I’M NOT GOING TO FIGHT WITH YOU,” announced Sam as he got up from the couch. Megan sobbed as he got his duffle bag, began packing, and advanced out the door, declaring “It’s over.”
“But you wear those jeans all the fuckin’ time! What’s wrong with you? You never take them off! Not even when we fuck. They’re dingy… your patches need patches… you got duck tape holding them together! And what! You get mad because I go to the mall and buy you new pants? Fuck you!” shouted the frustrated girlfriend at the man sauntering down the clean, warmly carpeted hall. “You’re sick—goddamn you! You hear me!—sick!”
That’s when he noticed something rough and papery in his right hand pocket. He pulled it out. A fifty sat there miraculously on his palm. He put his hand back in his pocket and there was yet another fifty. Then again, and
Carrying all the possessions he had in the world, Sam thought about how long he had that thing slung over his shoulder. Over the years he found it to be more loyal than many people he once considered friends, and certainly more loyal than the women he shacked up with. In fact, he had that bag longer than the pair of pants that his now ex-girlfriend had just complained about. That pair of pants that all his exes finally become exasperated with. But if the duffle were a loyal friend, the pants could be considered a Siamese twin… because for very practical reasons, he just couldn’t separate himself from them. If he had explained their power, he felt that it wouldn’t have ended with Megan… in fact, any one of his exes would’ve been more understanding then. But he tried that once with a woman named Delia, and she just wouldn’t shut up!Where do you get all that money? Your parents must be rich. Did you rob a bank? Where’s the money hidden? Come on, baby, you can trust me… I won’t tell a soul. Yah. Right. Of course not all women would’ve behaved as Delia had, conspiring with her brother and ex-boyfriend to beat him up and leave him in his underwear. It was only luck that he didn’t get as drunk as they thought he was, and that an empty wine bottle was within reach, and that Sam could swing that wine bottle like a crazy son of a bitch, and that none of them had guns. But this didn’t change the fact that it had definitely left an impression on Sam, and he swore to himself that he wouldn’t take that chance again. Megan might’ve did the same thing. You never know.
But that was behind him now and once outside, a calm, comforting feeling of familiarity came over him. The sidewalk greeted him. Even though it was past three in the afternoon and the sun burned, the tall buildings shielded its intense rays from him. Anonymous humanity walked back and forth. A college girl with a pony tail and perky breasts walked briskly towards the university situated on a nearby hill. A guy made gray by his labor just came off work and trudged along to wherever… to do whatever it is that he does after work. Two fat girls in their late twenties. Just came back from shopping. Their chubby legs struggling against the upward slope of the sidewalk. A group of three or four hipster types hung out across the street. Acting all cool. Wearing their hipness in their nerdy thick heavy black eyeglasses and designer clothes meant to look like they had been bought at a thrift store. They paid no attention to him. None of them did. Only guy who did was some homeless guy… said he wanted a dollar for a beer. Sam appreciated his honesty and gave him a crumpled bill. He usually didn’t do this but a generous impulse overcame him. Gee. Thanks mister.
“Don’t mention it,” said Sam and with emphasis he added—“to anyone.”
He walked down the street to the grocery store to buy some bus tickets. He paid with a fifty. The clerk marked it with a pen to make sure it wasn’t counterfeit. He took a bus out to 82nd avenue, an infamous part of town known for its hookers, strip clubs, and reasonably priced motels. He put a fifty in the hand of the motel clerk for a room.
The light shone dimly on the yellowish-brown walls and curtains. The sheets and blanket on the bed had a dingy scent, and the room smelled like cigarette smoke. Nothing like Megan’s posh cozy downtown condo.Clean. Nice furniture. And very expensive. But that was past now too. He put his duffle on the bed and went to the strip club down the street, and watched the ladies jiggle and gyrate on stage, figuring that if he were to be bored, he might as well be bored in front of naked women.
The Man with Patches on His Pants continues...
