He doesn’t know it – and probably wouldn’t care if he did, him bein’ a young’un and all – but for the next couple of minutes, I am holding him directly responsible for the battle I am engaged in, the battle wherein I consciously work on not frowning.
His pants, heavens above, his pants are buckled just below his butt.
Not a jaunty slip of the waist, not a ribald flash of crack, but a full-on, you-don’t-know-me-I-wear-my-pants-the-way-I-want, belt-cinched, thigh-hobbled, future-chiropractic-needing middle-finger-by-way-of-trousers to every single person passing him on the street – nay, every person in the world.
OK. Maybe not every person in the world.
That descent happened so much faster than I expected it would.
Mr. These Are My Underwear passes, a half-smoked cigarette stuffed behind one ear, one hand holding a cell phone, the other holding up his pants. The urge to trip him wells up in me as I feel a crooked smile spread across my face.
“Hey,” I say, “Your pants are falling down.”
He doesn’t hear me but instead continues his way down the street where he will no doubt meet up with others of a similar fashion ilk.
Good luck to him.