I Just Want My Pants Back (13 page)

Rabbi Stan took off his glasses and cleaned them with a small piece of cloth he pulled from his pocket. “Well, Nora,” he said, “I think the poetry is a nice personalized touch. But you must also think about how you will bring their friends and family into this emotional setting. Please do not think this cynical, but you must understand that a wedding is not a private ceremony. No, this is a stage show for two people to tell the world they love each other, to declare it to the four winds, and you shall be the master of ceremonies.” Again he cleared his throat. “Think of this as the Super Bowl of their life. Never will they have more people gather to see them, rooting for not only a win, but also for a good game. So as they say, you will need some sizzle to help sell this steak. Because you can make it beautiful for the bride and groom, but if the rest of the congregation does not feel included, there will be coughing and talking and the worst thing you could have, which is grandparents audibly complaining. If you hear, ‘What is she talking about?’ from a senior, the ceremony is in trouble. It is the Jewish equivalent of a tomato thrown at a comedian. Trust me. I have been heckled by many of our elderly congregants when they don’t like a sermon.” He smiled.

“Has anyone else thought about their ceremonies?” We looked at one another. I sure as shit hadn’t. I shifted awkwardly in my seat.

“That’s fine,” he said. “Let’s take fifteen minutes and each of you brainstorm a bit what you think you might want to talk about. Then we will have a starting place for each of you.” He passed out some paper, and I bummed a pen from Nora, who fished out a spare from the bottom of her bag. Rabbi Stan turned his back to us and went to the computer on his desk.

Everyone leaned forward and began scratching out wedding ideas. I wanted to think about Stacey and Eric, but sitting there, the rabbi’s back to me, I had what alcoholics call a moment of clarity. In the not-too-distant future I was going to be standing on a stage in front of three hundred people wearing a suit. A suit I probably needed to buy, because I hadn’t worn the one I owned—the “interview suit” my parents had bought me after college—in years, and it probably didn’t fit. The word “oy” struck me as appropriate.

I attempted to think about what made Stacey and Eric special. They were incredibly dependable, rock-solid, the perfect candidates to hold your spare set of keys. Yeah, that sounded really romantic. What was I going to say? I hadn’t given the whole thing too much meditation, but in the back of my head I had been thinking I might try to do a fun, sort of comic ceremony. But I could see now from the rabbi’s whole love spiel that this was pretty serious. Still, it was hard to be sincere without also being dull. I tried to think of wedding scenes from books or movies, but all that was really coming to me was
The Graduate
. “Hello darkness, my old friend…” Great, now “The Sounds of Silence” was going to be stuck in my head. I began to doodle just so I wasn’t sitting there with my pen in the air.

The fifteen minutes were up, and Rabbi Stan had each of us talk about the people we were going to marry, and then go through our first thoughts for the ceremony. When my turn came I talked about the only thing I scribbled that was even close, that most friends of Stacey and Eric’s had only ever known them as a couple, since they had been dating so long. I thought it might have potential. After we each took our turn, the group gave pointers to and critiques of each person’s idea. The comments I received were mostly, “You need to dig a little deeper,” which, yeah, I knew. The class came to a close, and Rabbi Stan told us that we were to continue to work on our “ceremony starts.” Next week he would spend some one-on-one time with each of us, helping us get to a place where we were comfortable enough to go the rest of the way on our own. I already felt like I needed a tutor. I wondered if there was a place you could buy wedding ceremonies like you could buy term papers.

We shuffled out of the temple and said our good-byes. Nora lived in Jersey and asked if any of us needed a ride to the Upper West Side. Mark lived there, so he hopped into her Lexus SUV and off they rode. Jennifer and I walked up Lexington; I toward the subway, she toward her apartment on Ninety-eighth Street. That worked out quite nicely for me. She was cute, American, and didn’t strike me as a trouser thief. I was curious.

“So, what did you think of the class?” I asked.

“It was different from what I expected.” She smiled. “I mean it was really casual. ‘Rabbi Stan’? I’m Orthodox, so anything in temple for me is a lot more formal.”

Orthodox? I looked at her. She was fairly stylish, I would have never guessed. Well, she was rocking that signature long jean skirt, but it wasn’t ankle-length or anything. “Yeah, I’ve never met any first-name rabbis either,” I said. We waited at the corner as the light was just changing in our favor. “So, I guess your friends aren’t Orthodox, right?”

She laughed and pushed her curls out of her face. “Oh, no way. They are total hippies. The wedding is going to be in Rhinebeck on a horse farm, and they’re roasting a pig! You know, a big one on a spit with an apple in its mouth? It’s not going to be Jewish at all. I know that stuff anyway.”

We walked some more and I decided to keep going past the first subway entrance at Eighty-sixth Street to the one at Ninety-sixth. We traded stories, bitched about the city a little. I told her about Stacey and Eric, and found out that Jennifer was in med school as well, not a resident yet but on her way. She asked me what I did, and I sort of panicked and told her I was an assistant producer. It wasn’t a huge lie, just a one-word lie. I was an assistant, after all.

Jennifer also happened to have a great can, which I hadn’t noticed in the temple. Yep, overall the whole thing she had there was a tight little package. I considered asking her if she wanted to get a drink as we were walking past bar after bar, but the Orthodox thing threw me. So when we hit the next subway, I gave her a pat on the shoulder and said my good-bye.

“Hey, next week after our class, there’s a med school party if you want to check it out. You can bring whoever you want, if you want to come,” she said, the breeze blowing her sweater tight against her body. She was confident, I liked that. She wasn’t posturing.

“Definitely. That sounds fun,” I said, halfway down the stairs. “I’ll bring Rabbi Stan.”

She laughed, turned, and continued on her way. I cruised into the subway and through the turnstiles. I could hear the train arriving, so I raced down the pockmarked concrete stairs two at a time and slipped into the car just as the doors closed. Huffing, I flopped into an empty seat. The train hiccupped and then shuddered down the tracks, and I wondered if religious girls were good kissers.

11

It was almost midnight by the time I got downtown. I walked west on Eleventh Street, away from the hubbub of Union Square, where the train dropped me. I whistled “God Save the Queen” as I crossed Seventh Avenue. It was always amazing to me how once you crossed Seventh, the din of the city died down and, just like that, you were alone on a peaceful street lined with beautiful old townhouses. Uma Thurman lived somewhere on this block, and I looked into the oversized windows as I walked past, hoping for a glimpse of her or any other wealthy, naked woman who might care to put on a show for the have-lesses. Nothing doing, though. Empty rooms and fancy chandeliers were all that was on display. I kept moving through the light and shadows, looking this way and that, soaking it in. I was in no rush. I turned the corner and sidestepped two men kissing against a mailbox, taking up a good chunk of sidewalk. The air felt delicious and nutritious, even though I was a bit anxious about this wedding thing. I’d put some work into that soon, I told myself. Maybe this weekend.

I opened the door to that good old eyesore, 99 Perry, and went in. I walked over to the mailboxes; I hadn’t checked mine earlier. They were located underneath and behind the staircase in a little area I liked to call the “Rats’ Nest.” I opened mine up, just coupons, a postcard for some band I didn’t remember hearing, and a cell-phone bill. Suddenly I felt something on my back and I spun around.

“Oh, did I scare you?” asked a skinny, scraggly-ass white guy. He was wearing a blue T-shirt and ripped jeans, his short brown hair a mess. You could play connect-the-dots with his acne and probably draw
The Last Supper
. “Sorry, sir.” He realized he was looming over me and backed up a step.

“Who are you?” I asked, trying to seem casual. It was cramped back there. Something felt weird and I didn’t like it.

“I’m a friend of Robert’s,” he said. “I’ve been waiting for him, but it was cold out so I just came in. The front door wasn’t locked.”

It was true, the lock on the door sucked. I edged past him toward the stairs. This was definitely one of those guys I had seen out my apartment window that day with Patty. “Yeah, well if he’s not here, you should probably wait outside, know what I mean? Robert doesn’t like people waiting inside the building.” I was bluffing but figured Robert would be with me on that.

“I know, but it’s getting cold, man,” he said, scratching his scalp vigorously. “I think he’s up there, just sleeping is all. Could you knock on his door for me, sir? I’ll wait down here, I don’t want to intrude. I just think he may be sleeping.” No, I didn’t like this sketchy motherfucker who called me “sir” at all.

“No,” I said firmly. “He must be out, the buzzer is really loud. C’mon, you gotta go. Robert will be pissed.” I moved toward the stairs. I figured if I had to, I could outrun this junkie up to my apartment.

He took a small step toward me. His voice was pleading and getting louder. “Please, sir. Just knock on his door. Two-A. Pleaseeee! I really need to see him!”

“No, it’s late, man. Go wait outside or I’m calling the cops. Come on, don’t make me be an asshole.” I pulled my phone out of my pocket. The guy looked more than a little jittery. I had seen
Trainspotting
ten million times on cable; I wasn’t taking any chances that this guy was Francis fucking Begbie.

His voice rose. He spit his words at me. “Why would you call the cops? I’m his friend, sir.” He stared me dead in the eyes. I could feel a bit of perspiration beading up on my forehead. Why did everyone want to fight me lately?

I fingered the “9” button on my phone, then gestured with the phone toward the door. “He’s not home, I’m telling you, man.”

“Bullshit,
man
!” he erupted. “I know he’s there, I can see in his window from outside. I saw him!”

The front door opened and in walked Patty. She looked up at me and then at the ragged crackhead. “Walter, what are you doing in here?” she said, staring at him.

“Nothing. I was cold and…”

“I told you never to come in here.” Her voice was like a drill sergeant’s. “Get out before I get the cops, and if the cops come…Robert. Will. Kill. You. Let’s go. Out out out.” She grabbed his arm and showed him to the door. “Wait outside, we don’t care. In here, we care. Good-bye.” And away he shuffled, like a teenager dressed down by a tough mom.

“You,” I said, smiling as she turned back to face me, “are no joke. He wasn’t going to listen to me, but you took care of him like that.”

“Well, he knows I know Robert. But it’s all in the tone of voice. It’s the same with dogs. You have to talk to them like you’re their master, that’s the key. You don’t ask them to sit—you tell them.” She leaned against the banister. “What are you up to? Going in or out?”

“I was just on my way in,” I said, still shaking off the scene. “How about you, calling it a night?”

“I was,” said Patty. “But if you’re up for it, I’d pop across the road for a quick one at the White Horse,” she said, raising her eyebrows.

I was kind of wide-awake now. “Okay. But you have to escort me home after so Walter doesn’t beat me up.”

“Oh, hush,” she said, walking to the door and holding it open for me.

 * * * * * 

T
he White Horse was pretty crowded, so we grabbed two pints and found some space to stand in the corner near the jukebox. Patty held up her glass. “To the successful completion of our mission and the defeat of our enemies.” I wasn’t sure what that meant but I clinked her glass all the same and let the cold Harp numb my tongue. I flipped through the jukebox’s offerings. Van Morrison was playing, furthering my belief that the White Horse did not have one of the more up-to-date jukeboxes in the city. Evidence: Huey Lewis was still present. I tried to picture the human who might put on “I Want a New Drug” without irony. It could only be one of the News.

Patty excused herself to go to the bathroom and I chipped away at my beer. I wondered if people might think I was out boozing with my mom. I kicked myself in the ass for the thought the second it zipped through my consciousness; I hated when I became a cynical bastard like that. There were a million of those in this city, it was a pretty unoriginal style. Not many people here could say a positive thing without adding a “but.” They’d seen it all before, and even if they hadn’t, they’d pretend they had. A spaceship could land and people would be like, “Oh, you’re from Mars? That’s so expected. I was hoping for Saturn.” Any sincere thoughts were immediately roughed up and taken advantage of, like rubes stepping off the all-night bus from Iowa. People laughed out loud a little less here, they were guarded. They didn’t want to show they’d been surprised or something.

I looked around the bar. It seemed there was some kind of office softball team that must’ve come by after their game, as well as the usual mix of law students and neighborhood types. No one to wake Lil’ Petey up. I did some small circles with my shoulders and rolled my neck around; I had a touch of a headache and the beer wasn’t really helping matters yet.

I saw Patty squeezing her way back toward me through the crowd. She was carefully holding four shots in front of her as if they were hydrogen bombs she didn’t dare drop lest civilization endeth.

“I didn’t know it was going to be that kind of night,” I said, genuinely surprised at the offering. I wasn’t really thinking about getting shitfaced.

Patty smiled. “No one ever does until it happens.” She balanced the shots on top of the jukebox. “This is sort of a sampler. I didn’t know what you drank. I’m embarrassed, I should know what kind of poison my neighbor prefers. There’s Jack, Bushmill’s, Southern Comfort, and tequila. Your choice.”

I picked up one of the brown ones I thought was the Jack, shaking off a twinge of foreboding. “You had to get four shots, huh?” I said, grinning.

“Tequila for me,” she said, holding the glass up. “Please make the toast, neighbor.”

I raised mine. “Okay, well, here’s to you then, Patty. When you hear me retching later, please be kind and don’t yell at me to shut up.”

Mouths opened, hands tilted, and liquid was swallowed. I could feel the trail of fire go from the back of my tongue down through my pipes until it hit bottom and spread wildly in the dry grass of my stomach. I chased it with the bottom of my beer. “Blech,” I said, eyes tearing.

Patty was already holding up her next shot. I lived next to the female Bukowski, it seemed. She handed me the SoCo. “C’mon, take your medicine,” she laughed. “The faster you do it the less it hurts.” She tipped her head back and sucked the shot from the glass like the cowboys in the Westerns do when they’ve rolled into a saloon after a long day on the trail.

I downed mine as well, although my form was closer to that of a freshman girl at a sorority mixer, eyes screwed closed and a look of disgust on my face. I wasn’t an amateur when it came to shots, but sometimes when you haven’t properly girded yourself, they can be a quite a shock to the system. Like jumping into a really cold pond.

I went to the bar with watery eyes and fetched us two more beers, wondering how long it was going to be until the two doses of evil got into my bloodstream and reached my brain. Any moment now, any moment now.

We drank those beers and then started on two more that a waitress friend of Patty’s brought by on the house. Above the clamor of the bar, Patty was going on about what it had been like to live around here years ago, during the riots at the Stonewall. “Let me tell you something,” she said, leaning toward me, “the gay guys weren’t all muscled out like they are today. They were more effeminate back then. But they were still stylish as hell. And the cops, the cops were all these fat, out-of-shape guys in their polyester uniforms. Everyone down here was rooting for the gays. Less firepower but so much more panache.” She poked me on the shoulder. “How you feeling, soldier? Am I losing you?”

“No, I was listening,” I said, momentarily a bit unsteady. “Just getting my sea legs.”

“Hey, do you want to go somewhere else?” She held her almost-f beer up to mine. “I mean, after these?”

“Sure. I mean, maybe.” What time was it?

“Think about it. I know a fun spot. But first, the ladies’ room.” Patty strode off.

I was fading a little but game. Why not? All I had to do tomorrow was man the phones a bit, and remember to breathe. I could kill a lot of brain cells and still perform adequately, what a joke. Patty must’ve had an easy day in store as well. I had seen grown-ups drink before, but generally it was at weddings and things and they were wearing suits or pearls. Patty was wearing a long-sleeved T-shirt with
STUYVESANT
written in all caps on the front, with jeans and the sandals. If those sandals could talk. I guessed they’d probably say something like “Look out for that dog shit!” or something. Yeah, sandals didn’t seem like they’d have much of a personality. Those high boots girls wore, now those you’d want to sit next to at a party. They knew the secrets of the back of the knee.

Patty returned and then I went to the bathroom. I carefully used my foot to lift the toilet seat. I did my thing and then used my foot again to flush. I was like Daniel Day-Lewis when it came to using public toilets without touching them with my hands. If only I could manipulate my foot to turn restroom doorknobs, I could live without any fear of bathroom germs. Maybe someday.

I found Patty in our spot near the jukebox. The crowd had thinned somewhat since we’d arrived. I still wondered what time it was, but then I thought maybe I’d better not find out. Grabbing my beer and bravely taking a big gulp, I asked Patty, “So, what were you thinking about next?”

“Well, neighbor, I’m thinking we should leave here, and go to this private bar I know on Sixth Avenue near Twentieth Street. I think you’ll like it.”

“What’s its name?” I asked.

“I don’t know, actually. I don’t think it has a name. It’s in an apartment.” She proceeded to tell me it was an after-hours joint, a place that was open after the legal limit of four a.m. I had actually never been to one, but I knew Tina had had some fuckedup nights where she ended up at places like that. Patty explained that a lot of bartenders and waiters who worked the late-night shifts only got off at four, when no legal places were still open. These bars filled that need.

We drained our beers and walked outside. Patty immediately lit up a cigarette. I could almost see our apartment building from where we stood, and I was thinking of calling an audible. She took a long drag and let out a smoke ring. I watched as it curled up toward the streetlight and hung there, slowly dispersing and becoming part of the sky. It sucked that you could never see stars in the city, too much light leak. Patty yelled “Taxi!” and a cab pulled up beside us. She stamped on the butt and opened the door, and in we slid. She gave the driver an address and our heads snapped back with the G-force of acceleration.

I was feeling a bit like Jell-O as the cabdriver managed to hit every single pothole on his way up Hudson. Riding in the backs of cabs drunk sometimes made me a bit nauseated; all the grease and license stickers on the Plexiglas partition made it nearly impossible to look out the front windshield to see where you were going. I stared out the side window and watched stores and pavement and graffiti pass.

Patty let out a mighty cough as we crossed Fifteenth Street. One hand covered her mouth, the other braced against the partition, fingers flexed, white on the tips from the pressure. Her eyes were shut tight and a vein on the side of her forehead stuck out like a major thoroughfare on a map. She rolled down the window and spat. “Uggh,” she grunted.

“You okay?” I asked, as the car rolled to a stop at a light.

“Yep. No big thing.” Patty smoothed her hair. Her breathing returned to normal.

The cabdriver leaned his head back. He was a very dark-skinned black man, I guessed probably from Ghana—there were a lot of drivers from there, who knew why? He gave us the once-over, eyeballing us nastily; he was worried about having someone yak in the back of his cab. He shook his head and then punched the gas. He was a classic two-foot driver, one on the gas, one on the brake. I was sure that style had led to at least one vomit scene for him before, you’d think he would’ve figured it out.