I have a bigger tally-whacker than a Pulitzer Prize wining author. I should know: I have his pajamas. I didn’t steal them. I found them, last Summer at the New Orleans Radisson.
In the bureau, I find these pajamas, cotton with blue fish. Next morning, the maid thinks they’re the previous guest’s, some poet who’d just won the Pulitzer. I say so, and what’s with these pajamas ? She says who cares, keep them. So I do, but believe me, I launder them first. These days who can be too careful?
So, I take to wearing the old pajamas. What can I say, they feel terrific. Right waist size and inseam, except for the aforementioned fly area. I never thought myself well-endowed, but when it comes to heavy equipment, I got this guy beat.
Sometimes, the pajamas, they split and I have to snip the elastic waistband on account of a few pounds, but overall, they fit perfect. So I decide if I ‘m filling out a poet’s jams, I’ll give this poetry thing a whirl. Every night, I set my alarm for three-thirty, prime snooze time, so I can scribble my dreams into a masterpiece. Most dreams concern my being naked–in school, at work, in the grocery (I’m phobic about scanners). My nakedness isn’t something to share with the learned audience (literati can be so insecure).
One dream, though, shows possibilities. Thursdays–only Thursdays–I dream of this diva, chocolate hair and shimmering eyes, possessing a great joie de vivre and riding on a hairless donkey. Some Freudian thing, probably. So I decide to write a poem and do a Poet’s workshop.
I shell out seven hundred bucks to workshop with Mr. Pulitzer himself. It’s so deja vu, I about wet my pants. Then, who do I spy across the lobby but this diva, long brown hair, blue eyes. But it’s Saturday, not Thursday. Still, I follow her, sit behind her at the workshop. Her hair drips like thin Godiva chocolate spaghetti.
I’m wishing it was later in the week, when in walks Mr. Y’know-Who. I’m wearing his pajamas underneath, thinking of surprising him, droppping my pants: “Ta-da, you remember these?” The jams are hot. They bunch and crawl up my crack. I’m looking for a john to shuck them when Mr. Pulitzer starts reading about poetry and/or beauty, crap like that.
I focus on that Godiva chocolate hair so long I get this itch where the jams bunch tight. I’ve been sweating so much, I’m straining something important. I start to rearrange myself when Mr. Pulitzer finishes. Everybody gives him the standing-O. I take the time to readjust.
Everybody rushes him. They clear out fast, except the diva. I step up. “I’m wearing your pajamas.”
“Found your jams last summer, worn them since. Just between the us,” I wink “the fit ain’t exactly adequate.” .
He looks at the girl. Girl winks. Both laugh. Girl says, “He doesn’t wear pajamas.”
“How would you know?” I say.
Both laugh and walk away.
How do you like that? He was too fat for these pajamas, anyway. She was too choiclate for a Thursday.
Still, that pisses me off, finding out I’ve worn the wrong man’s pajamas. I feel so cheap, so lied to.
I wonder if the girl left her pjs behind.