Recently I discovered my old work-issued bike messenger shorts.
I've had them for seven years. Who knows how many messengers wore them before me in the decade previous to last.
They are black cargo shorts with my company's jaundiced name crackling off of the left leg. Three of the four pockets contain holes, suitable for losing coins, keys, and wallet-sized items. The velcro pocket fasteners are also useless, with hooks plucked off or choked by lint.
When I was hired they didn't have my size (32), just this pair (38).
The elastic waist band no longer functions. It is a "waste" band. To keep them up I use the built-in nylon belt. Every 40 minutes I have to retighten it.
In the back of the shorts is a 13" vertical tear, exposing the inner lining. It looks like a puppet show of my butt is always about to happen.
A few years ago, the elastic on the inner lining began melting into my beautiful thigh hair. So the inner lining became cut-offs. Sewn into the crotch of the inner lining sits a giant bean of padding, now crumpled into a mushed maxi pad, or an octogenarian's final pair of Depends.
Also, the zipper fly broke years ago. For the sake of decency, I use a Mr. Yuck button to bind the offending orifice shut.
These shorts are beyond tattered.
It's what people laboring in hell might wear.
I wore the shorts while making a pick up from a T-shirt illustrator on Belmont Avenue.
"Hello," I smiled to the woman behind the counter.
She acknowledged my greeting with guarded silence.
"How's it going?" I smiled again.
She wouldn't return it.
"I'm making a pick up for..." I continued, providing all the information.
"How do I know what company you work for?" she sleuthed.
I pointed to my company's dying name on my dying shorts.
Her superior, a hangdog ham sandwich of a woman, slouched over to me with a plastic baggie of illustrated T-shirts.
"Looks like you need a new pair of shorts," she grumbled.
"No. I need a new job."
An uptight guy wanted something delivered to The Chicago Bears.
"Are you going right there?"
Yeah, why not.
Football Drive in Lake Forest is a secret capillary off an artery of man-made lakes, office projects, and a police facility that connects directly to the tollway (like Batman).
The security guard was dressed laid back in a polo shirt, shorts, and Chicago-style moustache.
He signed for the envelope and then stood directly in front of the van, in case I went crazy and started running over footballs and dumping tubs of Gatorade without cause for celebration.
Maybe he saw my shorts.
Verdict: Win
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