Hash Jeans

A collection of short stories:

I was a clumsy teenager. In fact, I’ve pretty much been clumsy all my life, but there was a short period in my teens (late 1970’s) when I was truly a walking disaster. My sister, Caryl, will attest to this.

When I went to live with Caryl’s family, I took with me a suitcase full of clothes that she immediately pitched. All of them had come from the second hand-store, and none of them were in style. She promptly dressed me in her clothes, then took me out shopping for my own. She dressed me the way a teenager should dress – in shirts and jeans one size too small. Although it occasionally took me 20 minutes of gasping and wiggling on the floor to get my jeans zipped, I certainly loved the way I looked once they were on.

When we were in Yakima she bought me a pair of HASH jeans. I was 17 years old and had never owned a pair of blue jeans, and even in my wildest dreams would never have thought I might own a designer pair. She also bought me this cute little striped t-shirt that clung like skin, a pair of chunky platform high-heels, and then she gave me the “Farrah Fawcett” hair-cut. It was like being transformed into a movie star. I looked good and I knew it.

I left the house Monday morning with a spring in my step and my head held high. I paused at the light before crossing the street and a car full of the “cool” boys pulled up. They were checking me out. I pretended not to notice, stuck my nose in the air — and fell off the curb flat on my face.

—–

Several weeks later I was wearing the same pair of jeans. My friend Alene, her sister Helen and I were in Alene’s bedroom one evening. We were trying to do a Cheerleading routine. Alene and I had no interest in being cheerleaders, but Helene was trying out for the squad, so we were practicing with her.

Alene’s parent’s had given the house’s master bedroom to their four daughters. The room was furnished with two sets of bunk beds, two large dressers, and a whole lot of hardwood floor space for dancing and playing. We were using that space to stand shoulder to shoulder, arms linked, and practice our high kicks.

Alene’s mother came into the room. “Girls, you’re making to much noise. We can’t hear the TV. If you must do that, turn down the music and please take off your shoes.”

Okay. No problem. We turned the music down, took off our shoes, and tossed them under one of the bunks. Once again, arm-in-arm, we went back to our clicks. Wearing only socks made the floor a bit slippery under our feet. We quickly adjusted to the new balance. Twist to the left, kick the right foot high; twist to the right, kick the left foot high – only my foot wasn’t going very high. I wasn’t too happy with that. Earlier in the day when we’d been practicing kicks in the backyard, my kick had been highest.

Alene looked at my legs. “It’s the jeans,” she said. “This morning you were wearing shorts. Your pants are too tight.”

“Ha!” I said. “I’m just tired. I can do this.” So I kicked my right leg as hard and as high as I could. As it reached it’s apex my left leg shot from the floor. Like a character from a Warner Bros. cartoon, I hovered horizontally for a few seconds before crashing to the floor. I writhed on my back, gasping for air, while my two best-friends fell across one of the beds laughing.

Alene’s mother marched into the room, unplugged our tape player, and snapped, “You will all stop, now!”

Okay. No problem.

—–

Same jeans: Kellie, Kenny and Lenny begged me to take them to the park. At first I said no, then Kellie asked me why. When I realized the answer was because I was too flipping lazy to get up, hold their hands and walk them across the street. I changed my mind. We went to the park.

I pushed them on the swings. I caught them as they slid down the slide. I held them up while they “crossed” the monkey bars. Then they asked me to push them on the merry-go-round. I love merry-go-rounds; one was a major part of my childhood and some of the marks it left on me linger on my knees today.

I sat them down on the bars, made certain they were hanging on properly, then climbed into the middle of the metal beast and started to run. Unfortunately, the squirrel cage was built for a much shorter person and I kept banging my knees on the bar as I ran. Although I knew I couldn’t make the ride spin as fast, I decided to push from the outside.

In truth, that position wasn’t much better. I couldn’t get a good grip, and my pants were just too tight to facilitate running. I felt a tug, a pop and then the whole seam gave – from waistband to crotch, my pants split wide open down the back.

I immediately backed up to a tree. I tried to get the kids to go home and get my jacket, or a towel. They didn’t want to leave me. “Come with us,” they said. Not on your life. I wasn’t budging from that tree.

Finally I convinced them they needed to go. I watched them run across the grass to the sidewalk. They stopped at the edge of the street, started waving their arms, jumping up, and down and hollering. With a sinking feeling I remembered they were forbidden to crioss that street alone. Obviously they weren’t about to break the rule. Their shouts and gestures effectively drew the attention of most everyone in the park, but my brother-in-law, across the street mowing our lawn, took a little longer to hear them. When he did notice, he only waved.

The kids stepped up their screaming and wiggling. Finally it dawned on Ken to turn the lawn mower off. The engine died to an unnatural stillness. Nobody in the park was talking. No cars were revving down the streets. No jake brakes sounded from the boulevard. All was still. And into the sudden stillness pipes Kellie’s clear soprano squeal, “Daddy, Auntie Charlene ripped her pants and her butt’s naked! Bring a towel!”

Yes, bring a towel – to cover my face – so nobody knows who I am. Embarrassment isn’t terminal. We only wish it so.

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