“Good morning, Acme Grommets and Gravel. This is Pearl.”
“Where are my pants?”
It’s T. In Florida. Frowning, I look out the window. Yes. I am still in Minnesota.
“Have you just called me, 1400 miles away, to ask me where your pants are?”
There is the distinct sound of rooting. Voice muffled by what I can only guess to be the interior of his closet, he grunts. “I thought you might have an idea of where they’d run off to, you with the intimate knowledge of homicidal socks.”
It’s true that I had recently divulged my theory on disappearing socks and their possibly murderous mates – still, there was no reason to get testy.
“Don’t get crabby on me, Mister I Can Lay My Hands On My Stuff If I Need To. I know where my pants are.”
We’ve had discussions, he and I, regarding his housekeeping skills. Suffice it to say he once found a snowball in his freezer.
“Have you considered asking your other pants?”
He smiles, I am sure of it. “My other pants aren’t speaking to me. Don’t ask me why.”
“I told you, don’t ask me why.” His hand abruptly cups the mouthpiece. “I don’t know for certain,” he hisses, “but I think they’re in cahoots with my long-sleeved shirts.”
I laugh. “Do you even wear long-sleeved shirts anymore?”
“No,” he whispers. “And I only wear pants to work.”
T stands up, a sound identified by another grunt. In my mind’s eye, I imagine he’s finished searching the floor of his closet.
“Dang it,” he says. “Those are my only green chef’s pants, and I was going to wear them for St. Patrick’s Day.”
There is silence.
“All right, then,” he says. “Thanks anyway, but I gotta go.”
I smile and hope he hears it. “Give your other pants my best,” I say.