I Just Want My Pants Back

by David J. Rosen

“So…” I said. “You don’t really like robots, do you?”

  “Yeah, I do,” she laughed. “Robots are cool.”

  “Sure, until they become self-aware and start replicating. Then we’re in big trouble.”

  “Well, we can always just unplug them, right?”

  “Oh, if only it were that easy.” I took a long pull on the Pabst. “The coming robot war, it’s going to be hell.” I grinned. She grinned back. I decided to go for it. I winked at her, charmingly goofy. “So, anyway, are you a little infatuated with me now? I mean, it’s to be expected, I am a hero.”

  The blonde gave me a sad little look. “You are a hero,” she said. “But…I have a boyfriend.”

  “Oh, uh, me too,” I said, leaning back on my stool, trying to recover. “But I’m not all throwing him in your face.”

  Sue came back from the bathroom, interrupting at just the right moment, and pointed a finger at me. “You know what,” she said grinning wildly, obviously a little a drunk herself. “I think it was you!” Her voice started to rise. “I think it was you who peed all over the bathroom, that’s what I think!”

  “That’s bullshit,” I said back, just as loud. I hopped off my stool. “I am deadly accurate, Missy. I’m like a laser.”

  About a half-hour later, after the three of us had swallowed even more poison, the blonde went home to Mr. Wrong. I chatted up Sue for a few more minutes. She was all taut and pretty and wasted, her lipstick smeared in the sexiest of ways. I wanted to challenge her to a WWE-style no-holds-barred wrestling match. I wanted to plant a flag on her pubis and proclaim to the four winds, “All this territory, including the hills to the north, belongs to me.” But it wasn’t going to happen. It turned out she had a boyfriend too, a boyfriend who showed up and bought us a round. He seemed like a good guy, the bastard.

  I stepped outside, defeated. I raised my hand and felt my way into a yellow vehicle. The driver deciphered my slurred speech and headed toward my apartment. Out the window, a couple held hands at a bus stop. I checked my phone, my eyes struggling to focus. No voice mail, no late-night text from Jane, nothing. I snapped it shut and jammed the piece of shit into my pocket. What the fuck, Jane? Return a fucking message. Or at least give me my goddamned pants back. My poor Dickies, they were probably balled up on the floor of her apartment right now, surrounded by stray Prozacs and the cell-phone numbers to eight other dudes like me. And maybe a severed thumb. Shit, for all I knew she was a sexual predator with a thumb fetish. I really thought she was into me too, Jesus. Was I just blinded by vagina? I traced my upper lip with my tongue. Maybe I was going to get some kind of cold sore after all.

  We slowed to a stop and the cab deposited me in front of Andy’s Deli.

  “Hey, Boss!” said Bobby as I came in. “How you been?”

  “I feel like a hundred dollars.” I burped and stumbled and grabbed a Gatorade from the fridge. “Can I get some Advil?” I asked. Did I have any left or didn’t I? Better safe than sorry. It sure was bright in there. My retinas were en fuego.

  “Oh, rough night for you, Jason, huh? How many you want—big bottle?” He held up a large size, and I nodded. “Okay. So no girl again tonight, man?”

  “Why you always got to rub that in?” I slurred, fumbling through my wallet, eyes just slits. “I’m joking, Bobby, I’m a joker.”

  “Okay, okay. Good night, Boss. I pray for you!”

  I climbed the stairs and unlocked the door. I stumbled over to my computer and after mistyping my password twice, opened my e-mail. Booze had convinced me my mission was just.

  Jane,

  Well hell, I’m getting that feeling that I’m probably not gonna hear from you. That’s cool, I get it, no worries. I just want my pants back. I’d love to go out again, have a drink and get them, but if not, I still want them. You can mail them or messenger or send via carrier pigeon, whichever:

  Jason Strider

  99 Perry Street #3A

  NY NY 10014

  I hit SEND with the middle finger and then flopped onto my bed as fast as I could. I lay there with my jeans and shoes on and closed my eyes for a moment. Shit. I had the bad feeling. The bed began making slow rotations, so I tried the trick where you put one foot on the floor and one hand on the wall to steady yourself. It didn’t help. I was the tiny black ball and the bed was the roulette wheel. I felt a wave of hot unpleasantness wash over me. I hopped up, careened into the bathroom, dropped to my knees, and leaned on the toilet. I stared at the bottom of the bowl, where some weird yellowish film surrounded the hole, pieces of the film peeling off and floating. I gagged and considered my toothbrush resting on the sink. It was my expeditor in situations like this. I wasn’t the kind of guy who wrestled with the dry heaves; if I was going to get sick, I got it over with Karen Carpenter–style. I took a deep breath and made the call.

  Fuck it. I was going to fight.

  I yanked my shirt off and lay down on the cool, but filthy, tile floor. I had this theory based on stuff Eric had told me that sometimes worked, and I was hoping it would work now. The mind becomes analytical in times of crisis. The vestigial nerves run the length of the body. They cause nausea, vertigo, et cetera. The coolness of the floor and the cold sweats combined to lower body temperature, and for me, sometimes, it got rid of the nausea. I lay there while sweat poured down my face in unfathomable amounts. It stank like beer a little bit. I wiped my brow, my hair was soaked. I tried to think happy thoughts. I even thought about baby kittens I had seen romping in a pet-store window, but soon the vision turned ugly and they were scooped up in a pillowcase by a dirty little boy and tossed into a creek. Where did that come from?

  After a few minutes the sweats slowed, and I began to feel better. It was amazing how once the almost-moment of vomiting passed, you suddenly felt okay again. I sat up, bits of crap embedded in my back, pulled off my shoes and pants, and then got back into bed. I had dodged the bullet. Jesus shit, I hoped I wouldn’t be a mess in the morning. Before I closed my eyes I looked at the clock; it was only two. I was going to be okay. I was. It was going to be all lollipops and rainbows from here on out. Now I just had to sleep, and maybe dream. That was it for my “to do” list. I needed to stop thinking. I put the pillow over my head and waited.

  7

  I awoke the next morning with more than a touch of The Fear. Besides some lingering queasiness, I had a pain in my head that turned the light from the window into a knitting needle to the eye. Had I almost gotten in a fight? And that e-mail, Jesus, nothing brighter than sending a late-night drunken message, moron. It couldn’t be helped: The morning was going to be filled with feelings of longing and regret. Which is why if I was a real drinker, I would’ve gone right out for some kind of mimosa pick-me-up brunch. But instead I had the Gatorade and Advil I’d left on top of the toilet, still in the brown bag from the deli.

  It was a gray Saturday morning, and I was glad to see it. I didn’t need any glorious weather peer-pressuring me to get outside and enjoy the day. I wanted an egg-and-cheese on a roll and I wanted it now. I looked at the clock: ten-thirty. I wasn’t the type who could fall back to sleep. That was a gift that some people had; they could go back to sleep after waking up, or they could fall asleep in the middle seat on a packed airplane or next to a native transporting live chickens on a bus racing along a cliff in the Andes.

  I got dressed and went out to the diner around the corner, the Galaxy. The theme inside was just that. On the stained wooden walls were amateurish paintings of space scenes that looked a lot like a stoned sophomore’s art-class watercolor of Dark Side of the Moon. I especially liked one over a booth in the back that showed an astronaut on what looked like an asteroid, sharing fries with an alien creature. It was painted directly on the wall, a fresco.

  I went up to the counter to get my grease sandwich to go, but after I ordered I saw that I only had three dollars left in my wallet. That didn’t help those feelings of shame subside. I promised the guy I’d be back and walked down the block toward a cash machine. Ho
w much fucking money could I have dropped last night? The drinks were mostly free, dinner was free, what happened? I tried to remember how much I had started with but had no fucking idea.

  There was no line at the ATM, so I stepped right up and slipped my card into the slot. The nasty fingerprint-smeared screen told me I only had $145 left in my account. And payday wasn’t until next Friday. Do-able, but not altogether comfortable. I guessed I wasn’t getting that beach house with the stable of extremely flexible swimsuit models just yet. I got $40 and slunk out; I had to be among the bank’s least valuable customers. I pictured the tellers sitting around watching the security tapes of me, laughing their asses off.

  I got my sandwich and walked toward home. A shredded plastic bag blew past me and caught itself in a tree. The city was so disgustingly dirty sometimes. On a windy day like today I could feel bits of shit hitting me head-on; when I washed my face later the water would come off brown. I imagined my pores being packed with filth the way footprints on the beach were filled with blowing sand. And every few blocks, especially as the weather got warmer, the stink of urine would waft up. Human urine, dog urine, rat urine. I doubted there was a piece of pavement in Manhattan that had yet to be pissed on.

  I got to my building and saw Patty on her way out the front door. She was wearing an Army jacket and had on an old hunter’s cap with the earflaps down. And of course, on her feet, her signature sandals. The outfit was part Ted Nugent bow-hunter, part Deadhead magic-burrito maker.

  “Hi, neighbor,” she smiled. “The weather reverted on us, didn’t it?”

  “Yeah, it’s a good day for TV I think,” I said.

  “Oh hey, thanks for the joint. I haven’t tried it yet but it smelled very nice.”

  “No problem.” I held up my bag. “Hey, I don’t mean to rush off, but my egg sandwich is calling out to me.”

  “Go, go,” she said, waving her arm. “Listen, are you going to be around later?”

  “I think. I have no plans. Do you need a hand with something?”

  “I might. We’ll see.” She turned to go. “I may knock on your door; if you don’t want to see me, just pretend you’re out.” A gust of wind blew and she held on to her hat. “Oh, I can’t stand this breeze. Do you know that in certain parts of southern Spain, the wind is so constant that it’s been proven responsible for people becoming schizophrenic?” I shook my head. “It’s true. The wind has powerful psychiatric qualities.” She pulled sunglasses out of her pocket and put them on. Blueblocker specs with yellow lenses. She gestured toward the door. “Go eat before it gets cold. See ya.”

  I climbed the stairs, a bit weak and run-down. My tongue felt like it needed dredging and my sinuses were sort of achy. Could’ve been allergies, but I went into my apartment and, with the remaining Gatorade, swallowed a Vitamin C and beckoned my white blood cells to start fucking shit up.

  I found my ass groove on the couch and fit myself into it like I was a Lego. Then I ate my egg sandwich, feeling somewhat anemic. The food wasn’t filling me. I felt like calling someone but I wasn’t sure who. Tina was probably on her couch, Brett providing comfort via a cold compress and an Atavan; Stacey and Eric were probably doing something that would make me feel worse, something productive like helping build affordable housing for the poor or learning how to salsa-dance.

  I wished I had bought some chocolate, like a big ol’ Cadbury Fruit and Nut or something. I had nothing sweet in the house but I didn’t want to go back out. There was nothing for me out there, not today. I got up, woke up my computer, and checked my e-mail. There were two new ones. The first was from my credit-card company. They had a free gift for me. Right, and I had full payment for them. DELETE. The next one was from Langford at Fader.

  Jason,

  Hve no idea if we r looking. U can send me over 5 of your best published clips, or if u don’t have since yours were broadcast, any unpublished reviews you’ve written that I can show my boss.

  Scott

  Sent from my BlackBerry Wireless Device

  I re-read it and then went back to the couch. I lay down and put a pillow behind my head. I didn’t have any published clips. I didn’t have any unpublished ones either. Christ, I was fucking naïve. I turned on the tube and flipped around, looking for anything half-decent. I could write up some reviews, I supposed, just pick a few new albums and critique them. I mean not today, today would be a success if I simply didn’t slip into a coma. It didn’t seem like there was any rush anyway, he didn’t really make it sound that hopeful. Odds were he probably only wrote me back because he felt he had to or something. I clicked again and again and then thank god, there it was, the thing that was going to eat up my Saturday: Superman II. I lay back on the cushions, eyelids heavy, as Terence Stamp began his reign of terror on Planet Houston. I waited patiently for my favorite line: “Come to me, Superman. Come. Kneel before Zod.”

  * * * * *

  A knock on the door woke me up. “Who is it?” I yawned, rubbing my eyes. I had no idea what time it was, but Superman II was over, transformed into some kind of women’s golf tournament.

  “It’s your neighbor,” said my neighbor. Patty. I sat up, ambled over to the door, and opened it.

  “Hi, oh, did I wake you up?” she asked.

  “No, not really, I just sort of dozed off watching TV,” I said. We stood in the doorway. I wasn’t sure whether or not to invite her in.

  “You’ve got sleep lines on your face. Did you fall asleep on corduroy?”

  I felt my cheek. It did feel a bit corrugated. “Oh.” I managed a chuckle. “It must be the texture of my couch, I guess. Hey, do you want to come in?”

  “Great, thanks.” She pushed by me and went into my small main room. “I like your place,” she said, looking around. She sat on the couch, fished around in her pockets, and pulled out a cigarette. “Is it okay if I smoke?”

  “Yeah yeah, no problem.” I went into the fridge and pulled out a two-liter Diet Coke. “Want some?” I asked.

  She shook her head and lit up. I poured myself a glass, grabbed a mug to act as an ashtray, and sat down on the other end of the couch. It was the only place to sit. I sipped the soda and started to shake off the sleepiness. “Sorry, I’m sort of out of it. So, what have you been up to? I’ve just been here all day. I mean right here, on this couch. I had a late one last night.”

  “Oh, yeah?” She blew a perfect smoke ring. I’m talking perfect. It hung above her head and rotated, slowly dissipating and softening until it disappeared into the ceiling. She ashed into the mug and looked around my apartment.

  Patty smiled, and I smiled back. This was nice, something my parents might have done, had a neighbor over for a chitchat. Not that much different from the way it might happen in most suburbs of America, for better or worse. Well, actually, for better. I didn’t get the suburbs. Working all day was bad enough, but braving a bus or train and then the subway and the streets and the overcrowded elevator just for the privilege? Two hours a day wasted. No, I’d never understand that.

  Patty adjusted a pillow behind her back. “I was up very late myself. Almost until five. I’m trying to reorganize, you see. I’ve been going through all my possessions to just assess what I have, where I’ve been for the past year, where I’m going. It’s the season of rebirth, you know.” She exhaled another perfect smoke ring.

  “How do you do that?” I said, pointing to it. “I always wanted to be able to blow those.” I felt like a teenager outside the high school, talking to the bad kid.

  “You don’t smoke, though, do you, Jason?”

  I shook my head. “Just the pot.”

  “Filthy habit,” she said, consciously exhaling smoke away from me, out the side of her crooked mouth. “My clothes, my sheets, everything stinks. I used to have a dog, before you lived here. A little terrier mix, Jolly. Even she reeked of smoke. Believe me, you don’t want to start. However…” She stubbed out her smoke, leaned back, and reached into her jeans pocket, pulling out the spliff I had slipped under
her door yesterday. Was that yesterday? Christ, it felt like weeks ago. “I could try to show you with this little fellow.”

  “Oh, I don’t know. I probably shouldn’t,” I protested, waving a hand. Getting high now wasn’t a great idea, after only a few hours ago being on bended knee in the bathroom, pleading “No mas!” I looked at the microwave: 6:30. Hmm. But…if I got high now, I’d be exhausted early, and I’d definitely stay in tonight and not end up going out to some bar. It was some twisted kind of drug logic, but I was nodding along to it. Yes, it made perfect sense. Getting high was the healthy thing to do. “I probably shouldn’t,” I said again, grinning. “But fuck it.”

  “Good boy.” She took the spliff between her fingers and straightened and tightened it. Then she flicked her lighter to the joint’s end and inhaled, eyes slit, until it glowed. She took it away from her mouth and held the smoke in, finally opening her eyes wide, and blowing a wall of white. This was obviously not her first or four hundredth try at this. “Tasty,” she said, examining the joint, then extending it to me.

  I reached out and took it from her. “Now remember, I’m only doing this for educational purposes. So show me how to do the smoke ring.” I took a toke, held it, and looked at Patty, expectantly.

  She explained rapidly, “Okay, now, while you hold the smoke in your lungs, make an ‘O’ with your lips. Then let the smoke slowly pool in your mouth—but don’t exhale—you have to open your epiglottis thing and just let it go there. Okay, when it’s in your mouth, with one quick puff, blow all the smoke out through the ‘O.’” She made the movement with her lips.

  I tried to follow what she was saying but the smoke dribbled out, shapeless. “I have no idea what you are talking about,” I half-laughed, half-coughed. I passed the joint back her way.

  “You have to keep trying. You really have to will it.” She took a deep drag and then blew a smoke hula-hoop. “Ooh, that’s a good one,” she said, watching it slowly expand, rotate, break apart. “It’s one of those things where you have to picture yourself doing it successfully, mentally prepare yourself, and then one time, boom, it just all comes together.” She shook her head. “Whoa, I’m feeling this already. Pot is so much stronger now than it used to be. When I first started getting high you’d smoke three or four joints on your own, can you believe it?” Like a game of Pong, the joint was volleyed back to me.