I Just Want My Pants Back

by David J. Rosen

  As I leafed through the documents and she went on and on and on about how she saw the whole event playing out, I began to feel a little overwhelmed. I knew this was an honor and all, but like in the army, honor usually required great sacrifice, and I started to feel a little concerned about what I was getting myself into.

  But of course I nodded along in all the right places and smiled and hugged her and quickly agreed to it. How couldn’t I? I mean, was there some way I couldn’t?

  From the look on Stacey’s face, not really.

  * * * * *

  It was Saturday night. It was on.

  I stood with Tina in the corner of a bar on Avenue B and Seventh Street, cleverly called 7B. We each had a belly full of whiskey and a brain full of THC. Plus, to stay awake, we had been snorting Ritalin; I don’t think it was curing our adult attention deficit disorder, though, as our conversational skills were now based on tangents, non sequiturs, and epithets. We were shattered and threatening to leave but had full drinks and were firmly planted with a good view of the bar. It was full of twentysomething downtowners in assorted stylish smocks. It was a little like looking into a mirror, but somehow we believed we were far more genuine than the others. You couldn’t trust the others. They looked like us and they talked like us, but at night, they went home and slept in pods. You could just tell. Not us. We had beds.

  Tina had been calling me Rebbe Goodgirl all night, after I told her the secret was out. I had been calling her a filthy whore, but it was falling flat. I was still feeling a bit weirded out by Stacey’s request, and it was buzzing around the back of my brain like a fly trapped in a car. Stacey and I had been really tight at school, and I still counted her as one of my closest friends. Yet over the last few years, and even more so recently, we had begun to drift apart. Things were changing. Maybe it was because Eric was older, but Stacey was really into acting grown-up and hosting the kind of dinner parties where the cutlery matched and you sipped (never swigged) wine and played Pictionary and people were couples and the conversation veered to serious but boring topics like accountants and buying an apartment versus renting one. After a while everyone started to sound like Charlie Brown’s teacher to me. I just felt like Stacey and Eric, and some of their new friends, were rushing to leave youth behind and become adults. They could not wait to take on the next phase of responsibility. “Give it to us!” they yelled. “We have broad shoulders!” It was just so goddamn dull. So the truth was, we didn’t get together nearly as much as we used to. But I did love them, I really did. They just scared me sometimes.

  Before the onslaught of toxins on the brain rendered me speechless, I voiced my doubts to Tina about the rabbi thing. She was quite supportive. She put her hand on my shoulder and said, sincerely, “You, sir, are fucked.” Then she laughed, “I’m joking, but it’s a huge responsibility, no question. It’s her wedding, you have to be prepared and go into it knowing it’s the most important day in her life. You cannot be the one to fuck it up. I’m so happy for them, but…the hell if I’d want to do it! I mean, you know Stacey, she’s going to have like over three hundred people there, her grandparents are coming from Germany, she has like twelve bridesmaids, blah blah blah. And she’s very, what’s the word…particular.”

  “Oh, I’m feeling way less anxious about it now, thanks,” I said. I scratched my head. “Why do you think she wanted me to do it?”

  “Because of what she told you, you introduced them and all. It sounds silly, but girls are really queer like that, trust me. And you’re funny, and you’ll make the ceremony fun, and she wants it to be really special, not just some other wedding. You’ll be great. By the way, I have to listen to her talk about this all the fucking time, you’re only just getting sucked in now. I’ve already heard her treatise on ‘band versus DJ.’”

  I groaned.

  Finding out you were to stand as a rabbi in front of three hundred people, some from Europe, and fuse two friends together for life required somewhere around thirteen drinks—a true bar mitzvah–style drunk—and Tina and I had been doing our best to reach that magic number. The good people at 7B were obliging. It was your classic East Village joint, the kind of non-theme bar that was getting harder to find—local acts like the Bouncing Souls and the Liars on the jukebox, a couple of slimy pinball machines, tattooed bartenders whose bands were playing somewhere sometime soon—and if those reasons weren’t enough to buy a pint, 7B was also the bar in Crocodile Dundee, the film in which Paul Hogan mouthed the famous words that defined a generation: “That’s not a knife. THAT’s a knife.”

  Tina was single too, although she had met some guy a week or two before who she had “a feeling” about. But as with Jane and me, she hadn’t hung out with him sober and during daylight hours yet, and basically until that happened it could really go either way. The right drugs helped you tolerate the not-so-tolerable, and Tina always had the right drugs. Stacey once told us that one of the best parts of being in a relationship was that you could go home before you were too wasted or too exhausted. There was nothing to stay out late for, to have that one regrettable drink for. That was my favorite one, though, the uh-oh one, the crossover. The one that made you teeter between being fucking brilliant and dangerously out of line. Stacey’s pro-relationship comment was meant to sound nice and comforting, but it lacked the whole reason bars existed. Possibilities.

  I told Tina all about my second encounter with shy, reserved Jane. She told me I could expect a cold sore in four to six days. She started texting someone about something and so I made my way to the men’s room, bumping into more people than I should have. I was shivering with intoxicants. 7B’s bathroom was a little cozy for more than one person, but as there was a line, people were crowding in two at a time, sometimes three, with the odd man out taking the sink. Classless. I eventually took my turn at the overflowing urinal with the “My unicorn could kick your unicorn’s ass” graffiti written on the yellowing porcelain. Next to me was the filthiest toilet I had ever seen, one I could only describe as an absolute pit of despair. Someone had some serious digestive issues.

  I got back to Tina and took my place next to her.

  “Where were you, you fat piece of shit?” she asked, smiling dangerously.

  “Spike Jonze is back there. He said he liked my sneakers but he hated my shirt. I think he wanted to kiss me, maybe. It was weird. I felt ‘a vibe.’”

  “And you let him get away with that? Where is he?”

  “No, it’s cool—I broke a mug across his jaw. He’s fucked forever. He left bloody and crying.”

  She pulled the lemon from her drink and tossed it onto the floor. “That reminds me, I just figured out a new band name for myself, if I ever have a band.” We both continued absentmindedly sipping our drinks and staring out at the people. I felt like they couldn’t see us, like it was TV and it only worked one way.

  “What is it?”

  “Daddy’s Stabbing Mommy.”

  “I don’t get it.”

  “You know, like when a little kid walks in on his parents having sex and yells, ‘Daddy’s stabbing Mommy!’”

  “You’re retarded,” I said, grinning.

  She pointed at a stain on my shirt. “And you’re a sad little rabbi with a dirty tallith.” She turned her head and yawned loudly. “I think I need to go home. I’m going to have a massive bout of The Fear in the morning, I’m a fucking mess.” She was. She looked like a smeared version of herself. Or maybe that was because I couldn’t see straight. “Plus, Brett just texted me that he’s downtown. I just might let him take me upstairs and give me a foot massage.”

  “We need to give that guy a nickname. Brett, that’s just sort of…not descriptive.”

  “Okay, ‘Jason.’ He has a big dick, maybe you can come up with something from that,” she said, laughing. “He does, though—seriously.” She reached out and put her glass on the edge of someone’s table. Then she put her hand up to them and waved. “Enjoy the veal, good night.” She turned back to me. “Want to walk
out with me?”

  “Um, I think I’m gonna finish my drink. But it was fun, right? It was the best night ever?”

  “Totally awesome, I can’t wait to go home and write about it in my dream journal.” Tina straightened herself out and threw on her jacket. “Don’t stay out too late, Rabbi,” she said, wagging a finger, then turned and began parting bodies on her way toward the door.

  It only took four more swallows and a burning feeling in my eyes for me to realize it was high time to away to my bed. I checked my phone but there was nothing, zip. I fingered the buttons, considered texting Jane, but caught myself. I stumbled outside, gave some paper from my pocket to an exotic-smelling man with a yellow car, and soon I was home and asleep.

  5

  After the debacle at Seth Strasser’s sixth-grade birthday party, it looked like it was going to be one long tongue-less summer for me. My hopes weren’t high when I attended a pool party at Carol’s house in mid-July. It was a classic hot summer day, and while other kids flirted awkwardly on the grass, I horsed around in the water, playing some game that was a combination of water polo and kill-the-guy-with-the-ball. Misty Blank swam over to me. Misty had an identical twin sister, Christy, but they went to private school so we didn’t see them very often. That only made them all the more attractive to the boys; in our eyes the two blond sisters were both miniature Pam Andersons. I couldn’t really tell them apart; I only knew it was Misty from the “MB” monogrammed on her one-piece.

  “Hi, Jason.”

  “Hi.”

  She scratched her nose. “My sister likes you if you like her first.”

  “Really?”

  “Yuh-huh. So?”

  I shrugged. “I like her first, I guess.”

  She swam away. Ten minutes later I was out of the pool, picking through some salty Ruffles and Lipton onion-soup dip when Christy, in a “CB”-initialed suit, flip-flopped over.

  “Hi.”

  “Hi.”

  “Do you want to go for a walk in the woods?”

  Barefoot, I followed her into the suburban-grade forest that marked the edge of Carol’s lawn, the twigs biting into my tender feet. Despite the pain, I had enough of a grasp of manhood to know you didn’t scream “Ow!” when you were oh-so-close. We were both still wet from the pool, and Christy’s blond hair was dripping water down her back. We stopped by a tree. Christy leaned against it.

  “Ever kiss anyone?” she asked me. She took a piece of gum out of her mouth and chucked it clumsily, the weird mechanics of a girl throw. It went six feet and hit the dirt.

  “Uh-huh, sure.”

  It was cold there in the shade and I was shivering a bit. She put her closed lips up to mine. We stood stone still, lips stiff, hands hanging dumbly at our sides, like Siamese twins attached at the mouth. I opened my eyes and saw that hers were open too, so I quickly clamped mine shut again. I felt something on my lips. It was her tiny pink tongue, and it pried my mouth open and then it was inside. It was all warm and minty and it was official, I was French-kissing. More than anything sexual, I remember feeling relief. I had finally reached first base.

  Back then, the girls really took the lead. But things seemed to have changed over the years. The girls just didn’t seem to chase the boys all that much anymore. Or at least my girl Jane wasn’t chasing me. It was now a week and a half since she had slept over, and I hadn’t heard a peep from her. I had even texted her late Wednesday night after another bout of debauchery with Tina, “My turn—u up?” No response. I tried to rationalize that maybe she had gone to China or something for work, but in my head that annoying “Nah nah nah nah, hey, hey, hey—good-bye” song was playing. Repeatedly. It was just plain weird that she hadn’t gotten back to me; I mean, I didn’t remember completely blowing it. In fact, I thought it had gone sort of well.

  It was nearing eleven on Friday and I was sitting at the receptionist’s desk at JB’s. The office was slow and so was the news online. I checked my e-mail every eighteen seconds, looking for something interesting, spam, anything. I watched the clock tick and tick. Melinda was running errands all morning, so I was stuck there all alone for the next couple of hours. I thought about my options. I could maybe start in on a rubber band ball; JB had one on his desk that was fairly impressive. Perhaps I could top it. Or I could make a paper-clip chain of ludicrous length—a paper-clip jump rope, even. God, I was bored. Maybe I could slip out and get high and eat a wheel of cheese. I just wished something would happen, anything. The worst feelings in the world were boredom and nausea. But at least when you were nauseated, you didn’t have the feeling you were wasting your time.

  I had nothing else to do, so I figured what the fuck and shot Jane another e-mail. She was on my brain, and my brain controlled the fingers that started jabbing at the keyboard. Hell, one more e-mail couldn’t really make matters any worse at this point. And if I went zero for three, then I’d at least know it was officially kaput.

  Hey Jane,

  Woke up this morning and went to put on my Dickies and then I remembered—hey…you have them! Give me a shout and let’s catch up, make a plan. I have other clothing items that will fit you fantastically…

  Mr. Giggles

  I hit SEND and then began composing an e-mail to my folks. We were pretty bad at staying in touch; even in college I’d go weeks at a time without speaking to them. My mom liked to think of it as a genetic flaw in the family: We were all self-sufficient to the point of negligence. I caught them up on the news I thought they’d be most interested in: my imminent role as rabbi. They had actually met Stacey and Eric on a visit out to Cornell. “Your son is finally a rabbi, Mom, just like you always dreamed!” I joked. We weren’t a very religious family, to say the least. Judaism was, for us, more Woody Allen, less Abraham and Esther. I had been bar mitzvahed and all that, but at the time it was really just about getting heaps of gifts and playing “Coke and Pepsi.” We never, ever went to services; to me temple seemed like a building where men went to show off their new cars and women their new dresses and jewelry. Our cantor had even had an affair with a woman from the congregation. Now he owned a Mercury dealership on the way to the airport.

  I shot off a few more e-mails to friends; maybe I could have lunch with someone or at least make plans for the weekend. It wasn’t like I was changing the world at JB’s—just the toner. Nights held a lot more interest.

  I yawned and looked over at the office clock again. It had hardly moved. I forced myself to try to do something productive. I scrolled back in time until I spotted Stacey’s e-mail with Scott Langford’s info in it, and took a crack.

  Scott—

  Hi, it’s Jason Strider from Cornell. Hope all is well with you.

  I heard through the Cornell grapevine that you landed at Fader—major congrats on that! Don’t worry, I’m not writing for a free subscription. (Although, if you can give them out easily…) But, I was wondering if you had any inkling how one could apply to be a music reviewer there?

  I doubt you’d remember, but I DJ’d up at school. It was an eclectic show called “The Mostly Phenomenal and Fully Enjoyable Jason Strider Power Hour.” I played everything from the obscure experimental, like Moondog, to the ironic, Menudo. Mostly though, I focused on all things Indie. Each week I’d review several new releases, in detail, on the air.

  Anyway, I’d appreciate any guidance you can offer on the reviewer thing. Thanks so much, Scott.

  Go Big Red!

  Jason

  I looked it over and did a spell-check. It seemed to make sense. I mumbled “Fuck it,” and quickly clicked SEND. For a moment I had the sense of fulfillment one gets after completing a chore they’ve left undone for far too long, like doing the dishes or burying a body.

  The moment passed. I leaned back in my chair and looked around. What else could I be doing right now? What would I be doing six months from now? I tried to see what my life would be like five or ten years down the road, but invariably it was impossible to see anything clearly. How did people do
that? I had trouble picturing what I was going to eat for dinner.

  I just didn’t want to spend the bulk of my waking hours on this planet yawning and sighing and waiting for five o’clock, all for the little bits of green paper that eventually blew out of my life and into the hands of cabdrivers, bartenders, drug dealers, and bodega cashiers. But I hadn’t found a reasonable alternative yet. And it wasn’t working at some “real” but equally uninspiring job until ten every night so I could afford more expensive jeans and double desserts. Although lately I’d thought I heard Tina mumble when picking restaurants that a certain place might be too expensive. Too expensive for me, is what she meant. There just had to be some way I could beat the system.

  The computer made the duck-quack sound informing me I had a new e-mail. Jane? Langford? Nope, it was Eric. Not only was he around for lunch, he wanted to buy me lunch. He hadn’t yet seen me since I had been anointed his rabbi, and he wanted to thank me. Was I available?

  Fuck yes, I was.

  * * * * *

  Eric and I finished up our lunch specials at the sushi place around the corner from my office and made our way back out to the street. The sun was beaming down and we basked in its warmth like sated lions; the soup, salad, and raw fish had filled us to the bursting point. Eric was really tall, I remembered now that we were standing. I always forgot his height, almost six foot five. He looked a little worn-out. He had spent lunch telling me some of the more disturbing tales of being a resident, which besides long hours and only one day off included having to touch horrible people on horrible parts of their bodies. “It’s a bit like joining a fraternity and being hazed,” he had explained. The things the ER doctors didn’t want to do, the residents got. Which, in New York, according to Eric, often involved men who took too much Viagra and needed to have the blood siphoned from their unwaveringly erect penises with a hypodermic needle. Yeah, I just didn’t like people enough to ever help them out with stuff like that. It went without saying that Eric was a far better person than I. He came from a family of surgeons—his mom, dad, and older brother. He would be one soon too; he just had to get through this penis-draining phase and on to the real work. He would; he was irritatingly patient.