These are the pants I wore yesterday through airports, airplanes, taxis, and the streets of San Francisco, thus exposing my better side to roughly half the country.
Notice that the tear begins at the belt and continues half way down the thigh.
I got out of the taxi and stood on a corner tucking my receipt away. A gentleman sidled up next to me and gave me the old up-and-down. This had the feeling of a touch (this is, after all, San Francisco), so I curtly nod back and scurry forward. The guy falls in behind me, matching my pace.
We met again at the next corner waiting for the light. Weak smiles exchanged. I pushed forward, he followed. Two blocks later he’s still there. I pass by a bar which is playing, I swear, Glenn Miller’s In the Mood. My kind of place.
I stood to peruse the bill o’ fare thinking of having a cold one and the guy is now forced to walk ahead of me, which he did. But only four or five paces, after which he searched his pockets until he found a piece of paper which so fascinated him he didn’t move. He stole a glance or two back at me.
Ahead, some bus or car honked loudly, and we both looked up. His attention was off me, so I slid around the corner, happy in my ruse. If he followed now, I figured, it would be too obvious.
It wasn’t until about two hours later when I went to change that I noticed the gaping chasm and realized the gentleman was trying to find a polite way to tell me. What could he say? “Excuse me sir, you have a hole the size of the Grand Canyon on your posterior.”