I Just Want My Pants Back Part 3

"Where were you, you fat piece of s.h.i.+t?" she asked, smiling dangerously.

"Spike Jonze is back there. He said he liked my sneakers but he hated my s.h.i.+rt. 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 f.u.c.ked forever. He left b.l.o.o.d.y 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 s.e.x and yells, 'Daddy's stabbing Mommy!'"

"You're r.e.t.a.r.ded," I said, grinning.

She pointed at a stain on my s.h.i.+rt. "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 ma.s.sive bout of The Fear in the morning, I'm a f.u.c.king 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 ma.s.sage."

"We need to give that guy a nickname. Brett, that's just sort of...not descriptive."

"Okay, 'Jason.' He has a big d.i.c.k, maybe you can come up with something from that," she said, laughing. "He does, though-seriously." She reached out and put her gla.s.s 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 b.u.t.tons, 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 Stra.s.ser'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 cla.s.sic hot summer day, and while other kids flirted awkwardly on the gra.s.s, 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 first, I guess."

She swam away. Ten minutes later I was out of the pool, picking through some salty Ruffles and Lipton onion-soup dip when Christy, in a "CB"-initialed suit, flip-flopped over.

"Hi."

"Hi."

"Do you want to go for a walk in the woods?"

Barefoot, I followed her into the suburban-grade forest that marked the edge of Carol's lawn, the twigs biting into my tender feet. Despite the pain, I had enough of a grasp of manhood to know you didn't scream "Ow!" when you were oh-so-close. We were both still wet from the pool, and Christy's blond hair was dripping water down her back. We stopped by a tree. Christy leaned against it.

"Ever kiss anyone?" she asked me. She took a piece of gum out of her mouth and chucked it clumsily, the weird mechanics of a girl throw. It went six feet and hit the dirt.

"Uh-huh, sure."

It was cold there in the shade and I was s.h.i.+vering a bit. She put her closed lips up to mine. We stood stone still, lips stiff, hands hanging dumbly at our sides, like Siamese twins attached at the mouth. I opened my eyes and saw that hers were open too, so I quickly clamped mine shut again. I felt something on my lips. It was her tiny pink tongue, and it pried my mouth open and then it was inside. It was all warm and minty and it was official, I was French-kissing. More than anything s.e.xual, I remember feeling relief. I had finally reached first base.

Back then, the girls really took the lead. But things seemed to have changed over the years. The girls just didn't seem to chase the boys all that much anymore. Or at least my girl Jane wasn't chasing me. It was now a week and a half since she had slept over, and I hadn't heard a peep from her. I had even texted her late Wednesday night after another bout of debauchery with Tina, "My turn-u up?" No response. I tried to rationalize that maybe she had gone to China or something for work, but in my head that annoying "Nah nah nah nah, hey, hey, hey-good-bye" song was playing. Repeatedly. It was just plain weird that she hadn't gotten back to me; I mean, I didn't remember completely blowing it. In fact, I thought it had gone sort of well.

It was nearing eleven on Friday and I was sitting at the receptionist's desk at JB's. The office was slow and so was the news online. I checked my e-mail every eighteen seconds, looking for something interesting, spam, anything. I watched the clock tick and tick. Melinda was running errands all morning, so I was stuck there all alone for the next couple of hours. I thought about my options. I could maybe start in on a rubber band ball; JB had one on his desk that was fairly impressive. Perhaps I could top it. Or I could make a paper-clip chain of ludicrous length-a paper-clip jump rope, even. G.o.d, I was bored. Maybe I could slip out and get high and eat a wheel of cheese. I just wished something would happen, anything. The worst feelings in the world were boredom and nausea. But at least when you were nauseated, you didn't have the feeling you were wasting your time.

I had nothing else to do, so I figured what the f.u.c.k and shot Jane another e-mail. She was on my brain, and my brain controlled the fingers that started jabbing at the keyboard. h.e.l.l, one more e-mail couldn't really make matters any worse at this point. And if I went zero for three, then I'd at least know it was officially kaput.

Hey Jane,Woke up this morning and went to put on my d.i.c.kies and then I remembered-hey...you have them! Give me a shout and let's catch up, make a plan. I have other clothing items that will fit you fantastically...Mr. Giggles

I hit SEND SEND and then began composing an e-mail to my folks. We were pretty bad at staying in touch; even in college I'd go weeks at a time without speaking to them. My mom liked to think of it as a genetic flaw in the family: We were all self-sufficient to the point of negligence. I caught them up on the news I thought they'd be most interested in: my imminent role as rabbi. They had actually met Stacey and Eric on a visit out to Cornell. "Your son is finally a rabbi, Mom, just like you always dreamed!" I joked. We weren't a very religious family, to say the least. Judaism was, for us, more Woody Allen, less Abraham and Esther. I had been bar mitzvahed and all that, but at the time it was really just about getting heaps of gifts and playing "c.o.ke and Pepsi." We never, ever went to services; to me temple seemed like a building where men went to show off their new cars and women their new dresses and jewelry. Our cantor had even had an affair with a woman from the congregation. Now he owned a Mercury dealers.h.i.+p on the way to the airport. and then began composing an e-mail to my folks. We were pretty bad at staying in touch; even in college I'd go weeks at a time without speaking to them. My mom liked to think of it as a genetic flaw in the family: We were all self-sufficient to the point of negligence. I caught them up on the news I thought they'd be most interested in: my imminent role as rabbi. They had actually met Stacey and Eric on a visit out to Cornell. "Your son is finally a rabbi, Mom, just like you always dreamed!" I joked. We weren't a very religious family, to say the least. Judaism was, for us, more Woody Allen, less Abraham and Esther. I had been bar mitzvahed and all that, but at the time it was really just about getting heaps of gifts and playing "c.o.ke and Pepsi." We never, ever went to services; to me temple seemed like a building where men went to show off their new cars and women their new dresses and jewelry. Our cantor had even had an affair with a woman from the congregation. Now he owned a Mercury dealers.h.i.+p on the way to the airport.

I shot off a few more e-mails to friends; maybe I could have lunch with someone or at least make plans for the weekend. It wasn't like I was changing the world at JB's-just the toner. Nights held a lot more interest.

I yawned and looked over at the office clock again. It had hardly moved. I forced myself to try to do something productive. I scrolled back in time until I spotted Stacey's e-mail with Scott Langford's info in it, and took a crack.

Scott-Hi, it's Jason Strider from Cornell. Hope all is well with you.I heard through the Cornell grapevine that you landed at Fader-major congrats on that! Don't worry, I'm not writing for a free subscription. (Although, if you can give them out easily...) But, I was wondering if you had any inkling how one could apply to be a music reviewer there?I doubt you'd remember, but I DJ'd up at school. It was an eclectic show called "The Mostly Phenomenal and Fully Enjoyable Jason Strider Power Hour." I played everything from the obscure experimental, like Moondog, to the ironic, Menudo. Mostly though, I focused on all things Indie. Each week I'd review several new releases, in detail, on the air.Anyway, I'd appreciate any guidance you can offer on the reviewer thing. Thanks so much, Scott.Go Big Red!Jason

I looked it over and did a spell-check. It seemed to make sense. I mumbled "f.u.c.k it," and quickly clicked SEND SEND. For a moment I had the sense of fulfillment one gets after completing a ch.o.r.e they've left undone for far too long, like doing the dishes or burying a body.

The moment pa.s.sed. I leaned back in my chair and looked around. What else could I be doing right now? What would I be doing six months from now? I tried to see what my life would be like five or ten years down the road, but invariably it was impossible to see anything clearly. How did people do that? I had trouble picturing what I was going to eat for dinner.

I just didn't want to spend the bulk of my waking hours on this planet yawning and sighing and waiting for five o'clock, all for the little bits of green paper that eventually blew out of my life and into the hands of cabdrivers, bartenders, drug dealers, and bodega cas.h.i.+ers. But I hadn't found a reasonable alternative yet. And it wasn't working at some "real" but equally uninspiring job until ten every night so I could afford more expensive jeans and double desserts. Although lately I'd thought I heard Tina mumble when picking restaurants that a certain place might be too expensive. Too expensive for me, is what she meant. There just had to be some way I could beat the system.

The computer made the duck-quack sound informing me I had a new e-mail. Jane? Langford? Nope, it was Eric. Not only was he around for lunch, he wanted to buy me lunch. He hadn't yet seen me since I had been anointed his rabbi, and he wanted to thank me. Was I available?

f.u.c.k yes, I was.

Eric and I finished up our lunch specials at the sus.h.i.+ place around the corner from my office and made our way back out to the street. The sun was beaming down and we basked in its warmth like sated lions; the soup, salad, and raw fish had filled us to the bursting point. Eric was really tall, I remembered now that we were standing. I always forgot his height, almost six foot five. He looked a little worn-out. He had spent lunch telling me some of the more disturbing tales of being a resident, which besides long hours and only one day off included having to touch horrible people on horrible parts of their bodies. "It's a bit like joining a fraternity and being hazed," he had explained. The things the ER doctors didn't want to do, the residents got. Which, in New York, according to Eric, often involved men who took too much v.i.a.g.r.a and needed to have the blood siphoned from their unwaveringly erect p.e.n.i.ses with a hypodermic needle. Yeah, I just didn't like people enough to ever help them out with stuff like that. It went without saying that Eric was a far better person than I. He came from a family of surgeons-his mom, dad, and older brother. He would be one soon too; he just had to get through this p.e.n.i.s-draining phase and on to the real work. He would; he was irritatingly patient.

Eric and I didn't hang out one-on-one all that often, but I was always pleasantly surprised by how enjoyable it was when we did. He wasn't caught up in a lot of the pop-culture bulls.h.i.+t I was, and we tended to have conversations about real things, often politics or health topics I had read about in the Times Times. He also wasn't afraid to cry. I mean, he should've been more afraid, he was kind of a bawler. I had seen him tear up at least a half dozen times, most recently after he, Stacey, and I watched the old film Heaven Can Wait Heaven Can Wait on cable. Over lunch I'd done my best Al Roker and predicted that his wedding day was going to be partly cloudy, with a pa.s.sing shower of man tears. on cable. Over lunch I'd done my best Al Roker and predicted that his wedding day was going to be partly cloudy, with a pa.s.sing shower of man tears.

As we stood there, faces pointed at the sun, I felt a tap on my shoulder. I turned my head to see a pet.i.te blond girl in a black sweater.

"Hey, Jason, how are you?" the blonde said, beaming. I knew that smile. Intimately.

"Holy s.h.i.+t-Annie!" We hugged. "I didn't know you were in New York."

"Yeah, I moved here about a year ago, I got a job at People People magazine as a photo editor. I live up on the Upper West Side." She flipped her hair. She was dressed way more stylishly than the last time I had seen her. She actually did look like a photo editor. The trendy tight sweater, fancy jeans, some kind of stylish boots. "And you? What's your story?" magazine as a photo editor. I live up on the Upper West Side." She flipped her hair. She was dressed way more stylishly than the last time I had seen her. She actually did look like a photo editor. The trendy tight sweater, fancy jeans, some kind of stylish boots. "And you? What's your story?"

"I live in the West Village." She made a face, as if she were impressed. "Yeah, I was really lucky, and got this great place." I realized Eric was standing there awkwardly. "This is actually the guy who found me the place, Eric. He went to Cornell too, but he was a couple years ahead of us."

Eric reached out his hand and shook Annie's. "Hi, I'm old Eric."

"Hi, nice to meet you." Annie turned back to me. "I love the West Village, good for you," she said, grabbing my arm. "So what else? What are you doing for work?"

"Nothing too exciting, really. Right now I just work at this casting place around the corner." I shrugged.

"You don't sound that into it," she said, seeming genuinely surprised.

"Oh, you know, it's fine."

She fingered an earring, smiling. "When we broke up, I always had nightmares that the next time I saw you, you'd have models on your arm, a famous record producer or something," she said.

"Oh, well, I am hugely famous in Croatia. People have posters of me there." I laughed.

Eric excused himself and popped into a deli on the corner. Annie and I talked and caught up for five minutes and gave the brief versions of our deals, until he came back.

Annie looked at her watch. "Shoot, I better get going." We hugged again and said our good-byes. Then Eric and I continued around the corner.

"So what was up with that girl?" he asked. "You used to date her?"

"Yeah, it was after you graduated, spring of senior year. She's a year younger. I was working crazy hours at the f.u.c.king Sam Goody because I was saving up to go traveling, and she had a pretty easy semester. I'd close the store at ten, get home exhausted, and she'd force me to motivate. All I did that spring was re-stock CDs, smoke pot, and have s.e.x."

Eric opened a pack of a gum and offered me a piece. "That doesn't suck. Annie, hmm. I feel like Stacey has mentioned her."

I took the stick and popped it into my mouth. "That was really weird seeing her again. She was like the only 'girlfriend' I ever had-even if it was just a few months. What kind of gum is this?"

"It's called bubble mint, it's some hybrid of bubble gum and mint gum."

"Hybrid, eh?" I grinned. "Okay, Doctor."

"Shut up." He blew a small bubble, pulled it back in his mouth, and cracked it. "Maybe you should have gotten her number."

"Nah. I mean, she was a crazymaker."

"What's that mean?"

"It just means we drove each other crazy all the time, in good ways and in bad. It's a chemical thing, I think. We had a lot, a lot, of screaming white-trash-type fights. We got thrown out of a bowling alley once because we were fighting over the right way to score spares, Jesus!" I laughed. "She also had a pretty bad eating disorder, which I didn't realize until later. She only ate baked potatoes and frozen yogurt. At the time I thought she was just 'quirky.'" I spat the gum into a trash can on the corner. "I'm not into it," I said, wiping my lip.

We began walking slowly in the general direction of my office. A river of people rushed around us like we were a rock in a stream, splitting and then re-gelling on the other side. It was sunny out, but the buildings were so tall in this part of town that we were always in shadow, no matter what side of the street we walked on.

"I still say you should've gotten her number. Just think, you could show her how much better in bed you've gotten." He slapped me on the shoulder with one of his big man-paws, and we hustled to beat the light and cross Sixth Avenue.

Eric dropped me off at the office and thanked me again for agreeing to shoulder the rabbinical duties. I took one last breath of spring air and then went upstairs, my posture immediately beginning to slouch as I pa.s.sed through the entrance. It was still totally quiet. Melinda wasn't in yet and I had no new e-mails, certainly no reply from Jane. d.a.m.n it. I checked out nytimes.com, but there was nothing interesting; apparently it was the dullest day in American history. I leaned back in my chair and cleaned my gla.s.ses on my unders.h.i.+rt. Maybe Eric was right. Maybe I should've gotten Annie's number; even though she drove me nuts, I sort of thought I was really in love with her for a moment there. But it wasn't love. It was some kind of unscratchable itch. It was crying three a.m. phone calls and screaming in an un-air-conditioned car at stoplights over directions and generally expending vast amounts of energy and pa.s.sion playing devil's advocate on points I really didn't care about but couldn't leave alone. But maybe that was love, someone who could drive you crazy, someone you couldn't ignore even when you wanted to, who got under your skin. I mean I sure as h.e.l.l wasn't sure as h.e.l.l about what "love" was. Anyway, had I gotten Annie's number, I knew where it would eventually lead.

Beer. Intercourse. Tears.

Melinda never came back to the office, which meant I had to run the late-afternoon casting session. Toddlers for a Charmin commercial. After only about ten minutes I wanted to Krazy Glue the tip of my p.e.n.i.s shut so that I'd never, ever impregnate anyone.

Kids were running around like they were on fire, crying, pulling each other's hair, spazzing out. Each one was trailed by a mother suckling another younger child, or perhaps, in their eyes, another "gold mine." These mothers were the worst, just the absolute worst. Their voices were so shrill they could pierce steel, the government should have considered employing them to sonically shoot down enemy missiles from the sky.

"What did I tell you, Charlemagne? Do you want to watch Toy Story Toy Story later or not?" later or not?"

"Brooklyn! Stop touching that girl!"

"Magellan, you do as that man says or I'm telling Daddy!"

All of the kids had ridiculous names like that, soap-opera-character names. There were Dakota and Blaze and Kash and Sodapop ("We both really loved The Outsiders The Outsiders!") and D'Artagnan and Chynna and Pacifica and Charisma. Charisma-what the f.u.c.k, why not just name your kid Personality Plus? And, of course, all of the moms wanted me to know they were more than mere moms, they were also actresses. As they each approached me, their shrill commanding voices instantly softened, their thin frowns were replaced by flirty smiles and batting eyelashes. "Chynna s.h.i.+nes when we are in scenes together. It really saves the directors a lot of time." A sudden blast of authority. "Chynna! Quiet! Mommy's talking!" Then back to flirty. "So"(hair-flip, stomach-in, b.o.o.bs-out) "can I give you my head shot?"

The place smelled of forty kinds of fecal matter. There was a puddle in the corner and I was pretty sure it didn't come from a juice box. A rotund ten-year-old with bushy hair sat against the far wall, away from the action. He was chain-eating mini Snickers bars from a Halloween-sized bag, waiting for his mom and younger sibling. I got the sick feeling his folks kept him obese; he was a shoo-in for any "fat kid" role.

The only thing the toddlers had to do was smile to the camera and say "soft." Maybe one had actually done that, the rest just started babbling or playing with the only toy we had at JB's for sessions like these, a Fisher-Price xylophone. Cling clang clang! Cling clang clang! Cling clang clang! Cling clang clang! I was ready to shoot heroin directly into my eyes. I was ready to shoot heroin directly into my eyes.

The day and the week finally came to a close, and I headed home. I stood among the zombies on a rumbling subway car that smelled of human rot. I looked around and saw the cause. A sleeping homeless man, filthy, sprawled in a seat, an open Styrofoam container filled with lo mein on his lap. The stench was awful, as if he were decomposing in front of us. He might have been, too. But no one complained. Or, for that matter, attempted to see if he needed help. We held our breath and waited for our stops, the homeless man finally snorting and coughing in his slumber, proving he was alive, probably spewing an invisible plague onto us all.

I emerged from the Germ Express and power-walked toward home. I got to my apartment, turned on an old Hank Williams alb.u.m, and plopped down on my s.h.i.+tty green couch. Hank sang, "Yeah, my bucket's got a hole in it. My bucket's got a hole in it." It was the kind of music you could make love to, or curl up in the fetal position alone and cry to. I had a lot of records like that. Ones that made you feel like you were in a movie somehow when you listened to them, like every move you made had meaning.

Back in St. Louis, my house had been a short bike ride away from the local hip used-record store/head shop, Vintage Vinyl. It became the place where I spent the majority of my allowance and where I learned all about "rock and f.u.c.king roll, dude." It was intimidating to go in there; the music was blasting, it smelled like clove cigarettes, and there were a lot of Iron Maidentype posters up replete with skulls and axes, all of which were frightening to a thirteen-year-old.

The first time I went in, after about ten minutes of wandering around not knowing what to look for, I placed Styx's Cornerstone Cornerstone on the counter. I knew nothing about the band-or any band for that matter. I picked it solely based on the on the counter. I knew nothing about the band-or any band for that matter. I picked it solely based on the NICE PRICE NICE PRICE sticker, the cool Styx logo, and the simple fact that I had been in the S section, seeing if there were any "Striders." The cas.h.i.+er, wearing a skinny tie and a handful of pins on his s.h.i.+rt, snickered as he bagged it. I went back a week later, and as I walked past the register the same guy looked at me and sang, "Babe, I love you, oooooooooh ooh babe." He clapped his hands together. "You didn't like that piece of s.h.i.+t, did you?" I shook my head. He asked me my name and I told him. "Okay, Jason," he came out from around the counter. "I'm Mike. Allow me to a.s.sist you." He led me over to rock/pop, humming something to himself. "Today's letter is the letter 'B.' No reason, I'm just feeling it. Let's see," he said, click-clacking through the discs. "The Buzzc.o.c.ks' sticker, the cool Styx logo, and the simple fact that I had been in the S section, seeing if there were any "Striders." The cas.h.i.+er, wearing a skinny tie and a handful of pins on his s.h.i.+rt, snickered as he bagged it. I went back a week later, and as I walked past the register the same guy looked at me and sang, "Babe, I love you, oooooooooh ooh babe." He clapped his hands together. "You didn't like that piece of s.h.i.+t, did you?" I shook my head. He asked me my name and I told him. "Okay, Jason," he came out from around the counter. "I'm Mike. Allow me to a.s.sist you." He led me over to rock/pop, humming something to himself. "Today's letter is the letter 'B.' No reason, I'm just feeling it. Let's see," he said, click-clacking through the discs. "The Buzzc.o.c.ks' Singles Going Steady Singles Going Steady, and"-click-clack-"Bob Dylan's Highway 61 Revisited Highway 61 Revisited." I don't know why they kept Bob Dylan under B, but that was their system. Whether Mike turned me on to bands or I found them on my own, I discovered all kinds of great s.h.i.+t in that store. It was where I first bought alb.u.ms by They Might Be Giants, Built to Spill, and the Dead Milkmen just because I liked their names, only to discover when I got home that I had scored, big time. Every so often you'd see members of local bands like Uncle Tupelo and Enormous Richard (despite Tina's efforts, Enormous Richard remained the best band name ever) in there, browsing. One time Mike was talking to this chunky guy who wore a cowboy hat and a neckerchief. It turned out to be Big Sandy, of Big Sandy and his Fly-Rite Boys. He was a Western-swing legend from California. We all got high, right in the store, back by the discount rack. On the bike ride home I swallowed about six bugs because I couldn't get the goofy, open-mouthed grin off my face.

I sat there for a few minutes, decompressing, listening to Hank, thinking of nothing. I studied the ceiling. I tried to focus on only the white of it without my peripheral vision letting anything else in. It was really hard to do. I tried but I couldn't hold it, so I gave in and let my eyes slowly wander around my apartment. It was dusty. The late-afternoon sun streamed through the window and lit swirling particles floating in the air. Something about it made me feel like I lived inside a giant nostril. There were cl.u.s.ters of stuff everywhere-black-and-white photographs on the mantel, piles of CDs on the floor, take-out menus on the countertop. One cabinet was open, and I could see an old package of green tea beckoning me in the back. Tea, why not? Antioxidants might come in handy. sat there for a few minutes, decompressing, listening to Hank, thinking of nothing. I studied the ceiling. I tried to focus on only the white of it without my peripheral vision letting anything else in. It was really hard to do. I tried but I couldn't hold it, so I gave in and let my eyes slowly wander around my apartment. It was dusty. The late-afternoon sun streamed through the window and lit swirling particles floating in the air. Something about it made me feel like I lived inside a giant nostril. There were cl.u.s.ters of stuff everywhere-black-and-white photographs on the mantel, piles of CDs on the floor, take-out menus on the countertop. One cabinet was open, and I could see an old package of green tea beckoning me in the back. Tea, why not? Antioxidants might come in handy.

I boiled the water and washed a mug. I had no sugar so I poured a few drops of lemon-lime Gatorade in, the theory being that lemon and tea went together. I took a sip. The theory was proven correct. I opened my window and climbed out to the fire escape, then sat blowing on the tea as I watched people on their way home from work. It was the end of another nice spring day, it seemed a shame we'd all wasted it.