Something about Nick always reminded me of my older brother, Josh. Mainly, it was about personality and mannerisms, and then there were “the shorts.” Josh played basketball throughout middle school and high school, and his first pair of practice shorts, acquired from the team back in seventh grade, became his favorite. They were made of two layers of slick, deep royal blue mesh with “BC” (for Breathitt County, Kentucky) ironed on in white vinyl. At some point after Josh turned sixteen, he decided he needed a pocket for his wallet and newly-acquired car keys. So, he took a pocket knife and cut a small slit in the first layer of blue material so that he could put them in there and the bottom seam would hold them in. Of course, over time, the slit grew, and eventually he got it caught on the edge of a bleacher.
By the time Josh was a senior, the once deep blue shorts were more of a dull sky blue with little fuzzy nubs all over them from thousands of washes. There was a large triangle of fabric where his makeshift pocket used to be that fell below his knee and just kind of hung there and flapped in the breeze, and the white vinyl “BC” eventually fell off, leaving a royal blue “BC”-shaped shadow as a reminder of the color the shorts once were. Mom tried reasoning with my brother, telling him that maybe it was time for the shorts to go, but Josh wouldn’t have it. She would attempt trashing them (hence my inspiration with Nick’s pants), but Josh would always manage to fish them out before the day the garbage truck was supposed to run. Eventually, I became her accomplice, pulling the shorts out of his gym bag and hiding them, but alas, “the shorts” made it to college with Josh where Mom and I could no longer try to get rid of them.
I groaned as I watched Nick straddle his chair during the “As Long As You Love Me” dance. The crotch of the too-big sweatpants stretched awkwardly against the back of the metal folding chair, nearly hindering his ability to sit comfortably, and pushing his behind to the edge of the seat. I half-expected him to slip off and fall backwards onto the hardwood dance floor, long red legs flailing in the air wildly. If I didn’t do something soon, Nick’s pants were going to go off to proverbial college (aka the tour) with him. Then, since I had my own career to look after, I wouldn’t always be able to save legions of adult women from having themselves immortalized in meet and greet pictures with Nick’s heinous red pants. I imagined the atrocities glaring at me from grocery store magazine racks and YouTube videos that I secretly watched whenever I wasn’t able to make it to a sound check party. Then I envisioned myself at eighty, rubbing a stain remover stick over the pesky coffee stain that just wouldn’t go away.
“Penny for your thoughts?” Kristen nudged me with her elbow and flashed her megawatt smile at me as the choreographer counted aloud over the music and gave the guys tips on perfecting their steps. I eyed her dubiously and wondered whether I should say anything or just keep it to myself. In the end, Kristen felt like pretty safe territory to air mine and Nick’s (well, mainly Nick’s) dirty laundry. They’d already run the entire show from start to finish, and we were basically waiting around while they ran back through some shaky spots. What else was I going to do to pass the time?
“Red pants,” I said simply.
“Yep, they’re red,” Kristin looked at Nick and grimaced.
I stifled a laugh. “This morning, he caught me in the laundry room trying to throw them away.”
Kristin made no attempt to stifle her own laughter. “Is that all?” I raised an eyebrow. “Welcome, honey,” she said cheerfully, pulling me into a hug with one arm.
“Welcome to what?” I asked, confused.
“Being a wife.”
“But we’re not married yet.”
“Close enough. The sudden impulse to throw away his unsightly favorite clothing makes you a wife.” I can’t say I really understood her logic. Here I was likening Nick’s pants to my brother's shorts, and I felt strangely like my mother. Actually, I kind of felt like his mother. Of course, it wasn’t the first time I felt that way, and I’m sure it wasn’t going to be the last, either.
“Drew’s going to do it to you, too.” Kristin glanced across the room to where Mason, James, and Drew were sitting in the corner playing with action figures, and smiled wistfully as she rubbed her baby bump with the pads of her long fingers.
“Yeah.” That I had experience with. I could totally see my three year old giving me grief over a pair of shorts like his uncle Josh’s in 10+ years. I just hoped Josh didn’t plan on resurrecting the same shorts.
“See that blue super hero cape Mason’s wearing?”
“Uh-huh.”
Mason was stooped over with his cape pulled over James and Drew’s heads on either side of him, and making what I can only describe as comic book noises. “Bang! Zoom! Pow!” Drew mocked him perfectly, holding up an imaginary gun with his thumb and forefinger. I had a sinking feeling that my Sesame Street and Mickey Mouse days were over.
“He hasn’t taken it off in six weeks.” I smiled. “Well, he usually takes it off for baths, but not always,” she went on. “And sometimes, I’ll take it off him after he falls asleep so that I can wash and dry it, but it has to be back on before he wakes up, lest he lose his super powers. I wonder if Kevin thinks he’ll lose his super powers if he takes off that denim shirt....”
