east village idiot

In Which I Miss a Crucial Step in Dressing Myself

April 16, 2007 – 10:56 am

Saturday night, I did my fair share of drinking. Our group ran up a $497 tab at just our first bar of the night. But the most embarassing moment of the night came before I was halfway through my second beer.

Because I had been craning my neck for the entire first period to watch a TV almost directly over my head, I got up from the table to watch the Sabres-Islanders game from a more comfortable angle. I chose a spot next to my friend against a short wall that divided the bar from the seating area. This spot also happened to be directly next to the hostess’ station.

I leaned back and watched the intermission report and talked with my friend while observing the massive crowd. I had been resting my elbow over the receipt printer, so whenever a waitress came over to close out a tab, I moved my arm away. Given how packed the bar was, I figured I was being a model bar patron.

A few minutes into the second period, the hostess came over and ripped off a piece of a receipt and took her pen to the paper. I was a little distracted by her frantic scribbling, but I thought nothing of it. Then, she took the small piece of paper and held it up in my general direction. I’ve taken the opportunity to painstakingly recreate what the paper looked like:

XYZ? I had no idea what the “XYZ” stood for. For a few seconds, I thought she was holding it up for another waitress behind me, or signaling to one of the bartenders. Then, I realized that she was making eye contact with me.

I gave her a strange look. “What?”

“X-Y-Z,” she reinforced.

“I see that,” I replied. “What does it mean?”

The hostess looked down towards my waist. “Your zipper.”

I stood in stunned embarassment. I looked down, and sure enough, the fly on my jeans was half-open, exposing my boxer shorts. Considering that the last time I had touched my jeans was after being at the gym that afternoon, I had probably been walking around Manhattan for at least four hours with my fly down. ”Oh. Wow. Thanks.”

“No problem,” she said. “I bet you haven’t heard that one since you were 8 years old. Like, your parents probably said that to you.”

“Yeah,” I began to concur. “Actually… I probably heard it the last time I was too retardedly drunk to remember to zip up.”

So, thank you, very attractive blond hostess, for sparing me from further embarassment and potential indecent exposure on Saturday night. Now, every time I zip up, I will think of you.