David Rosen - I Just Want My Pants Back

CONTENTS

FOR RACHEL, DAMN IT.

All of mans problems stem from his
inability to sit in a quiet room alone.

BLAISE PASCAL

I was a bored and hungry mammal. I lived in a small apartment on Perry Street that had a working fireplace, but only if you could find logs the size of cupcakes, as my hearth had the dimensions of an Easy-Bake Oven. I sat on my fire escape and watched happy couples come and go, finishing the rhyme in my head, talking of Michelangelo. But they were never really discussing Michelangelo. Marc Jacobs, who had opened a store on the corner, was a more likely subject. I wasnt bitter. I didnt want a girlfriend, not really, at least not right away. But I could have used a functional vagina. It had been a while since Id had access to one of those, and my penis kept reminding me how accommodating they could be.

Sunday was winding down, and the streetlights flickered to life. It was early April and the day had held hope that spring had finally arrived, but as the sun set a cool breeze informed us we werent quite there yet. I zipped up my sweatshirt and wished once again that I smoked. It just seemed like something that might be nice to do, romantic. I stared at Hunan Pan across the street; soon I would call them as I always did, and they would bring me my supper. It was getting a little embarrassing, though.

Hello, this Hunan Pan.

Hi, can I get an order for delivery?

You ninety-nine Perry, number Three-A?

Um, yeah.

Steamed vegetable dumplings and moo-shu chicken with extra pancake?

No, um, the dumplings and moo-shu beef.

You sure?

Sigh. Fine. Give me the chicken.

Okay. Fifteen minute, Mr. Snuka.

They may have known my voice, but theyd never know my name. I wasnt Mr. Snuka, aka Jimmy Superfly Snuka, the wrestler from the eighties. I was Jason Strider, a Jewish guy with sideburns. Ever since I moved to New York three years ago, I had used pseudonyms when ordering in. Raphaels, my second most frequent takeout, knew me as Sir Peter OToole.

I slipped back through the window into my apartment and began weighing options for the evening. Common sense held that I should eat my dinner, watch The Simpsons like the rest of my demographic, and get a reasonable night of sleep before work the next day.

But my penis, my damn penis. He just wouldnt shut up. And I had to admit, his argument wasnt without merit, or logic. His basic premise: Any girl out tonight might be just as desperate as you. I offered that I had been out a lot this week; the last two nights hadnt ended until way into the morning, and even now a slight hangover hummed behind my eyes. But Lil Petey, as I called him, was persuasive. The problem with being a boy is the constant struggle between listening to your brain and listening to your dick. The problem with being me was that somehow my dick had acquired the argumentative skills of a debate team captain. Or perhaps I was just weak.

I took a quick shower and had just barely gotten a towel around me as the buzzer rang, announcing the arrival of my supper. I opened the door a crack and handed a small Hispanic man a few crumpled bills in exchange for his one crumpled bag. I quickly pulled on jeans and, over a long-sleeved T-shirt, a short-sleeved one that read Henry Rollins Is No Fun. Then I began to eat straight from the cardboard boxes. Yum, the taste of dj vu. Once finished, I went back into the bathroom and fussed with my hair a bit; it was the same shortish, messyish style that I had sported in one iteration or another since the bad Steve Perry bi-level back in junior high. I looked at the circles under my eyes. Darker and deeper every day. They were the reason I had, about six months ago, forgone my contacts and started wearing glasses, thick black frames I mightve stolen from Elvis Costello, if we had similar prescriptions. Plus, the first night I had gone out with my glasses on, I had made out with a ridiculously hot girl. Call me superstitious.

I fished through the papers on my coffee table and found the flyer that a random woman with a disturbing number of facial piercings had given me on the subway. T HE L I Z EE B AND , S UNDAY AT 8:30, AT THE U MBRELLA R OOM . The band was named for the girl herself. She had dyed black hair and wore an ill-fitting business suit; it was a look that said, Its because I have to, okay? Shed approached me and every other young person on the F train, given us flyers, and invited us to see her band. The Umbrella Room was literally five blocks from my house. And eight-thirty was nice and early. It seemed worth the risk. Lil Petey 1, Jason 0.

It was almost eight, so I cannonballed the ass-end of a joint with the remaining third of a two-liter Diet Coke and let them race each other to see which could get to my brain first. For me, Diet Coke and marijuana went together like ice-cold milk and an Oreo cookie. Like Jacoby and Meyers. Like sha-nah-nah-nah yippity-dip-da-do. I hit the lights, locked my door, and let gravity take me down the stairs like a slightly bent Slinky. Once I was outside, the cool night air felt great against my skin. I searched my mind for an adjective better than great. I had been an English major, after all; I had been taught to avoid mundane adjectives. Refreshing, soothing, bracingnope, great really did best describe the feeling.

I turned up Hudson and looked across the street at the people hanging out in front of the White Horse Tavern. The White Horse was where Dylan Thomas supposedly mumbled, Ive had eighteen straight whiskies, I think thats the record before keeling over and dying a few days later. Its an unproven story, but that didnt stop busloads of tourists in matching sweat suits from rolling up every Thursday through Saturday. Tonight, however, it looked as if just a few folks from the neighborhood were hanging out by the door, enjoying the evening. One was Patty, the fiftysomething bohemian woman who lived across the hall from me. Gray-haired, a bit of a mutterer, she wore sandals all year round: rain, snow, locustssandals. I never used to see her much, but lately wed been bumping into each other in the building more often. I imagined her to be some sort of lesbian poet who chain-smoked cigarillos and once let Allen Ginsberg sleep in her bathtub because he was tired and also filthy, just filthy. The one thing I did know from peeking at her rent bill (our landlord taped them to our doors like your mother might tape a note to clean your room) was that she paid only $210 a month for the same apartment I paid a grand for. And a thousand bucks was considered a deal. So I kept an ear open every time she left her apartment, lest she fall down the stairs and I could inherit the New York dream. I was joking, but she had once given me a card with her lawyers number on it, just in case anything should happen to her. Then she gave me an orange she wasnt going to eat.

Hey, Patty! I yelled across the street.

She waved. Hi, neighbor.

I waved back but quickened my step. I was stoned and easily distracted and didnt want to fly off on a tangent. High, I often went too far for too little. No, I was on a mission. I was going to see this LiZee group. They might just become my new favorite band. Maybe I would buy a T-shirt and start a blog.

Going to a bar alone is no big deal for some people, but for me it was always a bit of an awkward experience. Somehow it always felt as if everyone were looking at me. Did he come by himself? Did he get stood up by a girl? Poor guy might be suicidal, lets step away in case he tries to off himself and we get hit with flesh shrapnel; this is a new shirt. It wasnt something I did often, but I liked the adventure of it, although I had to deal with the slight anxiety as well. The pot both helped and hurt. It motivated me out of the house and led me to believe I might be the funniest person ever to roam the planet, but once inside the bar it sometimes gave me the inner confidence of a man whose fly was stuck open.