I Just Want My Pants Back Read Online Free PDF Page B

mustache. Carol’s running leap was followed rapid-fire by Lisa Beeman’s dainty hop and Mandy Tellman’s misjudging the jump entirely and landing on my hand. They dashed off as I sat there, examining the grass stains on my good 501s. What made the whole thing worse was that only a minute before, Seth, wide-eyed and out of breath, had grabbed me in front of the garage and announced like a pubescent Paul Revere, “The girls are Frenching, the girls are Frenching!”
    Wilco wafted through the speakers and I turned to see Melinda by the stereo. Nursing my minor wound, I straightened up, forced a smile, and headed over. “Author, author!” I yelled, giving her a hug. “That was phenomenal.”
    “Thank you so much for coming!” she said, hugging me back. “Oh, hey, sorry, I almost crushed you!” She bounced up and down on her toes. “Really, you liked it?”
    I nodded. “Loved it. I’ve never been more impressed, Mel. I couldn’t imagine doing something like that.”
    “Shut up, you could do it. You just make up stuff and type it.”
    “Sounds hard. Besides, I’ve been busy at JB’s—you’ll never guess what happened after you left!” I said, like an excited kindergartner.
    Over a few drinks I proceeded to tell her the story of the dancing little people, which somehow devolved into us calling them tiny dancers, which somehow devolved into our combing through Jon’s CD collection until we found Elton John’s Greatest Hits Volume II, cranking up the stereo, and singing along to “Tiny Dancer” at the top of our lungs. It was kind of like that scene in Almost Famous, except they were rock gods on a tour bus and we were drunk idiots in an apartment. If I was someone else at the party, I would have hated us. But I was me. And I loved us. Hell, I was ready for an encore. Levon likes his money.
    I didn’t hang out much later after the sing-along. Melinda was the star and she had a lot of people to attend to. I was tired and a bit fucked up, and I didn’t really know many people there. I saw the VP girl flirting with some tall dude in khakis and figured it was a sign to call it a night.
    I headed home, stopping off on the way at my local bodega, Andy’s Deli. It was funny that it was “Andy’s,” as every person who worked there was of some kind of Indian or Bangladeshi descent. I said hello to the night guy, a twentysomething Indian immigrant who went by the name “Bobby” and had pretty much only seen me when I was drunk. Once again, I did not disappoint.
    “Bobby, good evening to you!” I said, reeling through the door and making my way toward the glass fridges in the back. He was behind the counter, looking through a magazine whose masthead read INTERNATIONAL ASS PARTY . He slapped it shut and slid it under the counter.
    “Hi, Boss! Why no girl tonight, where is your girlfriend?” Bobby had this great wide smile; he was always happy, even though he had to work such crap hours. I didn’t really know him and he didn’t really know me, but I was pretty sure we were best friends forever. I probably wasn’t the only late-night partier who thought that, though.
    I grabbed a Canada Dry ginger ale out of the fridge and a Whatchamacallit from the counter. I didn’t even know they were still making Whatchamacallits, but you had to admit: It may not have been a very good candy bar, but it had one hell of a name. And I decided to vote for it with my dollars.
    “Just this, my friend?” asked Bobby, ringing me up.
    “Yup. You know, I was just thinking. It’s funny. I’ve only ever seen you here at work. You’d think we would have bumped into each other on the street by now.” I handed him a fiver.
    “Someday, someday! You are drunk, yes?”
    “No. Never touch the stuff.” A smile snuck out of my nose, swiveled into place, and gave me away.
    He pointed at me and laughed. “Yes, yes you are! Most people who come in here after midnight are drunk. You are always nice, though. Some people are very bad.