I Just Want My Pants Back

by David J. Rosen

  After a few seconds, Jennifer got up and went to the bathroom. I lay there for a moment, still feeling a twinge of pain in my thumb. I had the strange urge to smell it, which I repressed, but it was harder to repress than it should have been. She came out and tumbled back into bed. “I am so drunk,” she said, curling into the pillow. “Oh my God, I can’t believe we just did that.”

  “It was fun,” I said, kissing her head. I took my turn in the bathroom, feeling fucking drunk as shit myself. I washed my thumb with soap and water. It looked a little pruney, like I had stayed in the pool too long. I stumbled into the main room, turned off the stereo, and stumbled back into bed.

  We lay quietly for a few moments. Then I said, “Hey, you okay over there?”

  “Yeah. I just…I just really shouldn’t have done that.”

  “I’m sorry, I…”

  “It’s okay, Jason, it’s fine. It’s my issue. We really don’t need to talk about it.” She kissed my neck softly and closed the subject. As we both passed out, I gave in and smelled the thumb. Ivory soap.

  * * * * *

  And then, something felt wrong. Something woke me. Jennifer was sitting up in the bed. I pretended to sleep but I watched her out of a half-open eye. “Fuck, fuck, fuck,” she mouthed. Her head dipped with each “fuck.”

  Then like that she was up and getting dressed. She followed the trail of clothes into the other room. My brain was fuzzy and so was my vision without glasses. The clock looked like it read 5:21. The sound went from the patter of bare feet on the wood floor to the clomp of heels. She walked past me in the bed, straight to the door, and fumbled with the bolt. She was just going to slip out. Not even say good-bye. I couldn’t just let her leave. I had to say something.

  “Hey,” I whispered, pretending to wake up. “Are you going?”

  Startled, she held the door open a crack, the light streaming in from the stairwell. She whispered without turning. “I have to go to an early study group.” She was halfway out the door. “Bye,” she whispered.

  “Wait, um…” I whispered back. But it was too late. She was gone down the stairs. It sounded like she was running.

  I lay there, puzzled, too much unwanted adrenaline now dripping into my too-tired bloodstream. My body chemistry was at the exact point where the balance was tipping from “still drunk” to “hello, hangover.” Go to sleep, I told myself. Think about this later. Repress and deny, repress and deny. Eventually my thoughts slowed and my heart slowed and the vein throbbing in my forehead slackened. I was determined to get as much sleep as I could before I had to leave for work. I found a comfortable position and consciousness began to fade. I realized I didn’t know Jennifer’s number, her e-mail, anything. And she didn’t know mine. The best I could do was call Rabbi Stan’s cell phone. His polyphonic Hava Nagilah ringtone began to play in my skull. Christ, I was still a little high, wasn’t I?

  “Yessiree,” said Quaid, tucking me in. He waved bye-bye and off I drifted.

  * * * * *

  I woke up and the clock read 10:45. Shit shit shit I was fucking late. I pulled on the boxers and dirty jeans that were strewn on the floor by the coffee table. I grabbed a shirt off the floor of the closet. I felt wobbly. I burped and tasted the bad taste. Oh my God. Oh my vengeful God.

  I shook myself out of it, grabbed my wallet, flung the door open, and took the stairs two at a time, the subway my destination. I pictured Jennifer going down these same steps hours ago, and The Fear ratcheted up a notch. I sprinted out of the building and almost smacked into Patty on the sidewalk.

  “What’s the rush, stranger?” she said, a twinkle in her eye.

  I was out of breath. “Hey. Wow, how are you? Good to see you.” I was babbling. My head itched and I scratched it. She looked good, I thought, the same as ever, thank God. “So, oh yeah, I’m just running to work. I’m really late,” I gestured to my watchless wrist.

  “And I’m just on my way back from chemo. Fun stuff.” She brushed a blowing hair from her eyes, smiled, and waved me on. “Go, go. Come by later tonight and we’ll catch up.”

  “I will. Tonight. Definitely. So good to see you!” I yelled over my shoulder and double-timed it to the subway.

  14

  I got to JB’s by 11:25, which frankly was a fucking miracle given the circumstances. I sat down at the front desk and tore into a chocolate doughnut with colored sprinkles that I had bought from a street vendor. To say I felt like dogshit would be an insult to dogshit.

  I opened my IM and got Tina.

  doodyball5:

  the fear is here

  tinadoll:

  what?

  doodyball5:

  worst hangover ever

  tinadoll:

  how was yentl?

  doodyball5:

  that’s why i’m writing

  tinadoll:

  please don’t bore me

  doodyball5:

  she came back to my place

  tinadoll:

  she was drunk too, eh?

  doodyball5:

  yes, wasted. wiseass

  tinadoll:

  go on

  doodyball5:

  while we were fooling around…

  tinadoll:

  she puked all over you

  doodyball5:

  no.

  tinadoll:

  stop the suspense stephen fucking king

  doodyball5:

  she said she didn’t believe in premarital sex

  tinadoll:

  that’s a “con”

  doodyball5:

  but 2 mins later…she slipped it in

  tinadoll:

  !

  tinadoll:

  wait—she did or you did?

  doodyball5:

  she! i am a gentleman

  tinadoll:

  naturally

  doodyball5:

  but then at 5am, she snuck out—she left!

  tinadoll:

  yikes. really?

  doodyball5:

  yeah, it was weird. she totally bolted

  tinadoll:

  um…

  tinadoll:

  u didn’t deflower her by any chance, did u spaz?

  doodyball5:

  no!

  tinadoll:

  u positive?

  doodyball5:

  she didn’t say she was a virgin or anything

  tinadoll:

  no one ever does, dude

  doodyball5:

  stop trying to freak me out. she wasn’t a virgin

  tinadoll:

  sure, maybe she just needed to run off to prepare shabbat dinner

  doodyball5:

  you’re making me feel worse. this isn’t why i wrote u

  tinadoll:

  you did nothing wrong. virgins are just super emotional

  doodyball5:

  stop it, fucker! i feel bad enough. i sort of liked her

  tinadoll:

  and now she is going to burn in hell for all eternity

  JB walked over and I quickly quit out of IM. He was wearing a gray-striped shirt and, shocker—black pants instead of jeans. He paused at the front of the desk and looked sort of past me. “Hey, Jason, are you busy right now?” he asked, in a nasal monotone.

  “No, not too bad,” I said. “Just tidying up some files. Need a hand with something?”

  “Yes, um, come on into my office for a second.” He turned and started toward it, so I got up and followed him. I had never noticed how high an ass JB had. He could probably reach over his shoulder and take his wallet out of his back pocket. He waited for me to enter and then gestured to a chair, which I took. Then he closed the door.

  * * * * *

  On my first day at JB’s, Melinda told me I could decorate the right side of our shared computer monitor; she had already plastered the left with Sleater-Kinney stickers. I hung up a newspaper clipping I had saved from the last few days of my European travel, which I had spent on my own, in Turkey. Everyone else had headed to Io
s to get shitfaced, but I desperately wanted to go someplace off the beaten path, impressive, scary-sounding. I made a mistake when I got off the train alone in Istanbul, and I ended up bunking in hooker central. And the next day when I went into the vast spice market, I got stuck in a maze of bodies and cumin from which it literally took me hours to escape. It was just what I had wanted.

  On my way to dinner one night, I picked up a copy of the English-language newspaper, the Ankara Times. I had learned by then that dining without reading material forced me to examine the food a little too closely; not an appetizing move when eating at the cheapest places. The big story of the day was about a diminutive world-champion Turkish weight lifter who, amazingly, stood only four foot eleven. The tiny folk hero had just been knocked out of a tournament and had subsequently announced his retirement to the nation, simply saying, “Good-bye, it’s over.”

  I was already standing on the street outside JB’s when I realized I had left the article upstairs. I held a Duane Reade bag filled with the only other possessions I kept at the office: A Duncan yo-yo, a calendar/address book, and a just-in-case deodorant. I couldn’t believe I had just been fired. Or laid off. Or as JB had put it, “We’re not really laying you off, we’re just so slow right now there’s no need for you. But as soon as work picks up, you’ll hear from us.” He was actually very nice about the whole thing, and I think, maybe, close to tears. My stomach was making weird noises the entire time, which both of us overlooked given the gravity of the situation. He promised to write me a letter of recommendation if I needed it and to let me know if he heard of any temp jobs or anything. Then he shook my hand and gave me my last check. Before I left my desk for the last time, I quickly sent Tina an e-mail telling her I really needed to see her for a drink tonight. I told her to meet me at eight at the Lakeside Lounge, and then I got the fuck out of there, unintentionally leaving the article’s headline behind as my epitaph. BROKEN DREAMS FOR POCKET HERCULES.

  I still felt hung over. But I looked both ways, crossed the street, and walked the thirty blocks home. I had to start saving money for more important endeavors.

  * * * * *

  I leaned back in my stool at the Lakeside and took a sip of the five-dollar Negra Modelo. I couldn’t believe I was drinking again, after last night’s debacle. But it was the traditional thing to do after getting canned, I rationalized. I had stopped by Patty’s around seven but she wasn’t in, so I left a note saying I’d swing back later and headed directly to the caring arms of the bar. Where else was I going to go? I poured more cold beer down my throat. I was doing the best I could to squash the “What now?” thoughts that were bubbling out of the nervous part of my central nervous system. That was best left for tomorrow. Tonight, I just wanted to be like a country song and drink to forget.

  I looked at my cell phone. Eight-thirty. I hadn’t heard from Tina after my e-mail, but then again, I had sent it from my work e-mail and I couldn’t check that ever again. I banged out a text, asking if she was coming. She might just be on her way. In New York there were a million uncontrollable circumstances that could make you late and very few that would help you be punctual. I polished off the Negra Modelo and ordered another, which the bartender, a gangly woman in a straw cowboy hat, served instantaneously, as if my thirst had been foretold. Tina wasn’t there, yet already I’d dropped twelve bucks, with tip. Ooof. I looked around. The bar was still pretty empty this early. Another couple sat in the corner, and there was a young guy in a baseball hat sitting on a stool at the end of the bar reading a book. That wasn’t much for me to work with. Who else could I get to join me? There was no way in hell I was calling over to Stacey and Eric’s house. Just the thought of what Stacey might say gave me hives.

  At nine I called Tina’s cell. No answer. I ordered and chugged my third beer. Eighteen dollars. I started getting the feeling she wasn’t coming. I also got the feeling of being buzzed again. I ate a stale peanut out of a bowl. I eyed the muted ESPN highlights on the bar TV. I tried not to feel pathetic.

  I called Tina—no answer again—so I left a message. The bar had filled up and I had just spent almost two hours drinking by myself. I walked outside and looked up and down the street, like maybe she’d just be pulling up.

  I started walking toward the L train when I heard a huge crack of thunder. A beat later giant raindrops began pelting all the poor suckers like me on the street. Everyone scattered, ducking into doorways and delis. I ran all the way to the subway; by the time I got there I was completely soaked. My sneakers squished and my glasses fogged up. I jumped onto the train and plopped into a seat, shivering in the air-conditioning. The man across from me wore aviator sunglasses and was listening to an old Walkman, zipping and unzipping his fly to the beat, it seemed. He peered over the top of his glasses at me and smiled. Great.

  I looked away and caught my reflection in the window as we sped through the dark tunnel. Awesome day. Fanfuckingtastic. Water was dripping down my face. I was really getting my ass kicked.

  Finally we reached my stop. The rain continued outside and I gave in to it. I couldn’t possibly get any wetter. I trudged the few blocks home. At every light I leaned my head back, opened my mouth, and tried to at least get a free drink.

  * * * * *

  I stepped inside my apartment, stripped down, and toweled myself off. The towel smelled like mold; I really needed to do a wash. I guessed I could do one the next day, seeing as I wouldn’t be going to work. There was a bobby pin on the floor in the bathroom, it must’ve been Jennifer’s. I picked it up and rolled it around in my fingers, wondering how she had spent her day. Probably scrubbing off the shame I had brought upon her.

  Miraculously my wet cell phone was working and I saw I had a text from Tina. She and Brett had just gotten out of a movie; could we catch up tomorrow? I was fucking annoyed, although I had no right to be, since she didn’t know why I wanted to go out, after all. But still, she should have been available, somehow she should have known. It wasn’t fair, but fair could suck it.

  I put on some dry clothes, a gray T-shirt and the only dry, non-suitish pants I had left, the super-dirty jeans. It wasn’t like Mr. Laid-Off could go on a shopping spree to the Pants Emporium either. Goddamn that Jane, I hoped her vagina was being plagued by a yeast infection or locusts, something itchy and hard as fuck to kill. I flicked a bit of what seemed to be chocolate off my left thigh. I put my tongue to my finger. Yep, chocolate. I was like a hobo.

  I went over to Patty’s, hoping she was in. I tried to buck up and appear cheerful as I knocked the old “shave and a haircut” on her door.

  A moment later it opened. “Well hi, neighbor, come on in,” she said, giving way. Patty was in her pajamas, really pajama bottoms and an oversized three-quarter-sleeve baseball shirt. She looked like she might have been asleep, although I could hear the TV on. I shuffled inside and we went into her living room.

  “So, how have you been?” I asked her, sitting on the far end of her sofa.

  “I’ve been better,” she smiled. She clicked off the TV with the remote and sat down. “Soooooo. I guess I sort of dropped a bomb on you last week. But you know, you already seemed to be feeling pretty rotten so I thought what the hell, why not give you the bad news then? Better than ruining a happy time, right?” She stood back up. “Hey, you want something to drink?”

  We went into the kitchen to make some tea. She filled a kettle under the tap. “I’m feeling pretty tired these days, as you can imagine. What with the poison I’m ingesting to kill the other poison before it kills me. All this killing really knocks a girl out,” she said, putting the kettle on the burner.

  I pulled some mugs out of her cupboard and located the honey in the same one. We didn’t have all that many cupboards in our tiny identical kitchens. I placed the stuff on the counter and sort of asked the big one. “So, like, how’s that all working, the chemo?”

  “Well, remember how I told you I was dying?” Patty said, wiping her hands on her PJ bottoms.

  “Yeah.
”

  “I am. But just in the way that all human beings are slowly aging and dying. In terms of the lung cancer, well, I might have overstated the case.” She smiled. “My doctor thinks I should be able to lick this, no problem. They caught it late, but luckily it’s not too aggressive. Sorry about the scare, but what can I say?” She twirled around rather nimbly and did a variation on jazz hands. “I do have a flair for the dramatic!”

  I exhaled with relief. “Well, thank God you’re okay. I was definitely nervous last week, especially because we didn’t run into each other. But then, you know, the thought did cross my mind about knocking down the wall between our places so I could expand in. I was trying to be a glass-half-full kind of guy.” I smiled, to make sure she didn’t miss the joke.

  The kettle whistled and Patty took it off the stove. “Now you sound like a real New Yorker, Jason.” She poured the hot water into our mugs and dropped in the tea bags. I doctored mine with honey; she took hers straight. “But listen, little lamb, I’m not totally okay. I have to go through all this damn chemo and stuff. And it’s going to make me really weak some days. So, if I need a hand getting groceries or something, do you think maybe you can help me out?”