I Just Want My Pants Back by David Rosen

hair was soaked. I tried to think happy thoughts. I even thought about baby kittens I had seen romping in a pet-store window, but soon the vision turned ugly and they were scooped up in a pillowcase by a dirty little boy and tossed into a creek. Where did that come from?
    After a few minutes the sweats slowed, and I began to feel better. It was amazing how once the almost-moment of vomiting passed, you suddenly felt okay again. I sat up, bits of crap embedded in my back, pulled off my shoes and pants, and then got back into bed. I had dodged the bullet. Jesus shit, I hoped I wouldn’t be a mess in the morning. Before I closed my eyes I looked at the clock; it was only two. I was going to be okay. I was. It was going to be all lollipops and rainbows from here on out. Now I just had to sleep, and maybe dream. That was it for my “to do” list. I needed to stop thinking. I put the pillow over my head and waited.

7
    I awoke the next morning with more than a touch of The Fear. Besides some lingering queasiness, I had a pain in my head that turned the light from the window into a knitting needle to the eye. Had I almost gotten in a fight? And that e-mail, Jesus, nothing brighter than sending a late-night drunken message, moron. It couldn’t be helped: The morning was going to be filled with feelings of longing and regret. Which is why if I was a real drinker, I would’ve gone right out for some kind of mimosa pick-me-up brunch. But instead I had the Gatorade and Advil I’d left on top of the toilet, still in the brown bag from the deli.
    It was a gray Saturday morning, and I was glad to see it. I didn’t need any glorious weather peer-pressuring me to get outside and enjoy the day. I wanted an egg-and-cheese on a roll and I wanted it now. I looked at the clock: ten-thirty. I wasn’t the type who could fall back to sleep. That was a gift that some people had; they could go back to sleep after waking up, or they could fall asleep in the middle seat on a packed airplane or next to a native transporting live chickens on a bus racing along a cliff in the Andes.
    I got dressed and went out to the diner around the corner, the Galaxy. The theme inside was just that. On the stained wooden walls were amateurish paintings of space scenes that looked a lot like a stoned sophomore’s art-class watercolor of Dark Side of the Moon. I especially liked one over a booth in the back that showed an astronaut on what looked like an asteroid, sharing fries with an alien creature. It was painted directly on the wall, a fresco.
    I went up to the counter to get my grease sandwich to go, but after I ordered I saw that I only had three dollars left in my wallet. That didn’t help those feelings of shame subside. I promised the guy I’d be back and walked down the block toward a cash machine. How much fucking money could I have dropped last night? The drinks were mostly free, dinner was free, what happened? I tried to remember how much I had started with but had no fucking idea.
    There was no line at the ATM, so I stepped right up and slipped my card into the slot. The nasty fingerprint-smeared screen told me I only had $145 left in my account. And payday wasn’t until next Friday. Do-able, but not altogether comfortable. I guessed I wasn’t getting that beach house with the stable of extremely flexible swimsuit models just yet. I got $40 and slunk out; I had to be among the bank’s least valuable customers. I pictured the tellers sitting around watching the security tapes of me, laughing their asses off.
    I got my sandwich and walked toward home. A shredded plastic bag blew past me and caught itself in a tree. The city was so disgustingly dirty sometimes. On a windy day like today I could feel bits of shit hitting me head-on; when I washed my face later the water would come off brown. I imagined my pores being packed with filth the way footprints on the beach were filled with blowing sand. And every few blocks, especially as the weather got