I Just Want My Pants Back: A Novel
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Now a new MTV series, from acclaimed director and executive producer Doug Liman (“Mr. and Mrs. Smith, “Swingers,” “Go,” “The Bourne Identity”)
Jason Strider is a twentysomething young man with an English degree from an Ivy League university, a very small apartment in New York, a vapid job as a receptionist at a casting agency—and no particular idea what to do with his life. On most evenings he gets stoned and goes out, sometimes with his long-time best friend and wingman Tina and sometimes alone, if not to get laid then at least to get hammered enough to really regret it the next day and be late for work.
Then one night Jason has athletic, appliance-assisted intercourse with a cute girl named Jane—and ends up lending her his favorite Dickies jeans. Many unanswered e-mails and text messages later, he is reduced to the plaint “I just want my pants back.” How he does, in a most unexpected way, find those pants and how he is forced to face his immaturity—and mortality—are at the heart of this smart, raunchily comic and deeply affecting novel.
she had it, that look of cool and youth that never went out of style: She just didn’t give a fuck. I started to feel like maybe I was snooping a bit too long, so I moved to the stereo, which was like the one I had growing up, an all-in-one Fisher with a record player on top. Next to the stereo, on a tall bookcase, were stacks and stacks of vinyl, hundreds of old LPs. I was giddy just staring at it. I thumbed through a few on top and found a rare one in a simple all-white sleeve, maybe even a
Police…mmm mmm mmm…” You want dance? ME: Not just yet. (I open another beer for myself.) FG: You have mariwahnah? ME: Yeah—you want to get high? FG: What? ME: Smoke? FG: Sure, why not. (She dances and smiles, as tempting as Easter chocolate.) (We get high and begin to dirty dance. We continue to talk while dancing.) ME: Sometimes when I get high I talk a lot, you might notice. FG: What you say? (She starts speaking rapidly in French.) I think I cannot talk
“Look who’s working late,” said Stacey, giving me a hug. I got myself a beer and, lickety-split, my whole temperance movement was kaput. We figured out our order and got it in to the waiter. Eric began telling us a story about how he had observed brain surgery earlier in the day. “The amazing thing is that when you cut through the skull, it’s not unlike being a carpenter. You really have to use your body. You could see the surgeon straining his muscles, flexing down on the saw. Even though it’s
early study group.” She was halfway out the door. “Bye,” she whispered. “Wait, um…” I whispered back. But it was too late. She was gone down the stairs. It sounded like she was running. I lay there, puzzled, too much unwanted adrenaline now dripping into my too-tired bloodstream. My body chemistry was at the exact point where the balance was tipping from “still drunk” to “hello, hangover.” Go to sleep, I told myself. Think about this later. Repress and deny, repress and deny. Eventually my
The wind came off the water and I was the first person on the island of Manhattan it hit. It had traveled great distances to suddenly encounter me, the immovable object, which it flowed over and around and possibly through and then re-gelled on the other side off to somewhere else. What the significance of that was, I had no idea. I ran my hands through my crackly hair. I desperately wanted to think deep thoughts but they weren’t coming. I wanted a fucking moment of clarity, an epiphany,