I Just Want My Pants Back by David Rosen Page A

the odd man out taking the sink. Classless. I eventually took my turn at the overflowing urinal with the “My unicorn could kick your unicorn’s ass” graffiti written on the yellowing porcelain. Next to me was the filthiest toilet I had ever seen, one I could only describe as an absolute pit of despair. Someone had some serious digestive issues.
    I got back to Tina and took my place next to her.
    “Where were you, you fat piece of shit?” she asked, smiling dangerously.
    “Spike Jonze is back there. He said he liked my sneakers but he hated my shirt. I think he wanted to kiss me, maybe. It was weird. I felt ‘a vibe.’”
    “And you let him get away with that? Where is he?”
    “No, it’s cool—I broke a mug across his jaw. He’s fucked forever. He left bloody and crying.”
    She pulled the lemon from her drink and tossed it onto the floor. “That reminds me, I just figured out a new band name for myself, if I ever have a band.” We both continued absentmindedly sipping our drinks and staring out at the people. I felt like they couldn’t see us, like it was TV and it only worked one way.
    “What is it?”
    “Daddy’s Stabbing Mommy.”
    “I don’t get it.”
    “You know, like when a little kid walks in on his parents having sex and yells, ‘Daddy’s stabbing Mommy!’”
    “You’re retarded,” I said, grinning.
    She pointed at a stain on my shirt. “And you’re a sad little rabbi with a dirty tallith.” She turned her head and yawned loudly. “I think I need to go home. I’m going to have a massive bout of The Fear in the morning, I’m a fucking mess.” She was. She looked like a smeared version of herself. Or maybe that was because I couldn’t see straight. “Plus, Brett just texted me that he’s downtown. I just might let him take me upstairs and give me a foot massage.”
    “We need to give that guy a nickname. Brett, that’s just sort of…not descriptive.”
    “Okay, ‘Jason.’ He has a big dick, maybe you can come up with something from that,” she said, laughing. “He does, though—seriously.” She reached out and put her glass on the edge of someone’s table. Then she put her hand up to them and waved. “Enjoy the veal, good night.” She turned back to me. “Want to walk out with me?”
    “Um, I think I’m gonna finish my drink. But it was fun, right? It was the best night ever?”
    “Totally awesome, I can’t wait to go home and write about it in my dream journal.” Tina straightened herself out and threw on her jacket. “Don’t stay out too late, Rabbi,” she said, wagging a finger, then turned and began parting bodies on her way toward the door.
    It only took four more swallows and a burning feeling in my eyes for me to realize it was high time to away to my bed. I checked my phone but there was nothing, zip. I fingered the buttons, considered texting Jane, but caught myself. I stumbled outside, gave some paper from my pocket to an exotic-smelling man with a yellow car, and soon I was home and asleep.

5
    After the debacle at Seth Strasser’s sixth-grade birthday party, it looked like it was going to be one long tongue-less summer for me. My hopes weren’t high when I attended a pool party at Carol’s house in mid-July. It was a classic hot summer day, and while other kids flirted awkwardly on the grass, I horsed around in the water, playing some game that was a combination of water polo and kill-the-guy-with-the-ball. Misty Blank swam over to me. Misty had an identical twin sister, Christy, but they went to private school so we didn’t see them very often. That only made them all the more attractive to the boys; in our eyes the two blond sisters were both miniature Pam Andersons. I couldn’t really tell them apart; I only knew it was Misty from the “MB” monogrammed on her one-piece.
    “Hi, Jason.”
    “Hi.”
    She scratched her nose. “My sister likes you if you like her first.”
    “Really?”
    “Yuh-huh. So?”
    I shrugged. “I like her