was Francis fucking Begbie.

  His voice rose. He spit his words at me. “Why would you call the cops? I’m his friend, sir.” He stared me dead in the eyes. I could feel a bit of perspiration beading up on my forehead. Why did everyone want to fight me lately?

  I fingered the “9” button on my phone, then gestured with the phone toward the door. “He’s not home, I’m telling you, man.”

  “Bullshit, man!” he erupted. “I know he’s there, I can see in his window from outside. I saw him!”

  The front door opened and in walked Patty. She looked up at me and then at the ragged crackhead. “Walter, what are you doing in here?” she said, staring at him.

  “Nothing. I was cold and…”

  “I told you never to come in here.” Her voice was like a drill sergeant’s. “Get out before I get the cops, and if the cops come…Robert. Will. Kill. You. Let’s go. Out out out.” She grabbed his arm and showed him to the door. “Wait outside, we don’t care. In here, we care. Good-bye.” And away he shuffled, like a teenager dressed down by a tough mom.

  “You,” I said, smiling as she turned back to face me, “are no joke. He wasn’t going to listen to me, but you took care of him like that.”

  “Well, he knows I know Robert. But it’s all in the tone of voice. It’s the same with dogs. You have to talk to them like you’re their master, that’s the key. You don’t ask them to sit—you tell the
m.” She leaned against the banister. “What are you up to? Going in or out?”

  “I was just on my way in,” I said, still shaking off the scene. “How about you, calling it a night?”

  “I was,” said Patty. “But if you’re up for it, I’d pop across the road for a quick one at the White Horse,” she said, raising her eyebrows.

  I was kind of wide-awake now. “Okay. But you have to escort me home after so Walter doesn’t beat me up.”

  “Oh, hush,” she said, walking to the door and holding it open for me.

  * * * * *

  The White Horse was pretty crowded, so we grabbed two pints and found some space to stand in the corner near the jukebox. Patty held up her glass. “To the successful completion of our mission and the defeat of our enemies.” I wasn’t sure what that meant but I clinked her glass all the same and let the cold Harp numb my tongue. I flipped through the jukebox’s offerings. Van Morrison was playing, furthering my belief that the White Horse did not have one of the more up-to-date jukeboxes in the city. Evidence: Huey Lewis was still present. I tried to picture the human who might put on “I Want a New Drug” without irony. It could only be one of the News.

  Patty excused herself to go to the bathroom and I chipped away at my beer. I wondered if people might think I was out boozing with my mom. I kicked myself in the ass for the thought the second it zipped through my consciousness; I hated when I became a cynical bastard like that. There were a million of those in this city, it was a pretty unoriginal style. Not many people here could say a positive thing without adding a “but.” They’d seen it all before, and even if they hadn’t, they’d pretend they had. A spaceship could land and people would be like, “Oh, you’re from Mars? That’s so expected. I was hoping for Saturn.” Any sincere thoughts were immediately roughed up and taken advantage of, like rubes stepping off the all-night bus from Iowa. People laughed out loud a little less here, they were guarded. They didn’t want to show they’d been surprised or something.