Free I Just Want My Pants Back by David Rosen Page A

week later, and as I walked past the register the same guy looked at me and sang, “Babe, I love you, oooooooooh ooh babe.” He clapped his hands together. “You didn’t like that piece of shit, did you?” I shook my head. He asked me my name and I told him. “Okay, Jason,” he came out from around the counter. “I’m Mike. Allow me to assist you.” He led me over to rock/pop, humming something to himself. “Today’s letter is the letter ‘B.’ No reason, I’m just feeling it. Let’s see,” he said, click-clacking through the discs. “The Buzzcocks’ Singles Going Steady , and”— click-clack —“Bob Dylan’s Highway 61 Revisited .” I don’t know why they kept Bob Dylan under B, but that was their system. Whether Mike turned me on to bands or I found them on my own, I discovered all kinds of great shit in that store. It was where I first bought albums by They Might Be Giants, Built to Spill, and the Dead Milkmen just because I liked their names, only to discover when I got home that I had scored, big time. Every so often you’d see members of local bands like Uncle Tupelo and Enormous Richard (despite Tina’s efforts, Enormous Richard remained the best band name ever) in there, browsing. One time Mike was talking to this chunky guy who wore a cowboy hat and a neckerchief. It turned out to be Big Sandy, of Big Sandy and his Fly-Rite Boys. He was a Western-swing legend from California. We all got high, right in the store, back by the discount rack. On the bike ride home I swallowed about six bugs because I couldn’t get the goofy, open-mouthed grin off my face.

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    I sat there for a few minutes, decompressing, listening to Hank, thinking of nothing. I studied the ceiling. I tried to focus on only the white of it without my peripheral vision letting anything else in. It was really hard to do. I tried but I couldn’t hold it, so I gave in and let my eyes slowly wander around my apartment. It was dusty. The late-afternoon sun streamed through the window and lit swirling particles floating in the air. Something about it made me feel like I lived inside a giant nostril. There were clusters of stuff everywhere—black-and-white photographs on the mantel, piles of CDs on the floor, take-out menus on the countertop. One cabinet was open, and I could see an old package of green tea beckoning me in the back. Tea, why not? Antioxidants might come in handy.
    I boiled the water and washed a mug. I had no sugar so I poured a few drops of lemon-lime Gatorade in, the theory being that lemon and tea went together. I took a sip. The theory was proven correct. I opened my window and climbed out to the fire escape, then sat blowing on the tea as I watched people on their way home from work. It was the end of another nice spring day, it seemed a shame we’d all wasted it.
    “Hi, neighbor!”
    I looked to my right and there was Patty, leaning out her window. “Good evening,” I said nodding.
    “Enjoying a beverage on your veranda I see,” she said. “You’re not going to jump, are you?”
    “No, I love life,” I said, taking a sip of tea.
    “Good, because you wouldn’t die from this height anyway. Just break your legs and embarrass yourself. But have you ever been up to the roof? A fall from there would probably be fatal.”
    “That’s, uh, good to know. Just in case.”
    She took a deep breath and exhaled. “Ah, it’s just beautiful out, huh?”
    We stayed like that, me on the fire escape, her stretched out the window, for a few nice, peaceful moments. Then those passed, and we stayed for a few more quiet, awkward ones. She pushed her hair off her forehead and thought for a second. “Oh, hey, you totally piqued my curiosity the other day. So what was”—she deepened her voice dramatically—“‘the big secret’?”
    “Oh, basically my friends want me to preside over their wedding ceremony. As like, a Universal Minister.”
    She clapped her hands together and chuckled. “Oh my