“Gettin’ Pantsed in College”

Corduroy Pants? No Thank You, I prefer wearing denim jeans. Even today I can’t bear to look at a pair of corduroys without feeling a stab of anxiety and despair.

My guilty secret, my private shame is an untold story until now. 

Being older gives a man a sense of perspective and perhaps a bit of humor as one recalls events where he really, really fucked up.

Still, the shameful event deserves to be told. And maybe it’s time to air some dirty laundry and hopefully – let it go – as I narrate this humiliating chapter of my life.

I was just starting my third year at College when my Old Man had informed me he could no longer help me with my tuition and allowance at school.

“My investments have taken a bad turn – so I can’t help you this year, Son, ” he said.

Matt, my younger brother, upon hearing the news remarked – “Dad’s investment in orange groves in Alaska probably tanked.”

Snarky support aside, the bottom line was I needed to find a job to stay in school.

Back in those days I kinda cleaned up nice and could be charming despite being somewhat of a social dunce. 

Also, I was pretty good at job hunting, getting hired and showing up for work. The actual working part…well…not so good.

There was a clothing store on Main Street in the town of Chico called “The Pant Tree,” and no it wasn’t a bakery  – it was a store that sold pants. Hundreds, thousands of ’em.

So, one sunny fall afternoon, I stopped by and asked to see the Store Manager. A mustachioed dude, named Pat, comes out of an office wearing Elton John glasses, a loud pink print nylon shirt and black corduroy bell-bottoms.

“Hello, can I help you?” 

“Hi!  I’m “Chuck” and I was wondering what time and day you want me to start working for you?”

Pat laughed, took a moment before replying and said, “We don’t really need any full-timers right now but would you be interested in starting out as a part-timer on a trial basis? And say…start work next Monday?”

“Hell yeah!…uh I mean…Yeah sure… So do I have a job?”

“Yep, I like your chutzpah, Kid. We’ll give you a try…starting about… ten am next Monday morning.”

So Monday at ten am, I showed up at the shop and was told my job was to fold and straighten pants on the shelves.

The shop was redolent with the smell of formaldehyde as I was surrounded by stacks and stacks of new pants that needed to be folded and placed neatly back on the shelves.

Well, talk about B-O-R-I-N-G! And I thought working in a clothing store would allow me to “assist” cute Coeds pick out tube tops and hot pants. But, instead here I was folding stupid pants!

After eight hours of monkey work, I was exhausted.  My only consolation about “the job” was I had in my possession several pairs of new corduroys sold to me by Pat on store credit.  The clothing credit would be deducted from my paycheck each payday.

A few weeks later – my corduroy collection had grown exponentially. But as the pant collection grew – my paychecks began to shrink. You see – I was buyin’ corduroys faster than I was earnin’ them.

“Ah, this is bullshit!” I groaned as I collected another paycheck. “Goddamn, that Old Man and his dumb investments. I ain’t making any money here!”

The only consolation was a few Sorority Chicks said I looked “cute” in my baby blue cords – so I guess it wasn’t a total loss. 

The whole sorry mess came to a head when my Fraternity decided to throw a little impromptu kegger one Saturday afternoon.

I was pissed and resentful that I had to go in for a three pm shift as it looked like I was gonna miss all the fun 

So what the Hell? I decided a beer or two might brighten my mood and wash some of the resentment out of my mouth.

The Budweiser was cold, the chicks were hot and Peter Frampton was warbling about some chick “Showin’ Him the Way” – over the frat loudspeakers – so one beer quickly morphed into four or five. 

Yep, I had a pretty good buzz goin’ on by the time I staggered late into work.

I vaguely remember clowning around a bit in the store  – pushing my stock cart up and down the aisles and yelling stuff like “YEEHAW!” and “GIDDYUP” as I tossed pants indiscriminately onto the shelves.  Pretty soon my section looked like a small bomb had hit it. 

Eventually,  I was politely told to go home.

The following Monday, I showed up for work on time. Upon arrival, Raquel, the Assistant Manager, told me that Pat wanted to see me in his office.

Pat in his office was apoplectic. He yelled at me for a couple of minutes before firing me.

“Raquel said you showed up to work drunk! So I’m letting you go. I can’t have “DRUNKS” WORKING HERE AT MY STORE!”

“But…what about the money I owe for the corduroys?”

“Forget it.” 

“But…”

“Just get out of here “Chuck”!”

I shuffled out of the shop feeling crushed like a rubbed out cigarette in a dirty ashtray.

Back then Chico was a small campus town – so it didn’t take long for word to get out about my drunken debacle and ignoble dismissal from my former job. 

And with each retelling, the rumor of my fuck up seemed to grow more and more epic. Worse no one would hire me for another job. I had become an unreliable social pariah, a punchline to a joke.

Humiliated, broke, my reputation shot, I dropped out of Chico that Spring. 

Shortly thereafter I joined the Marine Corps in an effort to lose my tarnished reputation in distant lands.

But, there are some things you just can’t lose.