I Just Want My Pants Back (21 page)

I took her arm and helped her up and we walked, her leaning against me, over to her bed. She sat down slowly and then carefully lay back onto the pillow. I helped her swing her feet up onto the mattress. “It’s so warm these nights that I never even use a blanket,” she said, grunting. She reached for another pillow, I grabbed it and put it behind her head. “You know what it is, Jason? You’re neither here nor there right now, you’re just floating between ports. And it probably feels sorta nice to be between, right? Because you only have to think about yourself.” She looked me in the eye. “Yes, neighbor, so you’re a little lost. So what? You should be, you’re young. Believe me, you’ll miss it when you’re found. Knowing the answers, or more of them anyway, is boring.” She adjusted herself a little to get comfortable. “Hit the lights, okay?” she said softly, eyes closing.

“I’m sorry, Patty,” I said. “I didn’t…”

“Shh,” she whispered, eyes still closed. “Save it for tomorrow. I love to wake up to flowers, you know.”

The room was starting to tilt and spin on me. I backed up, hit the lights, and started out. “And, Jason,” she called out to me, “forget being a fuck-up. Not everyone can wear it like Serge Gainsbourg.”

17

I unlocked my door, stepped inside my shitty little apartment, and sat down on the couch. I wasn’t tired. My heart was racing, it was thumping in my chest like an oversized subwoofer in a Toyota Tercel. Maybe it was the E. My eyes flicked around the room. I stood. I felt panicky. This was not the place for me. I rummaged through my silverware drawer. I knew I knew I knew I had some dope in there. I found a sizeable roach and a lighter and like that I was the fuck out the door and on the empty street and I was smoking and I was alive. That was something, wasn’t it? It was still pitch-black out and I walked west to make the night last as long as it could.

It was too late for bars and too early for coffee shops. I walked a few blocks, smoking the joint, getting to know the concrete, until I was more or less smoking my thumb and forefinger. I didn’t feel much from it, but my brain might have already been at full capacity. There was no traffic, so I strayed from the sidewalk into the street. I could see all the way to the river from there and I aimed my body toward it.

I was utterly alone. I didn’t think there had ever been another time that I had seen absolutely no life in the city—no cars, no one sleeping under a stairwell, nothing. It was impossible to be alone here, you got used to doing private things in public. You had no choice. We all got to see everyone else’s business and everyone got to see ours, so we were all even. Nobody had anything on anyone, at least not for long.

But now it was just me. The rest of the city was home dreaming about this or that or up worrying about something or taking a Xanax or a Tums or having a half-asleep pee or getting the shit fucked out of them or wishing they were getting the shit fucked out of them or whatever it was people did in apartments other than mine late at night or early in the morning. What a bunch of shit was flowing through my head. I crossed the highway and then the jogging path on the side of the Hudson and then walked all the way out to the end of the pier that jutted a hundred yards into the river. It was as far as I could go.

I leaned on the rail, looking across the water to Jersey. There was a strong breeze. The wind came off the water and I was the first person on the island of Manhattan it hit. It had traveled great distances to suddenly encounter me, the immovable object, which it flowed over and around and possibly through and then re-gelled on the other side off to somewhere else. What the significance of that was, I had no idea. I ran my hands through my crackly hair. I desperately wanted to think deep thoughts but they weren’t coming. I wanted a fucking moment of clarity, an epiphany, something, I needed something. I screamed as loud as I could. I considered jumping into the water but that seemed stupid and dangerous. I didn’t know what to do. It wasn’t coming. Ordinary people don’t turn on a dime. All I felt was sick and detached. I tried again, I tried to focus on Patty’s words, on me, but everything was fuzzy. Even the water looked fuzzy. I took off my glasses, they were filthy. It was like I was practicing for cataracts. I spat on the lenses and cleaned them with my shirt the best I could.

And then I got tired. My jaw ached and the only real thought I had was that I had to pee. I let my water join the river’s and then I lay down, carefully, on the concrete pier. My ass bone was still tender as fuck. Maybe something would come to me in a dream.

 * * * * * 

I
woke up, the sun in my eyes, and I had it, I had my deep thought: Sleeping outside was a fucking retarded thing to do. My back was stiff, my head was throbbing, and my ass was a lump of pure pain. I got up and hobbled toward my house.

I stopped in some deli and saw that it was eight-thirty. I wondered how long I had slept out there. I bought a five-dollar bunch of tulips, bad ones dyed blue, the only ones they had, and a bottle of water. I was glad to see that I still had my wallet. The deli dude gave me my change and a look, so I gave him a look in return. I got back to 99 Perry and climbed the stairs. I looked at my door and I looked at Patty’s and then I went over to hers. I shave-and-haircutted it.

No answer. I wasn’t going to make the same mistake twice so I started to shuffle over toward my place when I heard something. I went back to her door.

“Patty? You up?” I asked, ear to the door.

“Come here,” she said.

I tried the door. It was locked. “The door’s locked, Patty.”

“Jason.” A pause. “I need help.”

Everything happened in a blur from there. I ran down to the first floor and banged on the super’s door for what seemed like a century and he went upstairs in his robe and tried fifteen different keys until he got Patty’s door open. I went in and she was in bed, pale and crying, and I called an ambulance and they took her and they wouldn’t let me in the back.

18

I sat on a plastic chair and breathed in the hospital smell and read a
Marie Claire
someone had left behind. Every once in a while a middle-aged nurse would walk by and ignore me. I thought nurses were supposed to be super-sexy; I mean, a nurse outfit was always the slutty Halloween costume choice for girls who wanted to get laid. Looking at the opaque-hosed, orthopedic-shoe-wearing nurses here, I wasn’t sure how that outfit ever became known as erotic.

I had been waiting about three hours to get in and see Patty. I kept being told “in just a little while.” One of the nurses had asked me if I was family, and it struck me that I had no idea if Patty even
had
family. I should have lied and said yes, I probably could have been in there by now. All they had told me was what I already knew, she was weak from cancer. I couldn’t get anything more in-depth than that. So I waited in the plastic chair, trying in vain to find a comfortable position, wondering if I should get my bottom X-rayed. My phone still had one bar on the battery, so I squeezed out a few texts. First to Tina:

in hospital with patty. ick.

Then to Eric.

in st. vincent, patty very ill. advice?

Finally I was directed down a hall into an elevator, up three floors, and then down another hall to Patty’s room. It was tiny and there was another bed in there, but it wasn’t occupied. She was lying under the covers with some tubes up her nose. The TV was on and I took that for good news. I figured they didn’t let you watch
The Bold and the Beautiful
if things were too serious. But maybe it was the opposite, maybe they let you do what you wanted because you were too far gone. “You want bacon and ice cream and an opium suppository and some unfiltered Camels and a German Shiza DVD—sure, what more harm could they do?”

Patty’s eyes opened as I pulled up a chair and sat next to her. “Hi, neighbor,” I said, smiling. “How’re you feeling?”

“You look like hell,” she said in a scratchy voice just above a whisper. She blinked a few times, slowly.

“Yeah, and I think I smell too. You should be glad you have that oxygen supply—I still haven’t showered.”

She laughed weakly. “So. I owe you an apology, Jason.”

“What? I owe you one. I did have flowers for you by the way, but I left them in your apartment.” I hung my head. “Sorry about last night, and all.”

“That’s itty-bitty. I owe you a big apology. See, I told you a lie.” She stopped to take a breath. “A whopper.”

“About what?”

“Getting better. I’m not. I have lung cancer for chrissakes, Jason.” She smiled, the corners of her eyes crinkling. Her skin looked like old, delicate parchment. “You know, you are terribly gullible.” She adjusted herself ever so slightly, then reached out her hand. I took it. “Sorry about that, neighbor, I just wanted us to have some laughs. I didn’t want to be remembered for being a buzzkill. I’ve been working on that, you see.”

I swallowed even though my mouth was pretty dry. “So wait. I mean, like, what’s the prognosis?”

“Death. Relatively soon.” She coughed lightly. “Don’t be upset. I’ve known for a long time. It’s not going to be like tomorrow, don’t freak out yet.” She stopped and took another breath. “Do you still have that card I gave you, the lawyer?”

“Yeah.”

“Call him. I gave him a list of everyone to contact. He knows what to do.”

Her hair was all caught up in one of the tubes that went to her nose. I leaned in and gently untangled it, smoothing it back. “What can I do?” I asked. I hadn’t the first clue.

“Want to stay with me for a little while? I may nap, but it’ll be nice to see a friendly face when I wake up.”

“Sure.” I gestured to the soap opera on the TV, and tried to smile. “Only if we change the channel, though.”

“Ugh, just turn it off.”

I found the remote and took care of it. I grabbed another chair to rest my legs on, maybe I could get some sleep myself. I was so tired. It didn’t make any sense. Patty had just told me she was going to die; she was going to die relatively soon. And all I could think was how much I wanted to shut my eyes. I didn’t want to cry or scream or run down the hall, I just wanted to lie down, just for a little. All I really felt were crushing waves of exhaustion. I curled up on the chairs. It was so quiet in there.

“Jason.”

“Yeah?”

“Is there anything you want me to tell God for you?”

I giggled. “Shut up.”

“You sure? You don’t want three wishes or something?”

“This is so weird, Patty. I feel like we’re just hanging out. I can’t get my head around it,” I said.

“Hanging out is the best part.” She coughed. We were both quiet for a bit. Patty’s eyes closed, and then so did mine. I floated just above sleep.

“Want to hear something funny, neighbor?” Patty whispered.

“Yeah.” I opened my eyes and looked over at her. Her eyes were still closed. She looked tiny under the covers. I watched her mouth move.

“My cemetery plot is in New Jersey. Can you believe that? I haven’t been to Jersey in twenty years.” She leaned her head to the side and yawned. Her hair fell across her face, obscuring it. “So long, New York,” she whispered. “Howdy, East Orange.”

We both fell asleep. A little later a nurse woke me up and kicked me out. Visiting hours were over. I’d have to come back tomorrow after nine.

Three days later I fought my way through Port Authority commuters and got on a Red and Tan bus. My suit jacket was folded on my lap. I put my headphones on and stared out the window. We made it through the tunnel and rolled into New Jersey.

19

My suit felt a little itchy and my heart was pounding. The setting sun grew warm against my back; I could feel myself sweating and wished I could just loosen my damn tie. I took a breath and tried to swallow the lump in my throat. Then I leaned into the microphone, and began. “Hello, my name is Jason Strider, and I’ve been a close friend of Stacey’s and Eric’s for many years.”

I stood on a small dais built on the sand of the bay in Westhampton, facing the seated congregation of wedding guests. They were smiling and fanning themselves. Tiki torches lined the area. “For those of you who know Stacey and Eric well, you know that they’ve always done things their own way. So tonight, instead of a traditional rabbi, they asked me to officiate over their marriage. I do so now with great honor, and…with a certificate I received over the Internet.” A reassuring group chuckle wafted toward me. I continued, “Let us open with the blessing over the wine.”

I said the prayer and handed the silver chalice to Stacey, who sipped from it, and then passed it to Eric, who did the same. It was so quiet you could hear the bay lapping up against the pilings, and the occasional seagull caw. I began the ceremony proper and I started to feel more and more confident. I knew it by heart. I had rehearsed like a hundred times in front of my bathroom mirror. The only thing I hadn’t practiced was actually holding the microphone. It was pretty hard to act casual with it; I imagined I looked a bit like a thirteen-year-old holding a cigarette awkwardly, pretending he knew how to smoke. I instantly had a newfound respect for Wink Martindale.

As I spoke, my eyes flitted between the bride and groom, and the audience behind them. Well, as much of the audience as I could see through the happy couple, their parents on either side, and the best men and bridesmaids who surrounded them. Some of the bridesmaids, mostly Stacey’s family members, were pretty attractive, actually. They all wore fairly sheer “champagne” satin dresses held up by spaghetti straps, and almost all wore them quite well. Stacey had some good genetics, it turned out. I tried to avoid looking at them so as not to be distracted, especially since Tina was also a bridesmaid and I just knew if we locked eyes I’d be done, I’d fall straight into nervous hysterics.

I started by saying that even though I was so honored when Stacey and Eric first asked me to preside over their wedding, I was also incredibly intimidated. The truth was I was no expert on love, yet in a short time I was expected to stand in front of all of their friends and family and pontificate about the subject. “Time passed, the wedding was getting closer, and I was getting worried. What I was going to say? Finally, just two weeks ago, while the three of us had dinner together, it hit me. Now, as a side note, this was the one dinner I actually bought them, instead of the other way around. So, it was already a magical night.” Eric flashed me a grin, his eyes already starting to well up. “But I digress.”

I began to tell the story of how Stacey and Eric had gotten into a fight, about appetizers of all things. “Eric really wanted to have those mini–hot dogs at the wedding, the pigs in blankets. But Stacey didn’t think those were really classy enough for such an important night. And as I sat there, picking at my french fries, I watched them work it out. It was like they were in their own little world. They went back and forth, really listening to each other’s feelings. When one got loud the other would calm that one, and soon they were laughing about the silliness of the whole thing. It was a trivial little fight, a tiny blip in their lives. And yet for me, it was telling.” A breeze started up; I patted the top of my head to make sure my yarmulke was secure.

“A very close friend of mine once told me that the most important things in life happen when you’re just hanging out. What I think she meant was, well, you can have a good time with just about anyone on a roller coaster, or at the Super Bowl, or in Vegas. But it’s really how you feel in the little moments that count. If you find someone who makes you laugh while you’re standing on line at the DMV, or when you’re sick with the flu, or who you can still have fun with while, say, having a heated debate about the pros and cons of wedding appetizers, well,” I paused, “that’s something.”

It wasn’t Shakespeare, what I had ended up with, but then again, this wasn’t a play. It was the real thing and it was okay to be a little corny, a little clichéd. The most important part was that I meant what I said. I had learned that at Patty’s funeral. It had been windy and gray that morning, traditional funeral weather. I could feel every little pebble on the concrete path scratching at the bottom of my rarely worn, hard-soled suit shoes as I walked in silence toward the grave site. The priest was a complete hack, but each of his oversentimental sentences about “this special life” set me trembling. They were nothing original. Hell, love wasn’t anything original either. But eventually it stung each of us, nonetheless.

I thought of Rabbi Stan and quickly eyed the crowd to see if they were with me. They were. Stacey kept turning to Eric, suppressing nervous giggles. She looked pretty, she wasn’t overly made-up, everything about her was simple, natural. She couldn’t stop smiling. I could see every one of her teeth almost to the molars. Eric looked sharp too. His tux was all black, no silly sea-foam cummerbund or anything like that. A six-foot-five guy in a tux could come off a little goofy, but he was making it work.

I touched Stacey on the shoulder, and I looked back and forth at each of them. “And in a few short moments, after our two friends are officially wed and we begin the reception outside on the deck, let us all enjoy our own little moment hanging out with them…while eating some mini–hot dogs.” A few people applauded and catcalled and Eric pumped a fist in the air.

It was time for the vows and the exchange of rings, so I handed it off to the bride and groom. Stacey began, and I stepped back and caught my breath. I started to think about Patty. I had seen Robert at her funeral; he stood across from me at the grave site. He tipped his cowboy hat in recognition as the priest spoke—well, shouted, so he could be heard above the rushing hum of the nearby turnpike. Robert was pretty upset that Patty’s grave was so poorly positioned, so close to the busy highway. I tried to see the bright side: It was the road back to the city.

It took almost no time for Patty’s apartment to be cleared out. Apparently she had some family in the Bay Area, and one of them, Aaron, a nice middle-aged hippie with John Lennon glasses and a graying ponytail, flew in, separated the wheat from the chaff, boxed up what he wanted, and left the rest. He asked me about Patty, as he didn’t really know her. She was his second cousin; the lawyer had tracked him down. He let me have the Chinatown photo and a few Dylan albums. I didn’t have a turntable but I wanted them all the same.

The landlord took over from there and sent in the Salvation Army, who bagged and tagged what was left behind, some for charity, some for trash. Then came the construction guys, who loudly clomped around and ripped out the kitchen and the bathroom and replaced them with cheap new appliances and fixtures and then slapped the whole place over with flat white paint. “Upgrades” like those somehow made it legal for the landlord to raise the rent. They left the door unlocked and I snuck in late one night and looked around the barren space; my footsteps made small echoes in the empty room. You would have never known a woman named Patty lived there. Every trace was gone, it was just some old patched-up piece-of-shit apartment. I slowly paced back and forth in the place. I figured Patty was the kind of person who might show me a sign, it didn’t seem that silly to me then. But I didn’t sense anything, just the overwhelming smell of fresh paint. The New York real estate market was a pretty goddamn good lesson in the fleeting and brutal nature of life. A couple of days later some girl moved in. I hadn’t met her yet. She played the flute. I could hear it in the hall sometimes.

A breeze blew across the beach. I watched as Stacey slipped the ring onto Eric’s finger. Past them I could see Tina, craning her neck, caught up in the moment, her camera dangling on a strap from her wrist.

I couldn’t sleep much those first few days after Patty was gone. I don’t know if I felt grief exactly, but I felt something, a nervous energy. I found myself staying in a lot. I started cooking dinner; I made an entire tray of lasagna one night that probably could have served twelve. In the early-morning hours, I finally bit the bullet, opened up a blank Word document, and focused on Stacey and Eric, banging away until I had done it, I had written the ceremony. Then I sent an e-mail to Tina for Brett’s number, called him, and met him for a drink. He said “Hey” and I said “Hey” and then I figured well fuck, the faster you do it the less it hurts. I told him I wanted to be his music supervisor. I certainly wasn’t A-list and I’d never done it before, but I knew music. I had DJ’d, I had helped “discover talent” at JB’s, I’d work my ass off if he gave me a shot. I rambled on too long like that, it sort of poured out, until I eventually landed on my best selling point: I’d work dirt-cheap.

He nodded. “Jason, first off, I’m really sorry we haven’t had the chance to hang out much, this movie is killing me.” He said that Tina always talked about how funny I was, how much I knew about music, and how she was sure we’d get along great. But the thing was, he’d already hired someone. He told me it was a woman who used to be high up in A&R at Sony. She was new to it but had just finished several films that were in Sun-dance. Landing her was a coup. “However,” he said, taking a long sip of beer and leaving me hanging for five hundred years on the hopeful adverb, until he swallowed and continued, “I also happen to know that she’s looking for an assistant.” He promised to put in a very good word. “I mean, I’m the director, right?” He grinned goofily, “I’m still getting used to saying that.” We hung out a bit longer and then he had to run. I got in touch with the woman the next morning; we had a nice chat on the phone and were having breakfast on Tuesday. Tina said her fingers were crossed. Stacey said she’d give me a wake-up call from St. Barth, where they’d be honeymooning.

The sun was melting in the water now. Eric was facing Stacey, half-blubbering, half-speaking his vows. Their parents stood on either side of them, smiling nervously, tissues held in clenched hands. Next to them were the best men and the bridesmaids. They were all beaming, rapt.

Then I saw something.

The second bridesmaid in. Her gown had slipped, the thin strap was off the tan shoulder, leaving one whole breast exposed. The nipple was staring right at me, lit up, laser-locked. I was hypnotized. I was the only one in the whole place who could see it. Petey yawned in my pants, and began to wake up. Great, fucking great, I was going to be the rabbi with a boner.

Eric finished his vows and placed the wedding band on Stacey’s finger. Boom, I was back on. I took the microphone from him, turned away from the tit and toward the bride and groom. It was almost magic time; in the audience people fumbled and readied their cameras. I cleared my throat and, goddamnit, persevered. “You have spoken vows of love, vows you each took the time to write yourselves. You have exchanged rings. You have consecrated yourselves to each other in front of family and friends. So now…” I started grinning and couldn’t stop, “it is my duty, honor, and privilege, by the power invested in me by the holy World Wide Web, to pronounce you two…man and wife! You may kiss the bride!”

Eric lifted Stacey’s veil and, without hesitation, kissed her passionately. The audience erupted in applause and cheers and flashes popped and I got the chills. Goosebumps. The whole deal. Eric’s and Stacey’s parents exchanged hugs. Bridesmaid Number Two must’ve shifted or something because when I looked back that way the breast had retreated behind the curtain. I caught Tina’s eye and she grinned at me. One of the best men leaned in and put the cloth-wrapped glass on the ground near Eric’s shiny shoes. Eric looked at Stacey, and then he stomped on it.

“Mazel tov!” we all roared.

It was official. They were married. They kissed again and laughed and then stepped forward and hugged me simultaneously.

“Thank you, I love you!” yelled Stacey in my ear, sniffling.

“Great job, man!” said Eric, mussing my hair, knocking off my yarmulke.

Then they turned and bounded off the dais, holding hands. I just stood there and watched them go. I was smiling from ear to ear. The crowd fell in behind them, everyone happy, everyone headed toward the bar.

I stayed behind, alone on the dais. It grew quiet. Attendants came out and started to extinguish the torches and fold the chairs. I started to amble in, then stopped for a second, and gave thanks. Nice restraint, Petey.

 * * * * * 

A
nd so, yes, hell yes, I was soon intoxicated. Guilty as charged, Your Honor. I hadn’t really drunk much since my night in the gutter and now I was feeling strong as an ox and swift as a puma. All night everybody wanted to run to the bar and get the good rabbi a drink, and it would have been rude of me to refuse. I was nothing if not gifted in the ways of etiquette.

It was after dinner. We had eaten, we had Hora-ed, and now the people, as they will do at that point in a wedding reception, were dancing. From the relative safety of the carpet, I watched as a crowd of shoeless girls surrounded Stacey on the dance floor, chanting, “Go, Sta-cey, go, Sta-cey,” while the DJ blasted Herbie Hancock’s “Rockit.” It was quite the spectacle. Eric was pushed out onto the floor and the two of them danced in the middle of the fray like cute, overstimulated toddlers. Stacey tried to get me to join her by lassoing me with an invisible rope and pulling me, hand over hand, toward the dance floor. I quickly held up two fingers, mimed a pair of scissors, and cut the rope, laughing.

Tina and Brett were out there too, away from the fray, drunkenly slow-dancing. Tina was a wreck, a fantastic, sparkling, slit-eyed mess, swaying with the beat, hanging onto Brett for balance. She felt me staring at her, looked up, and smiled. Then with her eyes locked on mine, she slowly raised her hand off his back, smirked, and gave me the finger.