I Just Want My Pants Back Part 10

12.

After twenty-four hours of whispering "I promise I will never drink again," I was back at work Friday morning, on time. I felt mostly better but Wednesday night had been like a punch to the throat. I manned the receptionist desk, uncrumpled my brown bag, pulled out a bagel and OJ, and went online to see if any interesting e-mails had arrived during my sick day. Stacey had written, inviting me to dinner with her and Eric that night. I felt I could handle it, and so I replied in the affirmative. Besides, I had a few things I really should be asking them if I was to actually accomplish anything before my next rabbi cla.s.s.

Tina had written letting me know there was an eighties-themed party that night as well. The thought of alcohol and girls dressed up like Olivia Newton-John circa Xanadu Xanadu gave me the sweats, but I knew enough to know you never knew. That was the thing about promises; you could always say, "I made you, and I can break you." I hopped on IM. gave me the sweats, but I knew enough to know you never knew. That was the thing about promises; you could always say, "I made you, and I can break you." I hopped on IM.

doodyball5: howdy tinadoll: super f-ing busy. sup?

doodyball5: stop being such a power player. just responding to your e-mail. maybe a drink before your party?

tinadoll: k doodyball5: because i cant pull off a late one. bad ugliness after rabbi cla.s.s tinadoll: k doodyball5: jesus, you rot. call me when you have time for more than one letter tinadoll: k tinadoll: french girl?

doodyball5: qui!

tinadoll: b.o.?

doodyball5: nothing I couldn't overcome tinadoll: my little soldier

Melinda wasn't in yet, the phone wasn't ringing, nothing was happening. I clicked from the Times Times over to over to Pitchfork Pitchfork, excited to mock her tardiness for a change. The site loaded and the record review section stared me in the face. "Ah yes, record reviews," I thought. Maybe now was the perfect time to finally write one myself.

I quickly opened up a Word doc.u.ment and saved it as "jason.reviews." I settled back in my chair and fingered the keys for a few moments, unsure of where to start. I didn't even know which record I wanted to critique. Sara walked out of her office and started to make photocopies in the far corner. I wasn't going to be able to focus on this at work. I quit out of Word and started Google Imagesearching things like "grandma thong" to see if anything spectacular came up. Things did come up. Apparently, those who fancied old women liked their old women to also be "hairy." Now I knew. I was learning and growing.

Time pa.s.sed, slowly but surely. JB came out of his office and holy c.r.a.pola right up to me at the desk. It was an occurrence as rare as Halley's Comet.

"Hi, Jason. Have you seen Melinda today?" he asked, fingering the knot of his tie. JB wore jeans and a shirt and tie every day, without fail.

"Um, no, she hasn't come in yet, actually," I said. We had absolutely no rapport. "Maybe she's sick, usually she calls if she's going to be late." I paused, then decided to throw in for good measure, "There's a stomach virus going around, it really knocked me out of commission yesterday."

"Oh? Well, I hope she's okay. Let me know if you hear from her. Thanks, Jay." He crinkled his forehead. "Do you prefer Jason or Jay?" he asked. It was a question that would've been polite six months ago, when he had first hired me.

"Oh, um, either is fine." I cringed.

"Very good," said JB, and he walked back to his office.

I returned to the Internet, wondering if JB thought I was an oddball. It was getting near time for lunch, and I considered calling Melinda's cell phone. But I didn't have to; she walked through the door a moment later, taking her sungla.s.ses off mid-step.

"Oh, h.e.l.lo," I said smugly, and opened my arms wide. "Don't worry, because I have it all under control."

She cracked a grin. "That's good. Because I just sold my f.u.c.king play!"

"What?! Awesome!"

"I know! I just came from my lawyer's. Can you believe I have a lawyer? I have a cramp from all the papers I had to sign." She was beaming.

"Wait a second. Like two days ago you were all like, 'I don't know, probably never happen, it's all preliminary' and s.h.i.t," I said.

Melinda pulled a chair over and sat down. "I know, it was close then, but I was feeling superst.i.tious and I didn't want to jinx it. I haven't even told my parents or anything. Actually I'm going to call them and some other people, and then let's grab lunch and talk, 'kay?"

"Sure. Oh, hey, JB just came by looking for you, if you even give a s.h.i.t anymore, Madam Playwright."

"Oh, I was supposed to help him on this thing. Oh, well." She got up and went back to the empty casting room to make her calls in peace.

I was happy for her but a little stunned. Wow, Melinda was out of here. Did you get rich when you sold a play? Nah, that couldn't be. But still, I was thinking it must be pretty good money; it had been bought by a well-known producer, not some after-school theater. h.e.l.l, if it succeeded, it might even go to Broadway. I could say I knew her when. "We were both receptionists at this casting place. I mean, well, I still am."

Melinda emerged and we went out to a diner around the corner. In between bites she told me the whole story. I chewed and listened and listened and chewed. She told me about her deal and how it worked, and the rewrites of certain scenes she had to do. She really liked all of the producer's suggestions, so she was excited to get started-which she needed to, stat.

"I better be invited to all the fabulous parties with all the fabulous people," I said, sipping my Diet c.o.ke through the straw, focusing on getting the last drops hiding between the ice cubes.

"Of course!"

Melinda couldn't stop smiling and even picked up the bill. We headed back upstairs. She went into JB's office and closed the door. I went back to my seat at the desk. I sighed and checked my e-mail. Nothing. No one was on IM, either.

A few minutes later she emerged. She didn't even give two weeks' notice. She couldn't. Those rewrites had to start immediately. So she put the one or two things she had at the office in a box, kissed me on the cheek, and left. We each promised to make plans and soon. Then she was gone. That was it.

I ended up being stuck there until seven. I had to work the camera for a casting session for outlaw-biker types. I stood around for an hour videotaping hairy, fat guys, most of whom showed up in leather pants and/or leather vests. Each guy had one line to deliver, and almost all opted to deliver it shirtless: "Yeah, f.u.c.kin'-A right I f.u.c.ked him." I was wondering if the role was for a gay p.o.r.n film or a gangster flick. I couldn't tell from the film t.i.tle, ended up being stuck there until seven. I had to work the camera for a casting session for outlaw-biker types. I stood around for an hour videotaping hairy, fat guys, most of whom showed up in leather pants and/or leather vests. Each guy had one line to deliver, and almost all opted to deliver it shirtless: "Yeah, f.u.c.kin'-A right I f.u.c.ked him." I was wondering if the role was for a gay p.o.r.n film or a gangster flick. I couldn't tell from the film t.i.tle, Happy Father's Day Happy Father's Day. That could have really gone in either direction. The place reeked of bad breath and musk by the time I left. People had so many different smells. And my job allowed me to experience them all. How magnificent.

After the last h.e.l.ls Angel or Leatherman, I made my way over to meet Stacey and Eric for dinner at this Middle Eastern spot on Tenth Street that had great hummus and pitzas, aka pita pizzas. They already had a table when I arrived, and were sipping some wine and nibbling on olives.

"Hey, buddy," said Eric, shaking my hand.

"Look who's working late," said Stacey, giving me a hug.

I got myself a beer and, lickety-split, my whole temperance movement was kaput. We figured out our order and got it in to the waiter. Eric began telling us a story about how he had observed brain surgery earlier in the day.

"The amazing thing is that when you cut through the skull, it's not unlike being a carpenter. You really have to use your body. You could see the surgeon straining his muscles, flexing down on the saw. Even though it's mechanical, it still requires putting your shoulder to it." Eric brought his gla.s.s to his lips. "It was really intense."

"I'll bet," said Stacey. "I guess that's why it's considered the hardest thing you could do, hence the phrase, 'It's not brain surgery.'"

"Ha-ha," said Eric. He kissed his fiancee, then turned to me. "So how've you been, Jason, what's new in your life?"

"Not that much. Work kinda sucks, but that's not new."

"Hey, anything happening on the Langford front?" asked Stacey.

"Status quo." I popped an olive into my mouth and used my teeth to separate the meat from the stone. I was thinking about that surgeon. "Let me ask you this, Er," I said, taking the pit from my mouth and putting it into the designated pit dish in the center of the table. "What do you know about lung cancer?"

"Um, well, I know a little. What do you want to know?"

"Just an overview is all. Is it treatable?"

"Lung cancer is pretty aggressive, but like all cancer it depends on when it's caught, and different people respond differently to treatment." He scratched his eyebrow. "Why? What's up?"

"My neighbor Patty, I've probably mentioned her before, the eccentric older woman who lives next door to me..."

"The one you smoked pot with that time," said Stacey. Then she frowned. "Oh, gosh, no."

"Yeah, she told me she had lung cancer. She said she was dying. But this was after a really late night of drinking, I mean, she doesn't seem weak or sick." I took a pull on my beer. "But she does have this awful, disgusting cough."

"Well, it's impossible for me to tell, obviously," said Eric. "But what makes cancer patients weak more than anything is the chemo," said Eric. "Do you know if she's started that yet?"

"Wait," interrupted Stacey. "What do you mean she told you after a late night of drinking?"

I gave them the executive summary. Eric couldn't offer much more, but thought she at least sounded strong if she was pounding drinks. Stacey sort of tsk-tsked me on going out 'til dawn with my neighbor, then missing work hung over, but I let it go. I wasn't looking for a lecture, and defending myself would've brought one on. I was a little sorry I'd brought the whole thing up.

The food arrived and we all started shoving it in. Mouth half full of pitza, I changed the subject. "Let's talk wedding, shall we?"

"Let's," said Stacey.

"Okay," I said, "well, I've been hard at work on your ceremony, and before I tell you my preliminary thoughts, which, let me just say, won't be until after the rabbi helps me next week, I just wanted to ask you some really basic questions. Like, do you guys want to write your own vows, for starters?"

"I think the traditional ones are fine, don't you honey?" said Eric, taking another slice.

"I mean, yeah, they're 'fine,' but don't you think we should personalize them a little?" Stacey turned to me. "We haven't discussed it yet, obviously." Then back to Eric. "I don't think I want to repeat the same vows everyone else does, it just seems so impersonal." She took a sip of her wine. "What do you think?"

He looked back at her for a moment before speaking. "Okay, that's cool. So we'll write something up I guess."

"Okay, very good, now, let me ask you this," I said, reaching for more pitza.

"But," interrupted Eric, "I think it's nice to say the same vows as everyone else. And by everyone else, I mean the same vows our parents said, and our grandparents, you know? Tradition."

"Honey," said Stacey, wiping her mouth with her napkin. "I totally hear you, but I don't necessarily agree with the traditional vows. Take the part that says that I, as the bride, will 'honor and obey' you. That seems a little outdated to me, and I don't really want to say it."

"Jesus, it's not like you have to take them so literally," said Eric, spreading his arms. "But that's fine, let's just take that part out. Boom, done."

"But why wouldn't we just write our own? I think that would be nice," said Stacey.

"Because I think it's corny when people write their own," answered Eric, jamming a piece of crust into his mouth. "It's so pretentious." He put on a bad French accent. "'Oh vee are so much more een love than anyone else has evair been. Vee have written zeese sacred words to describe our love to zee whole world.'"

"You're thinking of your cousins! That's just because they wrote those saccharine, lovey-dovey ones. Ours don't have to be like that. And the whole point of a wedding is to show your love to the world, anyway."

"That's a whole other story," Eric said, rolling his eyes at me. "Besides, when are we going to find the time to sit down and write vows? You know how crazy we've both been."

Stacey stared at him. "I think we can find the time to write our wedding vows."

Eric broke. He reached across the table and grabbed her hand. "Okay, okay, we'll write the stupid-" He smiled. "I mean sacred sacred vows. 'Kay?" vows. 'Kay?"

Stacey pulled her hand away. "What the f.u.c.k did you mean by"-she deepened her voice to impersonate him-"'that's a whole other story'?"

I got up from the table. "I'm going to leave you two love-birds for a minute to visit the restroom."

I walked away briskly. Marriage looked awesome. I couldn't wait.

Inside the bathroom I splashed some water on my face and then texted Tina. I wasn't dying for a big night, but I hadn't seen her in a bit and I thought I should try to at least grab a drink. She had an actual relationship simmering and it was high time I got some more details. Or I could just bag it and go home and knock on Patty's door. But Tina texted back instantaneously that she could meet me around the corner for a tipple. I wrote her that I'd call when the meal was over.

Back at the table the tension seemed to have subsided. Now they began to play the "What's our single friend up to?" game. I wanted to get back to the ceremony but I didn't want to reignite any arguments-maybe this was a thing best done over e-mail first, so they could discuss it privately before we got together. As we finished off the food, I answered their inquiries about "some girl who stole your pants?" and I told them about the French connection.

"So no one who's girlfriend material," said Stacey. She sounded dejected.

"I'm pretty single. But there's this cute girl in my rabbi cla.s.s who invited me to a party. She's Orthodox, Stacey."

"What is that supposed to mean?" asked Stacey.

"I don't know, I just thought you might find it impressive," I said, shrugging.

"You know, having a girlfriend wouldn't be the worst thing in the world, Jason," she said. "It's fun, that's why most guys do it."

"Even Hitler had a girlfriend," I said, suppressing a burp.

Stacey frowned. "G.o.d, always such a wisea.s.s."

"It's a song. The Mr. T Experience," I said with a wave of the hand.

Stacey brightened. "Ooh, I know. There's this girl in Eric's rotation. She's really cute."

"She's hot, bro," said Eric.

"'Bro'?" I asked, grinning.

"No good?" asked Eric. I shook my head. "Whatever. Her name is Liza and she's pretty hot-a hot doctor. Just broke up with her long-distance boyfriend."

"I'm not much for the setups," I said, shrugging. It was true. I had been on a few. Desperately awkward. Even if the person was cool, you had the feeling like, here we are, two people so pathetically alone that friends have conspired to put us together. Plus, setups never put out; too many people in the know. "Maybe we'll end up at the same party sometime, and you can introduce me."

"She's not going to be single long, Jay," Stacey said, taking the bill from the waiter.

"I don't know, she probably won't jump into another relationship right away," said Eric, taking out his wallet. "I'm sure she'll date for a bit."

"You guys are like real estate agents-she's gonna be gone soon! No money down! Sheesh, just bring her out one night. And by the way, the Orthodox girl is in med school too-at Columbia."

"Now I'm impressed," said Stacey, smiling. "Listen, dinner's on us, for helping with the ceremony and all."

I feigned protest and thanked them and we went outside. They weren't up for meeting Tina, so we said our good-byes and shuffled off in opposite directions. Why did it feel like I had just had dinner with my parents?

Tina was sitting on a stool at a nasty little dive bar called Lucy's on Avenue A. Lucy was the owner, a Russian or Romanian woman, probably in her seventies; she still tended the bar.

I said h.e.l.lo and Tina said h.e.l.lo and we got two vodka sodas with lemon. She was wearing a gingham dress over cropped jeans, like a picnic blanket laid over a denim field. She reached over and tousled my hair.