my oldest pair of underwear

A friend of mine-- let's call him SW-- recently came to visit me in a city we'll call NY. I had visited him about a year ago in Chicago, which weekend was punctuated by an unfortunate incident involving SW, alcohol, and puking all over my clothes. Normally I'm happy to sacrifice a few clothes to a good time, but the particular clothes he puked on were a favorite t-shirt and my only pair of cargo shorts.

Indignant, hungover, and leaving that morning for Argentina, I instructed SW to wash my goddamned clothes and mail them to me when I returned. But I left for South America assuming I'd never see my clothes-- and hoping I'd never see SW-- again.

So anyway, good old SW arrives in NY last week and begins unpacking his stupid suitcase. A few minutes later he's standing next to me, extending a bundle of clothes. I recognize the blue Brooklyn Superhero Supply shirt and faded khaki shorts, but another item catches me off guard.

"Holy shit!" I say. "Those are my boxers! I don't remember you puking on those."

"I didn't." SW says. "You haven't seen these boxers in forever. You left them at my apartment years ago and I've been carrying them around with me ever since."

It turns out I had left them at his apartment when he was in college. The intervening years had seen him move from Blacksburg, VA to Las Vegas to Chicago. The boxers accompanied him the entire way, from stupid suitcase to stupid suitcase, through four time zones.

And now, some four years later in New York City, my boxers and I were reunited. I barely recognized them-- they were threadbare, and their light tan had been washed almost white. The boxers were a Christmas gift in 1995, part of a three pack whose other constituents-- grey and blue-- were lost years ago.

Then, in the bizarre nostalgia of fondling a 10 year old pair of my own underwear, a memory flooded back to me. I checked the boxers' fly. Sure enough, there was a curious brown stain running along the underside of the open flap.

I imagined SW had noticed this stain at least once over the years. I had some explaining to do.
__________

This fateful three pack was a building block in my effort to switch from briefs to boxers during my sophomore year of high school. I had recently become aware that I was the palest, spindliest pussy in the history of the universe, a fact which bode poorly for my chances of surviving 10th grade gym class unridiculed. Anything that might provide locker room cover for my pasty white thighs was a necessity.

The boxers worked great, but I quickly discovered a problem. Briefs, for their myriad faults, are at least designed to protect the penis from unwanted exposure. My boxers, however, did not share this feat of engineering. Right in the crotch was a gaping fly, all the better for taking a leak, but all the worse for having your stupid 15 year old pecker fall out of your boxers in the locker room in front of a bunch of people who don't like you anyway.

So, long story long, one night I grabbed a bottle of glue and headed down to my room for repairs. I laid out all my boxers and carefully drew a thick line of glue down the interior flap of each fly, pressing the flaps against each other when I was done.

The glue was a good enough solution, if a tad indelicate. Not only did it hold the line long enough for me to survive my last semester of gym, but it gave me a great story to tell in the spring of 2007.