Lost My Pants

I have to get back to work, I am long, long overdue to get back on my house-cleaning schedule, and determined to get on it immediately, but I thought this was interesting enough to take a quick break to tap out.

I have been losing things lately, something that is not like me.  In spite of the chaos in my apartment, it has been rare, until recently, that I actually lose anything of any importance to me.  Hard to believe, if you look at the shifting stacks of papers, books, small items, shirts, musical instruments balanced everywhere in haphazard piles.  Take my word for it, though, keys, pens, glasses, chargers, important papers, almost never mislaid.

But lately a long-time favorite pen, expensive and hand-tooled, a cherished gift I always clipped on to my right front pants pocket– gone.   Like a kick in the stomach.   A couple of other less important things, too.  Troubling indications that I have to right the psychic ship.

The other night I went to the laundromat, washed, dried and folded a new pair of pants.  Took all my clothes home, put them away, went to Sekhnet’s the next day.  Came back a few days later, took a shower, went to put on a clean pair of pants.    No pants.

Slipped on a barrel with suspenders, like a cartoon character, dashed desperately over to the laundromat.   A glance at the lost and found pile, a few ratty towels and orphan socks, told me someone had taken the new pair of laundered, neatly folded pants I’d left on the counter above the rest of the laundry.  Why wouldn’t they?  No pants, crap…

This was a problem easily solved, and I did so directly.  Website of the store I’d got the pants in, ordered three pairs (they are not expensive pants), tapped in a bunch of numbers from the old tarjeta del credito and waited.  Following the progress of the shipment on-line, it was a matter of only four days before the USPS was scheduled to deliver my new pants.  Today was the day.   

Waited around for the buzzer from the postal worker telling me the box of pants had arrived.  Four o’clock, no buzzer, what the hell?  Went down to the lobby to check for a notice.  Opened the mailbox and there inside was a bag of pants.  How did they get three pairs of pants into a bag and inside a narrow mail box, I wondered.

“They must be pants like the Cockroach’s” theorized Sekhnet.  She was referring to the special lap-dancing pants a one-time friend had described to me years ago.  This connoisseur wore the thinnest pants available, they had the added advantage of being easily paper-toweled dry in the men’s room and made ready for the next dance.

She called him the Cockroach because of my description of her body language the first time they met.  He considered himself very charming, irresistible to women, and comported himself accordingly.  As I walked toward them in the hallway Sekhnet was leaning steeply backwards, away from him, as though recoiling from a human sized cockroach.   She looked in danger of falling backwards on her head, or jumping out of her skin.  He was pumping her hand, smiling from ear to ear, telling her how pleased he was to meet her.  She seemed to be wondering where she’d find a can of Raid big enough to spray this sucker.  

“Yeah,” I said, “they must be the like Cockroach’s.”  I opened the bag, three pairs, thin as you please, just in time for winter in NYC.  Now I just have to figure out how to make some space to put them away. 

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