I Just Want My Pants Back Part 7

"You know, I've never actually talked to Sara."

"No!"

"Yeah, it's weird. I say hi, but I've never been caught in the elevator with her or chitchatted. Not once. I barely talk to JB either."

"Well, JB is totally antisocial, but Sara is nice. Someday you'll meet by the watercooler, if it's your destiny." Melinda put on some lip gloss and went over to Sara's office.

On the walk to lunch we caught up. It had been a while since we'd had a talk other than just mocking work. It turned out that Melinda's play had gotten some interest from a well-known off-Broadway producer.

"Why the f.u.c.k didn't you immediately tell me? That's sick!" I shouted.

"Because nothing's certain yet. These things take a long time and they are really flaky," she said as we crossed the avenue.

She hid it well, but she had to be bursting on the inside. To have someone legitimize her work must have been amazing. The producer had been at the reading/party a few weeks ago and apparently was really into the play.

"But if you sell it, I'll be all alone and I'll have no one to go buy lunch with. I'll be one of the lonely lunchers, feeding half my sandwich to pigeons from a bench. You should factor my mental health into your decision." We entered what we affectionately called "Stress Deli." It was a fine deli-a big one, really-but it got tremendously crowded during lunch. If you didn't know exactly what kind of sandwich you wanted as you got to the front of the counter, people would actually heckle you to hurry up. Worse, the women who worked the cash registers were little b.a.l.l.s of Korean fury who would somehow divine what denomination of bill you were going to pull out of your wallet and would shove the change in your face before you could even get your hand into your pocket. At least once a week I'd end up with a ma.s.sive bruise on my leg from some a.s.shole with one of those twenty-five-pound briefcases who was in such a rush to grab some Dentyne Ice he'd ram me on his way through the store. But it was sorta the best place nearby, so we braved it.

All conversation was put on hold until we emerged with our sandwiches.

"That was like Iwo Jima," I said, s.h.i.+fting the bag from my right to my left hand.

"It sucks in there. But it's fast," said Melinda.

"Well, when you're famous and you come back to the office to visit we can always go there and remember the times we've had," I said, as we started walking. "Do you really think you might be leaving?"

"I don't know. I hope. We'll see. Anyway, business has been so bad at JB's, odds are I'll be laid off before I sell a play," she said.

I stopped for a second, leaned down, and tied my shoe. Looking up I said, "Really, are we doing bad? I had no idea."

"You had no idea? What do you do all day? Basically nothing, right? Which means we aren't overrun with business."

"How am I supposed to know?" I said, standing back up. "I feel like it's always been mellow there."

"That's sort of the problem, I think," she said as we continued walking. "It's not just a lull, it's kind of permanently slow. But we'll see. I wouldn't worry about it."

We cruised back to the office, and I told Melinda about the Jane situation. I was curious as to her opinion.

"Yeah, I don't think you'll be seeing those pants again," said Melinda as we reentered the office. "That's just the way it works. You took that risk when you lent them to her."

"Sheesh. I expected at least you'd be on my side. I figured lesbians would be a little more evolved in these matters."

"Oh, no, we're far worse. I still wear my ex's stuff, she was my size."

"f.u.c.k, well, I guess they're gone."

Melinda stared at me. "Is it the pants, or do you really just want to see this girl again?"

"The pants. Honestly."

She shrugged, looking unconvinced. "Those must be some f.u.c.king pants."

I sat back down at the receptionist desk and commandeered the computer while Melinda leafed through an old Us Weekly Us Weekly. E-mail was opened and I saw that Jane hadn't responded to my tirade. I sighed. She wasn't ever going to. Okay, that was it. I was done. "No mas," I said to myself. I wasn't going to become a stalker. No, I was going to take the high road. Back to basic cable and beating off.

I closed e-mail and surfed onto Pitchfork Pitchfork, a hip music site I frequented, to read up on the latest and greatest. I figured I should take a good look at how they wrote their record reviews. I clicked on one after another, and each was longer and more in-depth than the last. They were filled with obscure details like bands' favorite BPMs, and highfalutin hypotheses like, "Of all the cyclical inclinations in the post-Vietnam rock-'n'-roll oeuvre, mod revivalism stands tall as the most oxymoronic." Jesus. As I read on, I unwrapped the butcher paper around my turkey sandwich and took a bite.

G.o.dd.a.m.n motherf.u.c.kers forgot to put the cheese on.

9.

The day ended and there I was, back at home, on the toilet. I had been sitting there quite a while.

I started thinking about the sixteen-hour drive I used to make twice a year during college, from Missouri to Ithaca and vice versa, alone in my bad little beige 1986 Honda Civic. After graduation, I made the epic drive one last time. The highway near Indiana seemed so straight and flat I probably could've fallen asleep and safely made it across the state. As I cracked open my fifteenth Diet c.o.ke, an old Ford Mustang pulled up next to me. The driver shouted, "Buy American, a.s.shole!" He sped past, his kids giving me the finger out the rear window.

The Honda had no disc player and the tape deck was busted. For a long stretch after the Mustang, all I could pick up was static. I was beat; I was like eleven hours in and starting to see visions. Desperate, I tried switching over to AM. And crackling through the speakers came a miracle, "You Are My Suns.h.i.+ne." I was instantly reenergized; I rolled down my window and sang along to the chorus at the top of my lungs, drumming my hand against the car door, delirious. "You are my suns.h.i.+ne, my only suns.h.i.+ne / you make me happyyyyy, when skies are gray." It was such a goofy, positive song. But then, speeding along, listening to all the verses for probably the first time, I realized that it really wasn't a love song at all. It was f.u.c.king dark. "You told me once, dear, you really loved me / no one else could come between / but now you've left me, and love another / you have shattered all my dreams." All sung to this smiley sing-along tune, which was disguising it. "Please don't take my suns.h.i.+ne away."

In the other room I heard the TV come back from commercial. I had left it on CNN. They were reporting that a coyote had been found and captured in Central Park. How the h.e.l.l did a coyote get into Central Park? That sounded like a setup line for a cheap joke. "He took the 6 train." When you live alone, you can go to the bathroom with the door open. That way you don't miss the big coyote stories on TV.

I finished my business, went back toward the couch, and saw there was a message on the machine. It could've been there for days, I never checked it anymore. I hit PLAY PLAY.

"Hey Jason, it's Mom."

"And Dad!" I could hear him yell from somewhere in the back of the room.

"How's everything? We got your e-mail. A rabbi-that's very funny. We didn't realize a regular person could just marry people, but we'll take your word. Everything here is the same, it's finally starting to get warm. Work is slow, your dad and I have been going to see a lot of movies, no big news. Oh-the next time you come home we really want you to clean out some of the old stuff you have in your room; Dad is thinking of starting a project and making it into a home office. I've already alerted the paramedics, don't worry. We'll keep all your stuff in the closet and replace the bed with a pull-out couch for when you come visit. Which is going to be when, honey? Let's pick a date already. Okay, I don't want to use up your whole machine. Call us or write us. Love you!"

I had heard the threat of my room being turned into a "home office" for years now, and was pretty sure it was safe from renovation for several more to come. I made a mental note to call my folks this week and then picked up my phone and called the people who had taken on the responsibility of feeding me in lieu of my parents, Hunan Pan.

And then there I was, in a bar again. Moo-shu chicken followed by vodka, yep, my nights were d.a.m.n predictable. After partial digestion, I had met Tina for a civilized drink. Just a quick one. She had to run to catch a band with Brett; I a.s.sumed I was invited but it turned out I wasn't. I don't know, she was a little weird about it.

"So," she said, smoothing down her hair, "what's happening with Mr. Fantastic?"

"You know, just being that guy. What about you? I mean, other than going to see bands without me, what's new?" I poked the lemon in my vodka soda with my straw.

"Oh my G.o.d, you are such a girl!"

"I'm a man, just look how hairy my arms are." I held one up to her face. It wasn't that hairy, actually.

Tina shoved it away. "Sheesh, I don't care, you can come. Brett has just been crazy busy, and I wanted some alone time with him." She stirred her drink. "You know, I'm still figuring out what I think. So far so good, though."

"I'm just messing with you. What's he so busy with?" I wasn't quite sure what Brett did every day. All I knew was that he was a couple years older than us and had finished up NYU film school around January.

"It's really exciting. It looks like he's going to direct this film. A real film, not like some student one. He's got funding and everything."

"Wow, impressive. How'd he manage that?" I was a little jealous.

"Honestly? Chutzpah. This guy who lives on his block, Donnie Sherman, had a novel come out last year called Chase Me Chase Me. Ever hear of it?"

I shook my head.

"Supposedly it got good reviews. Brett liked it a lot, anyway. So around five or six months ago, he saw the guy at a cafe, walked over and introduced himself. Then he just put his d.i.c.k on the table."

"The old d.i.c.k-on-the-table, eh?"

"Works every time, from what I hear. He said, 'I'm a director. I'm sure you're talking to other people, but I loved your book and I really want to make a film of it. Can I buy you a drink?' Anyway, they hit it off. They wrote the screenplay together. Donnie knew a producer and he got them money somehow, and then Brett found a few other investors. Pretty nuts, huh?" She glanced around the bar, which was starting to fill up. "I haven't read the script yet; I'm scared if I don't like it I'll have to break up with him. But I think it might be a really good movie. They have a couple of great theater actors lined up, that girl from Rent Rent is the lead. And Chris Makepeace is also going to be in it, you ever hear of him?" is the lead. And Chris Makepeace is also going to be in it, you ever hear of him?"

I laughed. "Isn't that Rudy, Rudy the rabbit, from Meatb.a.l.l.s Meatb.a.l.l.s? He was in My Bodyguard My Bodyguard, too."

"He plays an aging former p.o.r.n star who's just moved to Park Slope. Who knows, maybe it will be his Pulp Fiction Pulp Fiction." She polished off her drink. "Anyway, they're just really getting started casting and figuring s.h.i.+t out, and he's pretty obsessed with it, which makes sense. But that's why I wanted to see him alone tonight."

"Well, it sounds pretty f.u.c.king exciting. Seriously, it's huge. Tell him I say congrats."

Tina bought us a second round, two more vodka sodas. I brought mine to my lips and took a deep swig. "Ugh," I spat, "yuck, tonic!" I put the drink down and took a step back, stumbling right into a smoky little girl wearing a jean jacket and a scarf. "Oh, sorry!" I said, pulling it back together and offering a half bow.

"No, qua qua, it was my fault," she said with a French accent and a crooked smile.

I smiled in return and turned back toward Tina. Then my half-pickled brain caught up. French, huh? Tina raised her eyebrows and smiled. She put her hand up to my ear and whispered, "Body odor. I guarantee it."

Tina downed her drink, it was time for her to go. She went to the ladies' room to make sure she looked pretty for her man. I finished off my drink, despite the tonic, and looked around. It was early yet. It seemed like the French girl was checking me out, and she was only a few bodies away. I was just drunk and confident enough to make an approach. It was certainly worth me buying one more drink, in the interest of foreign relations. I reeled toward her.

"Hi," I said. "I'm Jason."

"h.e.l.lo, I am Isabelle."

And soon I found myself ordering us two more drinks, a Ba.s.s for her and another vodka soda, this time with soda, please, for me. I was pretty buzzed; the last thing I needed was more alcohol, but unfortunately it was also the first thing I needed.

Suddenly we both had arms draped over our shoulders. "Hi!" said Tina, freshly made up and grinning ear to ear. "So, I'm off." She turned her head to Isabelle. "Hi. Bye." She turned to me, and glanced down at my Levi's. "And you, keep an eye on those slacks, 'kay, sport?" She pinched my cheek and moved on.

"What she say?" Isabelle asked, furrowing her brow.

I shrugged.

Isabelle and I talked for a bit and I learned that (1) yes, she was from France, here on vacation with her younger sister Esther who was back at the hotel, (2) her English was slightly less than so-so, and (3) she was sa.s.sy as all h.e.l.l. A variation on a pageboy haircut, flirtatious eyes, the crooked smile, and that d.a.m.n accent all arranged perfectly around a body a drunken Brit might call "f.u.c.kin' fit, mate." The clock struck two; where all the time went, who knew? We left the bar behind us and lit out into the early-morning chill. We walked and talked, where oh where could we possibly be going...oh, surprise! We were outside my building. Apparently, there was just enough chum left in the water.

The rest is exactly as I wrote it on my computer early the following morning, thinking it needed to be preserved for future generations, as Isabelle still slept in my bed:

ME: So, do you want to come upstairs?

FRENCH GIRL: Yes. Why not I think.

ME: Tres bien. (I raise eyebrows, "Aren't I clever? That's French.")

INTERIOR, APT.

ME:.

Want a drink?

FG:.

You have beer?

ME:.

Yes. (I open fridge and hand her a Stella.) Here you go.

FG:.

Can I put on music? I love this Radiohead.

ME:.

Rock out FG:.

What?

ME:.

Oh, nothing. Turn it on, it's that b.u.t.ton...no, the other...you got it. (Music begins to play loudly.) FG:.

I love this music. "Carmel Police...mmm mmm mmm..." You want dance?

ME:.

Not just yet. (I open another beer for myself.) FG:.

You have mariwahnah?

ME:.

Yeah-you want to get high?

FG:.