I Just Want My Pants Back (10 page)

I kept the vegetables moving. Some of the onions were starting to burn but the squash-looking bits still looked raw. I wanted to know more about Patty but I didn’t want to be pushy. “So, how long did you do that for?”

“Oh God, just a couple years,” she said, taking out cutlery. “Watch that—is something burning?” She stepped over and took a look into the wok. “Okay, just one more minute and that is done.”

I turned down the heat and moved the wok off the burner. I dumped the contents into a bowl Patty had left on the side, sneaking a bite of broccoli. Not bad. “And like, what other jobs did you do after that?” I asked, sheepishly.

“My goodness, Jason, are you interviewing me for a position in your firm?” she asked. I was mortified until she laughed. “C’mon, let’s eat and I’ll give you the short version.”

She cleaned off the steamer trunk and we sat down to eat. Stoned, we had completely forgotten to make the rice. So we ate the tasty vegetables and drank beer, and she briefly gave me her work history. After the leather-pants store, Patty had bartended for a few years at the White Horse, which explained why I saw her outside there every once in a while. After that she was a dog walker. “I controlled all of the NYU area. Me and this guy Paco, we had a little dog-walking service together—Hip Pups. We were like the dog mafia. It was the world’s greatest job any season but winter. We made a lot of tips at Christmas, though; no one wanted to be cheap to the person taking care of their dog. Guilt money.” Paco had died twelve years ago from what sounded like AIDS without her actually saying it, and she had sold “the territory” to some corporate dog-walking company. “They don’t even screen who they hire. But they offered me a lot of cash, and it made me sad to do it without Paco.” Since then, she still walked a few dogs in the neighborhood, “my babies,” and bartended one Saturday a month at the White Horse.

We carried the dishes back into the kitchen. “So, Jason,” Patty asked, putting her plate in the sink, “any serious girls in your life?”

“Nah,” I said, handing her mine. “I did go out with this one girl a couple of times recently, but I haven’t heard from her in a while.”

“Bummer. How long has it been?”

“Two weeks.”

“Ooh.”

“Yeah, and the thing is, I know this is silly, but she has this pair of my pants I sort of really want back.”

“That’s awkward. It might be best to just remember them fondly.”

“I know, I know. But what’s she going to do with them, it’s not like she’s going to wear them. She could put them in the mail, or whatever.”

“Yeah, but sometimes, Jason,” said Patty turning on the tap, “you just have to go out and buy yourself a new pair of pants.”

After she washed the dishes, I busted out the ice cream and we polished off the pint. Patty lit up a cigarette and had another one of those coughing fits. It was pretty nasty, and I didn’t say anything at the time. But a half-hour later as we bid each other good night, both our eyes heavy with sleep, I couldn’t help myself.

“Hey, um, my friend who’s getting married is a resident at Cornell Med, and he could probably recommend someone who could check out those allergies, cheap, if you wanted.” We stood in her doorway.

“Thanks, neighbor. I have a doctor, though. Don’t worry.” She gave me a hug. “Sweet dreams.”

I went into my apartment. It was midnight. I washed and brushed and got under the covers feeling sated. I rolled over, got comfortable, and finally let my lids shut.

I was a little worried, though.

8

And then it was Monday. I sat at the reception desk and made a sesame bagel with butter last as long as it could. There wasn’t much to look forward to after that. Melinda was in the back running a casting session for nuns for some movie, so there were actresses trying to look nunly sitting on the benches in the waiting area. Unfortunately the specs must have been for older nuns, real ruler-slappers; there were none I wanted to tempt toward the sins of the flesh.

I hopped on Instant Messenger to see what was happening with the kids. I hadn’t caught up yet with Tina to see how her night with Brett had ended up, and I hadn’t talked with Stacey in ages. Both were on my to-do list.

stace has entered the room.

e-diddy has entered the room.

e-diddy has left the room.

tinadoll has left the room.

stace has left the room.

doodyball5 has left the room.

Melinda emerged from the back and pulled up a chair next to me at the desk.

“So, were the nuns fun?” I asked.

“So fun. They were all trying to act very serious and pious. Not one smile on that casting tape, that’s for sure.”

“Is it almost time for lunch? I’m getting the shakes,” I said.

Melinda glanced at the schedule. “Yeah, I think we’re cool. Let me just tell Sara that we’re going out together so she’ll answer the phone.”

“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 fuck 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 balls 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 massive bruise on my leg from some asshole 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, shifting 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.”