I Just Want My Pants Back by David Rosen Page B

Zod.”

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    A knock on the door woke me up. “Who is it?” I yawned, rubbing my eyes. I had no idea what time it was, but Superman II was over, transformed into some kind of women’s golf tournament.
    “It’s your neighbor,” said my neighbor. Patty. I sat up, ambled over to the door, and opened it.
    “Hi, oh, did I wake you up?” she asked.
    “No, not really, I just sort of dozed off watching TV,” I said. We stood in the doorway. I wasn’t sure whether or not to invite her in.
    “You’ve got sleep lines on your face. Did you fall asleep on corduroy?”
    I felt my cheek. It did feel a bit corrugated. “Oh.” I managed a chuckle. “It must be the texture of my couch, I guess. Hey, do you want to come in?”
    “Great, thanks.” She pushed by me and went into my small main room. “I like your place,” she said, looking around. She sat on the couch, fished around in her pockets, and pulled out a cigarette. “Is it okay if I smoke?”
    “Yeah yeah, no problem.” I went into the fridge and pulled out a two-liter Diet Coke. “Want some?” I asked.
    She shook her head and lit up. I poured myself a glass, grabbed a mug to act as an ashtray, and sat down on the other end of the couch. It was the only place to sit. I sipped the soda and started to shake off the sleepiness. “Sorry, I’m sort of out of it. So, what have you been up to? I’ve just been here all day. I mean right here, on this couch. I had a late one last night.”
    “Oh, yeah?” She blew a perfect smoke ring. I’m talking perfect. It hung above her head and rotated, slowly dissipating and softening until it disappeared into the ceiling. She ashed into the mug and looked around my apartment.
    Patty smiled, and I smiled back. This was nice, something my parents might have done, had a neighbor over for a chitchat. Not that much different from the way it might happen in most suburbs of America, for better or worse. Well, actually, for better. I didn’t get the suburbs. Working all day was bad enough, but braving a bus or train and then the subway and the streets and the overcrowded elevator just for the privilege? Two hours a day wasted. No, I’d never understand that.
    Patty adjusted a pillow behind her back. “I was up very late myself. Almost until five. I’m trying to reorganize, you see. I’ve been going through all my possessions to just assess what I have, where I’ve been for the past year, where I’m going. It’s the season of rebirth, you know.” She exhaled another perfect smoke ring.
    “How do you do that?” I said, pointing to it. “I always wanted to be able to blow those.” I felt like a teenager outside the high school, talking to the bad kid.
    “You don’t smoke, though, do you, Jason?”
    I shook my head. “Just the pot.”
    “Filthy habit,” she said, consciously exhaling smoke away from me, out the side of her crooked mouth. “My clothes, my sheets, everything stinks. I used to have a dog, before you lived here. A little terrier mix, Jolly. Even she reeked of smoke. Believe me, you don’t want to start. However…” She stubbed out her smoke, leaned back, and reached into her jeans pocket, pulling out the spliff I had slipped under her door yesterday. Was that yesterday? Christ, it felt like weeks ago. “I could try to show you with this little fellow.”
    “Oh, I don’t know. I probably shouldn’t,” I protested, waving a hand. Getting high now wasn’t a great idea, after only a few hours ago being on bended knee in the bathroom, pleading “ No mas !” I looked at the microwave: 6:30. Hmm. But…if I got high now, I’d be exhausted early, and I’d definitely stay in tonight and not end up going out to some bar. It was some twisted kind of drug logic, but I was nodding along to it. Yes, it made perfect sense. Getting high was the healthy thing to do. “I probably shouldn’t,” I said again, grinning. “But fuck it.”
    “Good boy.” She took the spliff between her fingers