I Just Want My Pants Back by David Rosen Read Free Book Online

I said, putting the bags on the counter. “Have you been to Wyoming?”
    “Been there?” She started to empty one of them. “I escaped from there. Don’t get me wrong, it’s great if you like cattle, or beef jerky or Republicans. But if you don’t, just fly over and see it out the window.” She put some bottles of tonic water on top of the fridge. “Anywho, so how’s life, neighbor?”
    “All’s pretty good, I guess,” I said, putting the last bag on the counter. “Just working, playing. You?”
    “Oh me, who cares? I’m old and boring.” She gathered up the empty bags and stuffed them in the cabinet under the sink. “But I expect more from you. Details, stories! These are the years you get all that stuff, don’t you know that? Then you spend the rest of your life looking back at the so-called good ol’ days.”
    “That’s um, a little depressing, Patty,” I said with an “I’m just kidding” smile. I could tell her some stories, all right, but they weren’t the PG-13 kind you shared with your older neighbor. Maybe they’d bore her anyway, if she really lived the bon vivant life I pictured.
    “Oh, you didn’t know that about me?” she laughed. “I’m a huge buzzkill. I fear it might become my defining characteristic.” She reached into the fridge. “Want some OJ? It’s fresh, I just got it at the farmers’ market.”
    I saw by the clock on her microwave that I was going to be late, and Stacey was punctual as hell. I edged toward the door. “I’m actually meeting a friend for lunch who has some big secret to tell me. I should probably get going.”
    Patty finished pouring herself some juice and took a sip. “Big secret, huh? I hope it’s something good!” She started coughing. She put the glass on the counter and leaned against it as she hacked, doubling over with the strength of it. I could hear large wet things flying around inside her, like mattresses in a hurricane.
    “Whoa, hey, you okay there?” I asked.
    Her eyes were watery. “Oh yeah, phew.” She smiled thinly, caught her breath, and turned away from me. “Wrong pipe.”

     * * * * * 

    I met Stacey at a diner that was sort of halfway between our homes. She and Eric lived in Murray Hill, a neighborhood that was bland by NYC standards. I didn’t like Murray Hill much. First off, bad name. Also, and maybe this was the bigger issue, people from Murray Hill—or people who seemed like they could be from Murray Hill (it had become a symbol to me more than an actual place)—tended to come down to my neighborhood en masse and take all the seats at the good restaurants. Thursday to Sunday, there was literally nowhere I could afford to eat that didn’t have at least an hour’s wait. These Murray Hillers and their ilk had subscriptions to Time Out and they were good at calling ahead and making plans. They could not be stopped.
    We grabbed a table by the window, made fast work with the menus, and got our orders in; we were both starving. Only once our respective Diet Cokes arrived, and with them the assurance that the system worked, were we able to relax and begin talking.
    Stacey had her brown hair pulled back in a post-workout ponytail, a few stray wisps hanging above her eyes. She unwrapped the scarf that hung loosely around her neck, revealing an NYU Law sweatshirt; she was in her third year there. Eric was a resident at Cornell Med, which was located in the city, uptown. They were on the cusp of being a power couple. Soon they could help me with any legal troubles I might have, and with any social diseases I might stumble upon. They were going to be Number One on the speed dial.
    “You’re so proud of your law school,” I said teasingly, pointing to her sweatshirt.
    “Yeah, that’s why I wear it to the gym and sweat on it,” she laughed. She brought her straw to her lips and took a long sip of her Diet Coke. “So do you want to talk about things and stuff, or do you want to get right to it?”
    “I guess right