I Just Want My Pants Back Part 5

About a half-hour later, after the three of us had swallowed even more poison, the blonde went home to Mr. Wrong. I chatted up Sue for a few more minutes. She was all taut and pretty and wasted, her lipstick smeared in the s.e.xiest of ways. I wanted to challenge her to a WWE-style no-holds-barred wrestling match. I wanted to plant a flag on her pubis and proclaim to the four winds, "All this territory, including the hills to the north, belongs to me." But it wasn't going to happen. It turned out she had a boyfriend too, a boyfriend who showed up and bought us a round. He seemed like a good guy, the b.a.s.t.a.r.d.

I stepped outside, defeated. I raised my hand and felt my way into a yellow vehicle. The driver deciphered my slurred speech and headed toward my apartment. Out the window, a couple held hands at a bus stop. I checked my phone, my eyes struggling to focus. No voice mail, no late-night text from Jane, nothing. I snapped it shut and jammed the piece of s.h.i.+t into my pocket. What the f.u.c.k, Jane? Return a f.u.c.king message. Or at least give me my G.o.dd.a.m.ned pants back. My poor d.i.c.kies, they were probably balled up on the floor of her apartment right now, surrounded by stray Prozacs and the cell-phone numbers to eight other dudes like me. And maybe a severed thumb. s.h.i.+t, for all I knew she was a s.e.xual predator with a thumb fetish. I really thought she was into me too, Jesus. Was I just blinded by v.a.g.i.n.a? I traced my upper lip with my tongue. Maybe I was going to get some kind of cold sore after all.

We slowed to a stop and the cab deposited me in front of Andy's Deli.

"Hey, Boss!" said Bobby as I came in. "How you been?"

"I feel like a hundred dollars." I burped and stumbled and grabbed a Gatorade from the fridge. "Can I get some Advil?" I asked. Did I have any left or didn't I? Better safe than sorry. It sure was bright in there. My retinas were en fuego en fuego.

"Oh, rough night for you, Jason, huh? How many you want-big bottle?" He held up a large size, and I nodded. "Okay. So no girl again tonight, man?"

"Why you always got to rub that in?" I slurred, fumbling through my wallet, eyes just slits. "I'm joking, Bobby, I'm a joker."

"Okay, okay. Good night, Boss. I pray for you!"

I climbed the stairs and unlocked the door. I stumbled over to my computer and after mistyping my pa.s.sword twice, opened my e-mail. Booze had convinced me my mission was just.

Jane,Well h.e.l.l, I'm getting that feeling that I'm probably not gonna hear from you. That's cool, I get it, no worries. I just want my pants back. I'd love to go out again, have a drink and get them, but if not, I still want them. You can mail them or messenger or send via carrier pigeon, whichever:Jason Strider 99 Perry Street #3A NY NY 10014.

I hit SEND SEND with the middle finger and then flopped onto my bed as fast as I could. I lay there with my jeans and shoes on and closed my eyes for a moment. s.h.i.+t. I had the bad feeling. The bed began making slow rotations, so I tried the trick where you put one foot on the floor and one hand on the wall to steady yourself. It didn't help. I was the tiny black ball and the bed was the roulette wheel. I felt a wave of hot unpleasantness wash over me. I hopped up, careened into the bathroom, dropped to my knees, and leaned on the toilet. I stared at the bottom of the bowl, where some weird yellowish film surrounded the hole, pieces of the film peeling off and floating. I gagged and considered my toothbrush resting on the sink. It was my expeditor in situations like this. I wasn't the kind of guy who wrestled with the dry heaves; if I was going to get sick, I got it over with Karen Carpenterstyle. I took a deep breath and made the call. with the middle finger and then flopped onto my bed as fast as I could. I lay there with my jeans and shoes on and closed my eyes for a moment. s.h.i.+t. I had the bad feeling. The bed began making slow rotations, so I tried the trick where you put one foot on the floor and one hand on the wall to steady yourself. It didn't help. I was the tiny black ball and the bed was the roulette wheel. I felt a wave of hot unpleasantness wash over me. I hopped up, careened into the bathroom, dropped to my knees, and leaned on the toilet. I stared at the bottom of the bowl, where some weird yellowish film surrounded the hole, pieces of the film peeling off and floating. I gagged and considered my toothbrush resting on the sink. It was my expeditor in situations like this. I wasn't the kind of guy who wrestled with the dry heaves; if I was going to get sick, I got it over with Karen Carpenterstyle. I took a deep breath and made the call.

f.u.c.k it. I was going to fight.

I yanked my s.h.i.+rt off and lay down on the cool, but filthy, tile floor. I had this theory based on stuff Eric had told me that sometimes worked, and I was hoping it would work now. The mind becomes a.n.a.lytical in times of crisis. The vestigial nerves run the length of the body. They cause nausea, vertigo, et cetera. The coolness of the floor and the cold sweats combined to lower body temperature, and for me, sometimes, it got rid of the nausea. I lay there while sweat poured down my face in unfathomable amounts. It stank like beer a little bit. I wiped my brow, my 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 pa.s.sed, you suddenly felt okay again. I sat up, bits of c.r.a.p embedded in my back, pulled off my shoes and pants, and then got back into bed. I had dodged the bullet. Jesus s.h.i.+t, 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 Sat.u.r.day 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 s.p.a.ce scenes that looked a lot like a stoned soph.o.m.ore's art-cla.s.s watercolor of Dark Side of the Moon. 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 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 f.u.c.king 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 f.u.c.king 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 a.s.ses 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 s.h.i.+t 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 warmer, the stink of urine would waft up. Human urine, dog urine, rat urine. I doubted there was a piece of pavement in Manhattan that had yet to be p.i.s.sed on.

I got to my building and saw Patty on her way out the front door. She was wearing an Army jacket and had on an old hunter's cap with the earflaps down. And of course, on her feet, her signature sandals. The outfit was part Ted Nugent bow-hunter, part Deadhead magic-burrito maker.

"Hi, neighbor," she smiled. "The weather reverted on us, didn't it?"

"Yeah, it's a good day for TV I think," I said.

"Oh hey, thanks for the joint. I haven't tried it yet but it smelled very nice."

"No problem." I held up my bag. "Hey, I don't mean to rush off, but my egg sandwich is calling out to me."

"Go, go," she said, waving her arm. "Listen, are you going to be around later?"

"I think. I have no plans. Do you need a hand with something?"

"I might. We'll see." She turned to go. "I may knock on your door; if you don't want to see me, just pretend you're out." A gust of wind blew and she held on to her hat. "Oh, I can't stand this breeze. Do you know that in certain parts of southern Spain, the wind is so constant that it's been proven responsible for people becoming schizophrenic?" I shook my head. "It's true. The wind has powerful psychiatric qualities." She pulled sungla.s.ses out of her pocket and put them on. Blueblocker specs with yellow lenses. She gestured toward the door. "Go eat before it gets cold. See ya."

I climbed the stairs, a bit weak and run-down. My tongue felt like it needed dredging and my sinuses were sort of achy. Could've been allergies, but I went into my apartment and, with the remaining Gatorade, swallowed a Vitamin C and beckoned my white blood cells to start f.u.c.king s.h.i.+t up.

I found my a.s.s groove on the couch and fit myself into it like I was a Lego. Then I ate my egg sandwich, feeling somewhat anemic. The food wasn't filling me. I felt like calling someone but I wasn't sure who. Tina was probably on her couch, Brett providing comfort via a cold compress and an Atavan; Stacey and Eric were probably doing something that would make me feel worse, something productive like helping build affordable housing for the poor or learning how to salsa-dance.

I wished I had bought some chocolate, like a big ol' Cadbury Fruit and Nut or something. I had nothing sweet in the house but I didn't want to go back out. There was nothing for me out there, not today. I got up, woke up my computer, and checked my e-mail. There were two new ones. The first was from my credit-card company. They had a free gift for me. Right, and I had full payment for them. DELETE DELETE. The next one was from Langford at Fader Fader.

Jason,Hve no idea if we r looking. U can send me over 5 of your best published clips, or if u don't have since yours were broadcast, any unpublished reviews you've written that I can show my boss.ScottSent from my BlackBerry Wireless Device

I re-read it and then went back to the couch. I lay down and put a pillow behind my head. I didn't have any published clips. I didn't have any unpublished ones either. Christ, I was f.u.c.king naive. I turned on the tube and flipped around, looking for anything half-decent. I could write up some reviews, I supposed, just pick a few new alb.u.ms and critique them. I mean not today, today would be a success if I simply didn't slip into a coma. It didn't seem like there was any rush anyway, he didn't really make it sound that hopeful. Odds were he probably only wrote me back because he felt he had to or something. I clicked again and again and then thank G.o.d, there it was, the thing that was going to eat up my Sat.u.r.day: Superman II Superman II. I lay back on the cus.h.i.+ons, eyelids heavy, as Terence Stamp began his reign of terror on Planet Houston. I waited patiently for my favorite line: "Come to me, Superman. Come. Kneel before Zod."

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 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 Superman II was over, transformed into some kind of women's golf tournament. 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 c.o.ke. "Want some?" I asked.

She shook her head and lit up. I poured myself a gla.s.s, 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 a.s.sess 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 f.u.c.k it."

"Good boy." She took the spliff between her fingers and straightened and tightened it. Then she flicked her lighter to the joint's end and inhaled, eyes slit, until it glowed. She took it away from her mouth and held the smoke in, finally opening her eyes wide, and blowing a wall of white. This was obviously not her first or four hundredth try at this. "Tasty," she said, examining the joint, then extending it to me.

I reached out and took it from her. "Now remember, I'm only doing this for educational purposes. So show me how to do the smoke ring." I took a toke, held it, and looked at Patty, expectantly.

She explained rapidly, "Okay, now, while you hold the smoke in your lungs, make an 'O' with your lips. Then let the smoke slowly pool in your mouth-but don't exhale-you have to open your epiglottis thing and just let it go there. Okay, when it's in your mouth, with one quick puff, blow all the smoke out through the 'O.'" She made the movement with her lips.

I tried to follow what she was saying but the smoke dribbled out, shapeless. "I have no idea what you are talking about," I half-laughed, half-coughed. I pa.s.sed the joint back her way.

"You have to keep trying. You really have to will it." She took a deep drag and then blew a smoke hula-hoop. "Ooh, that's a good one," she said, watching it slowly expand, rotate, break apart. "It's one of those things where you have to picture yourself doing it successfully, mentally prepare yourself, and then one time, boom, it just all comes together." She shook her head. "Whoa, I'm feeling this already. Pot is so much stronger now than it used to be. When I first started getting high you'd smoke three or four joints on your own, can you believe it?" Like a game of Pong, the joint was volleyed back to me.

"Totally," I said, taking a pull. I tried the ring thing again. Bupkis. I waved my hand through the white cloud. "Even in the last few years I feel like it's gotten crazy strong. You have to be careful or next thing you know you think you're a pelican or something." Ping, back to Patty.

"Ha! Let me ask you this, neighbor," she said, putting the joint to her lips. It was about halfway gone. She took a short strong toke, blowing the smoke back out her nose, Continental style. "What kind of provisions do you have? Because I think we will soon be a bit hungry, don't you?" Pong.

"Not much. But we can call Hunan Pan." I gestured out the window toward the restaurant, then took a deep hit. I was going to be very f.u.c.king high. But it was mellow, a relaxing buzz. Patty was cool. The only thing that was weird was how normal it was, me and someone older, getting high. I gave up on the ring thing, leaned back on the couch, and blew the smoke toward the ceiling, like I was some kind of volcano. The headache I had had that morning was long gone. I ashed into the mug and gave the joint back to Patty. There were still a good few hits left.

"No, that's crazy. I have food. I'll cook," she said, and took another hit. "I think that's it for me," she exhaled. "I'm really stoned. Thank you, neighbor!" She handed me the joint, stood up, and did some kind of yoga stretch, her arms moving out in a circle and meeting over her head, and then she bent down to touch her toes.

I was really stoned as well. I took one last long toke and stubbed out the roach in the mug, figuring I'd retrieve it later for a possible bedtime hit. I watched Patty stretch, stoned to the t.i.ts. Ooh, I did not want to think about her t.i.ts, not cool. Man, was I high. My synapses were just firing at will. Thought, thought, thought, lots of sentences that never gelled into paragraphs, a non-sequitur freakout. I watched Patty and her yoga moves and I wanted to make a joke about "warrior three," and then I gawked at her bright flannel as if I were a hippie in a sixties cult movie saying, "The colors! The colors!" I giggled out loud. I was a good audience for myself when I was high. I was Dom DeLuise to my own Burt Reynolds. I took a sip of my Diet c.o.ke and stood up. "What are you doing?" I asked Patty, who was still holding some yoga pose.

"Sometimes when you're high it feels amazing to stretch," she said, arms held straight over her head.

"Really?" I put the Diet c.o.ke down and bent over to stretch my hammies. I wasn't very flexible, I couldn't even touch my toes. I hung over my feet, breathing slowly. I heard her laugh and I looked up.

"I just made that up," she said, giggling. "Sorry." She walked over to my stereo. "Music! How do I work this?"

I grabbed the remote off the coffee table and turned it on. The Ramones' Rocket to Russia Rocket to Russia began to play. began to play.

"Lobotomy! Lobotomy!"

"Too aggressive?" I asked, turning it down a bit.

"Oh no, I like the Ramones," she said, bouncing on her toes a little. "I used to know Joey a bit, you know."

"No s.h.i.+t, really?"

"Yeah. Well, I used to have a good friend, Sh.e.l.ly, who bartended at CB's." Patty moved back over to the couch and sat down. "I'd try to go there on Tuesdays and hang out with her, because the other nights she'd be too busy to spend any time with me. Tuesdays were the slowest nights, and that place could get rowdy. It was all kids in there; you have to remember, the drinking age was only eighteen back then, so there'd be a lot of drunk high school kids, and I was too old for that s.h.i.+t." She reached into her pants pocket, pulled out a cigarette, and held it between her teeth as she jammed both hands back into her pockets searching for a lighter. "The Ramones used to play on Tuesdays a lot before they got popular, I mean, n.o.body was really there except Sh.e.l.ly and me, and whatever other bands were waiting to play. Their whole shtick was really funny, you couldn't understand a word they were saying because they were so d.a.m.n loud, but you could just tell they had something. When they were done playing sometimes they used to hang out; Sh.e.l.ly would slip them some free beers." She spotted the lighter on the table, lit the cigarette, and took a puff. She exhaled. "Joey was always very polite, very nice. Even after they became stars I'd still see him around town and he'd wave and say hi. It was a shame he died so young." She gestured at me with her cigarette. "Hey, how old were you then? This was seventy-five I think."

"I was zero," I said. I paced over to the window and looked outside. It was dark now. Another day gone. I looked back at Patty, who was playing with her fingers, cig dangling from her mouth. "You okay, Patty?" I asked.

"Yeah. It's just...sometimes, I don't know how I got so old." She looked up at me and smiled. "Time flies, right?"

I felt bad. "Totally, it totally flies," I babbled. "Like this whole week flew by, I can't even remember what I did. I went to work Monday morning and the next thing I knew it was Friday night, and I was at some bar drinking and saying, 'Hey man, I'm so glad it's Friday,' to a bunch of strangers. It's like I went to sleep one night and I woke up and the week was over."

Patty puffed on her cigarette. "I got news for you. You know how your week flew past? Well, when you get to be my age, that's how the years go. You wake up one morning and it's the next year." She inhaled, held, and then blew a smoke ring. It floated out at me on an angle. "I told you, I can be a bit of a buzzkill," she laughed. Her laugh turned into a cough, the same kind I had heard the other day. A bronchitis cough. I felt like a wet stuffed animal was going to come flying out.

"Do you need the Heimlich?" I joked.

"No, no it's okay, allergies is all." She wheezed. "Spring is hard for me." She caught her breath, stubbed out her cigarette, and smoothed her hair. "Could you be a dear and get me a gla.s.s of water?"

I washed out a gla.s.s, filled it, and gave it to her. "Sheena Is a Punk Rocker" came on, my favorite Ramones song. So I said, "Hey, this is my favorite Ramones song. Did you ever see them play it?"

She finished a sip of the water. "Oh, yes, I must've. I might not have been paying attention, but probably. I don't really remember. Another great part of getting older, Jason, is you forget stuff."

"But just think, you forget all the really bad stuff too, so maybe it's a benefit," I said.

"That's true. But here's the thing. When you get older, one day you'll catch yourself looking in the mirror wondering, 'What have I been doing again?' I mean, maybe you're just trying to remember something, like right now I'm trying to remember the Ramones, or maybe you're being deep, thinking back across the years, but it'll hit you. The game is for keeps. That's why you see a lot of gray-haired guys in Porsches, they had a moment and were like 'Hey, I don't want to miss out on this, I'm doing it now!' If you live in America and you're not some religious nut and you believe in free will and all, you have no one to blame or congratulate on how you lived except yourself. It's sort of a tough day, to be truthful. It was for me. I think even if you're president or really successful or whatever, it's still a tough one." She stared into the corner, where my computer was sitting on my tiny desk. "That for work?"

"Nah, it's left over from college, just for e-mailing and playing around online," I said.

"Oh. Wait, what is it you do for work again?"

I scratched at an itch on my neck. "I have this bulls.h.i.+t job at a casting company. It's very small, just four of us. We cast for like TV shows and commercials and stuff. I'm like the general a.s.sistant, you know, whatever they need, I basically do. It's temporary."

She laughed. "That sounds fun! Meet any stars?"

"Nah, it's not like that at all. It's really just for bit parts and extras. Like if a sci-fi movie needs a hundred female warriors, and they all need to be blond and over six feet tall, they'd call us. It's goofy."

"So, are you going to be a director or screenwriter or something?"

I poured the last of the Diet c.o.ke into my gla.s.s and put the bottle in the sink. "To tell you the truth, Patty, I have no idea. I found the job through this temp agency. It's, you know, fine. I don't need to shave or dress up, and it pays the bills. Eventually, I'd like to do something music-related." I thought about the e-mail I had just received from Langford. "I mean, I think."

Patty took off her flannel; a gray long-sleeve T-s.h.i.+rt was underneath. "That sounds like a good gig for now, then. No ha.s.sles, enough money to live and get your footing. It's just a job. You'll have oodles of them."

I was somewhat shocked by the positive response. If I had said anything like that to one of my peers, nine out of ten would've just smiled and said, "Great," while inside they were thinking, "Loser." At least that's what their expressions would look like, as if they were trying to put on a brave face as I told them my cat had died. "Yeah, it's okay, I suppose. A little boring, but whatever."

Patty stood up. "I'm starving. Do you want to come over? I have all these vegetables from the farmers' market, and I have some rice, we could make a stir-fry."

"Sure, okay." I felt in my pocket for my keys and grabbed my wallet off the coffee table. "Should I run out and get some beers or something?"

Patty put her flannel back on. "First you can help me chop the veggies, then while I cook you can run out for some. Let's be efficient!"