Su Lum: Seen my pants?
April 10, 2002
One Saturday a couple of months ago, Jeanne Ritter and I took Doris Barlow to Basalt for lunch and afterward stopped to check out a sale at All Us Ladies, where I bought a pair of black pants.
I’m always in the market for pants, because there’s always something wrong with the pants that I buy, a situation which is not helped by my hating to try clothes on. I get the pants home and they’re either so tight they look like black birds’ legs or so loose I have to take two steps for every one the pants take.
So imagine my surprise and delight when, on Sunday, I put on the new pants and discovered that they were just right.
Monday morning I was on the phone to All Us Ladies, where the last three remaining pairs of the pants were charged to my card and set aside for pick-up.
Bryan Welker, fondly known as “Lieutenant,” was making the transition from the Aspen ad office to Basalt and spending part of the day in both places and was hence the perfect candidate for courier. “Yo, Lieutenant,” I said, “Can you pick up a package for me at All Us Ladies?” “No problem.”
Next day, no pants. “Did you get the package, Lieutenant?” Yes and no. He had picked up the package, but had left it in an ad client’s office – but not to worry.
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And so it has gone for two months. “Did you find the pants, Sergeant?” The client’s office was closed when he got there, but he could see the blue bag on a desk. “Did you find the pants, Corporal?” A woman in the office had accidentally taken the bag home but, not to worry, she was bringing it back.
“Did you find the pants, Sergeant?” The bag the woman took home did not contain my pants; now he was checking every other place where he might have left the bag. Bryan was feeling so guilty he started coming into the office before dawn so he wouldn’t cross paths with me.
Meanwhile, the Welker apartment had been totally flooded just before they were to move into a unit at Willits, and all their possessions had been put in storage.
“Did you find my pants, Private?” led to his guess/hope/prayer that the package had somehow gotten into the apartment and had been swept up in the evacuation.
Now I’ve stopped saying anything, except to inquire from time to time, just to keep up appearances, how the unpacking is going.
In my heart, I think that somebody downvalley has my PANTS, and this is a plea to send them to The Aspen Times (310 East Main) and put the smile back in Bryan’s eyes instead of him going around looking like a whipped dog and me feeling like the whipper.
I wouldn’t have pushed it so far if I’d known where it was heading. I’ve reinstated the Lieutenant title, but it’s too late – the only way to really fix it for Bryan is for the pants to come back
So even if you’ve taken the tags off them, worn them, washed them, shrunk them, stretched them or snagged them on barbed wire, please return the remains. Throw them in the mail, with no return address, or call after hours (925-3689, extension 212) to direct us to a drop spot.
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