Then I saw something.
The second bridesmaid in. Her gown had slipped, the thin strap was off the tan shoulder, leaving one whole breast exposed. The nipple was staring right at me, lit up, laser-locked. I was hypnotized. I was the only one in the whole place who could see it. Petey yawned in my pants, and began to wake up. Great, fucking great, I was going to be the rabbi with a boner.
Eric finished his vows and placed the wedding band on Stacey’s finger. Boom, I was back on. I took the microphone from him, turned away from the tit and toward the bride and groom. It was almost magic time; in the audience people fumbled and readied their cameras. I cleared my throat and, goddamnit, persevered. “You have spoken vows of love, vows you each took the time to write yourselves. You have exchanged rings. You have consecrated yourselves to each other in front of family and friends. So now…” I started grinning and couldn’t stop, “it is my duty, honor, and privilege, by the power invested in me by the holy World Wide Web, to pronounce you two…man and wife! You may kiss the bride!”
Eric lifted Stacey’s veil and, without hesitation, kissed her passionately. The audience erupted in applause and cheers and flashes popped and I got the chills. Goosebumps. The whole deal. Eric’s and Stacey’s parents exchanged hugs. Bridesmaid Number Two must’ve shifted or something because when I looked back that way the breast had retreated behind the curtain. I caught Tina’s eye and she grinned at me. One of the best men leaned in and put the cloth-wrapped glass on the ground near Eric’s shiny shoes. Eric looked at Stacey, and then he stomped on it.
“Mazel tov!” we all roared.
It was official. They were married. They kissed again and laughed and then stepped forward and hugged me simultaneously.
“Thank you, I love you!” yelled Stacey in my ear, sniffling.
“Great job, man!” said Eric, mussing my hair, knocking off my yarmulke.
Then they turned and bounded off the dais, holding hands. I just stood there and watched them go. I was smiling from ear to ear. The crowd fell in behind them, everyone happy, everyone headed toward the bar.
I stayed behind, alone on the dais. It grew quiet. Attendants came out and started to extinguish the torches and fold the chairs. I started to amble in, then stopped for a second, and gave thanks. Nice restraint, Petey.
* * * * *
And so, yes, hell yes, I was soon intoxicated. Guilty as charged, Your Honor. I hadn’t really drunk much since my night in the gutter and now I was feeling strong as an ox and swift as a puma. All night everybody wanted to run to the bar and get the good rabbi a drink, and it would have been rude of me to refuse. I was nothing if not gifted in the ways of etiquette.
It was after dinner. We had eaten, we had Hora-ed, and now the people, as they will do at that point in a wedding reception, were dancing. From the relative safety of the carpet, I watched as a crowd of shoeless girls surrounded Stacey on the dance floor, chanting, “Go, Sta-cey, go, Sta-cey,” while the DJ blasted Herbie Hancock’s “Rockit.” It was quite the spectacle. Eric was pushed out onto the floor and the two of them danced in the middle of the fray like cute, overstimulated toddlers. Stacey tried to get me to join her by lassoing me with an invisible rope and pulling me, hand over hand, toward the dance floor. I quickly held up two fingers, mimed a pair of scissors, and cut the rope, laughing.
Tina and Brett were out there too, away from the fray, drunkenly slow-dancing. Tina was a wreck, a fantastic, sparkling, slit-eyed mess, swaying with the beat, hanging onto Brett for balance. She felt me staring at her, looked up, and smiled. Then with her eyes locked on mine, she slowly raised her hand off his back, smirked, and gave me the finger.
I wandered away, grabbed a Corona from the bar, and weaved through a sea of formalwear until I made it to the deck. Then I kept going, out onto the sand, down toward the water. The music began to fade behind me. I wished I knew a sea chantey, I felt like belting one out. As I stumbled along, I reached inside my jacket pocket and whipped out a perfect little joint. From my pants, I pulled a lighter. I brought the two together. I had a feeling they’d become fast friends.
I found a spot, lay back on the sand, and stared up at the sky, thick with stars. The moon hung low and bright, not quite full but in the ballpark. I put the joint to my lips, took a huge hit and held it, held it, held it, slowly letting the smoke pool in my mouth. Then I made an “O” with my lips, mentally prepared myself for success, and exhaled.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
The author would like to buy the following people a pony:
Gerry Howard, my sagelike editor; Emilie Stewart, my agent and consigliere; Sandra Garcia, Noah Vadnai, Mallory Kasdan, Evan Benjamin, Tami Brown, and especially Rachel Kash, early readers and gentle critics; Chris Noel, Darin Strauss, Cheryl Van Ooyen, Mark Sarosi, and Penny Hardy for their shrewd suggestions; Fred and Karen Rosen for their love, encouragement, and genetics (height and eyesight notwithstanding); Becky Cole for her support; Rachel Rokicki, Anne Watters, Katie Halleron, and everyone at Broadway who helped make the magic happen; and my dog, Billy, for his patient bladder.
PUBLISHED BY BROADWAY BOOKS
Copyright © 2007 by David J. Rosen
All Rights Reserved
Published in the United States by Broadway Books, an imprint of The Doubleday Broadway Publishing Group, a division of Random House, Inc., New York.
www.broadwaybooks.com
BROADWAY BOOKS and its logo, a letter B bisected on the diagonal, are trademarks of Random House, Inc.
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, organizations, places, events, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
LIBRARY OF CONGRESS CATALOGING-IN-PUBLICATION DATA
Rosen, David J.
I just want my pants back / David J. Rosen.—1st ed.
p. cm.
1. Jewish men—Fiction. 2. New York (N.Y.)—Fiction. I. Title.
PS3618.O8314I18 2007
813'.6—dc22
2007000293
eISBN: 978-0-7679-2850-2
v3.0
I Just Want My Pants Back Page 22