Underwear (XI)

Posted on by gmfx

“This was a stupid idea.” Sam only realized he had made the declaration out loud when the man at the other end of the aisle looked up sharply then walked quickly away. “Great,” Sam muttered, “as if I didn’t feel ridiculous enough already.”

At least now he was alone. Just him and an entire wall of underwear, each plastic sealed package printed with a picture of, well, a package. Men with single digit body fat and glossy six pack posed on each one. Sam worked hard to keep in shape, but he knew that he looked nothing like any of these models. He briefly started to speculate on how he measured up to them in other areas, but quickly decided not to dwell on it. He was already thinking far too much about underwear – better to stick with color and style than to think about how it shaped his own package.

“Not that anyone is going to see it anyway,” he grumbled.

The other customer, who had apparently been lingering at the endcap, peaked around the corner to see what was really going on with the strange man talking to himself in the underwear aisle. Perhaps it was when he saw the sidearm at Sam’s hip that he decided it really wasn’t the best time to pick out new underwear and nearly ran to the other end of the store.

Sam barely noticed him. He was too busy trying to figure out whether it was significant that the model on the package of boxers had a beard. Were boxers more rugged? His department still didn’t allow full beards, but maybe he could grow a mustache – something he had always resisted before. Mustache’s seemed to scream either hipster or cop. He definitely didn’t feel like a hipster, and while he wasn’t ashamed of being a police officer, but he also didn’t like broadcasting “cop” to the world these days.

He shuffled down the aisle, checking what other offerings were available. Here he was right at home with the boxer briefs he always bought. He almost involuntarily reached for the same pack of grays he typically bought. It was almost impossible to reconcile the image of the sculpted glutes on the packaging with pudgy middle aged form he had found dead on a living room floor. But it was the same underwear, and it was the same he was wearing now. He adjusted his motion, picking up a set of black underwear instead. Would changing the color of his underwear change him? Would it change him enough just to change the color? Did he even want to change? Sam put the underwear back and continued down the aisle.

Briefs: what he had warn as a child and stopped wearing in middle school because of the chaffing. It was what Kit thought he should wear for some reason. What reason, was it sexy? Hadn’t he read an article about it being too restrictive? Maybe even lowering his sperm count? But why did THAT even matter?

Printed boxers: Weren’t cartoon underpants for kids? He had never had a pair of Superman underwear like one of his friends in first grade, but he had never felt like he was missing anything either. Now he could get any number of superheroes. Also donuts, sloths, galaxies, rainbows, paisley, and more. A deep part of him cringed away from the flashy images. Even if no one would ever see this, he worried he would feel uncomfortable with so much color.It’s just underwear, right?

Why do we need so many choices?

Sam’s phone buzzed in his pocket. He checked and saw that his father was calling. The phone continued to buzz in his palm as he red the name “Dad” over and over. Then he slipped the phone back into his pocket. He knew what his dad would have to say, and it wouldn’t make him feel any better. Worse, he didn’t want to answer the questions his father would ask.

So, Sam turned back to the wall of cotton and nylon. “Fine,” he muttered. “One of each.”

* * *

Story by Gregory M. Fox

Underwear is an ongoing series:
First // Series

Underwear (IX)

Posted on by gmfx

“Get the coffee, alright?” Sam said.
“No way,” Kit shot back, “it’s your turn. Shotgun always makes the run.”
“Can you just get it?” he growled in a tone he generally reserved for scaring youths off of private property. Kit’s face soured, but she relented. With a disdainful shake of her head, she climbed out of the squad car and slammed the door. “I’m sorry,” he called after her. “I just need a minute.” Kit just blew a raspberry over her shoulder as she marched into the coffee shop. As soon as the door closed behind her, Sam opened his phone and made a call.
There were four painstaking rings before a woman answered in a harsh voice saying, “What do you want, Sam?”
“Hi, Angela,” he said with a passable attempt at genuine enthusiasm. “How are you?”
The enthusiasm was neither believed nor returned. “Why are you calling,” she asked.
“Alright, listen,” he said with a sigh, “I know this is kind of coming out of nowhere, but I need to ask you something.”
“What, Sam,” she asked in the tone of a brusque goodbye.
Like ripping off a band-aide, Sam hesitated, and then rushed all at once, saying, “What do you think my underwear says about me?”
A pause. Sam wondered if Angela actually had hung up the phone. Then with almost a hint of a laugh, she said, “Excuse me?”
“Look I know it’s a weird question, but . . . it’s kind of important,” he mumbled.
“Are you drunk?”
“Am I—it’s the middle of the day,” Sam said, raising his voice even more. “Why would you think I’m drunk?”
“Are you?” she asked with probing sharply.
“No,” he retorted. “I’m not drunk. I’m on the job.”
“Did you just say you’re drunk on the job?”
“I—what?” Sam said, growing more flustered. “Angela, I’m a cop.”
Her shrug was practically audible. “You hear a lot of different things about cops these days.”
“Will you just answer the question?”
Having been annoyed by the conversation since the moment she answered the phone, Angela sighed and said, “I don’t know, Sam.”
“Okay, but one year, for my birthday,” he said hurriedly, “you gave me a pair of silk briefs. Did that mean something?”
The next sigh was much louder and more pointed. “It meant I thought you would look good in them.”
Sam watched the coffee shop door anxiously, knowing that his partner would return at any moment. “Alright, but then one Christmas you gave me a pair of boxers with footballs on them,” he said, still speaking quickly. “What about that?”
“Are you serious?”
“Yes.”
“Whatever,” Angela answered. “I guess I thought they would be fun. Football was one of the only things I ever saw you get really excited about, so I thought you might like some boxers with footballs on them.”
“But I always wore boxer briefs,” Sam said anxiously, “not boxers.”
“Well the store only had that pattern on boxers. Would you have worn them even if they were the right style of underwear?” Sam made several noises like he was trying to speak, but no answer ever came. “I thought so,” Angela said at last.
“So what does that say about me?” Sam asked, exasperated that Angela couldn’t answer some simple questions about the significance of his undergarments. Her icy attitude was also frustrating. Obviously, their history made things complicated, but she was the only person who had ever been able to offer him comfort on the rare occasions that he reached this level of emotional distress. It seemed reasonable to Sam that a dead real estate tycoon wearing his style of boxer briefs was significant enough to warrant a breach of their usual silence.
Of course, he hadn’t explained any of that to her. So when Angela’s answer came, it had an air of calm finality. “I think you lost the right to ask me questions about your underwear when we got divorced.”

* * *

Underwear is an ongoing series:
First // Series

Story by Gregory M. Fox

Underwear (VIII)

Posted on by gmfx

She was smirking. He was sure of it. And it was driving Sam crazy.

Kit had been walking with a mirthful spring in her step when they left the station, and Sam had gotten the distinct impression that it was due to some joke at his expense. Now he was trapped behind the wheel of the squad car, that feeling had only grown. His eyes flicked toward his partner and sure enough, she was smirking. Sam sighed. “Something you want to say?”

“Who, me?” she replied. “Nothing to say. I’m just curious about something.”

“Go on then?” Sam said. He was determined to keep his eyes on the road now, but he still new that Kit’s smirk had widened into a grin.

“Boxers or briefs?”

Sam clenched his jaw. He’d known something like this was coming. Kit was not the sort to let a joke die. “Why are you so curious?” he asked with a thin hope of turning the teasing back on her.

Kit was completely unfazed. “You’re wearing briefs aren’t you?”

Sam had the distinct impression that she was examining his pants, looking for some sort of tell. “You think I care about your opinion on my underwear?” He shot back.

Y”ou should! Everyone knows I have impeccable taste.” Sam shook his head, but didn’t say anything further. This seemed to be the same as an answer for Kit. “Sooooo…” she began, intonation dripping with implication, “classic tighty-whities, or did you go for a more daring shade? Every man should have a pair of black—”

“Gray,” Sam cut in.

“Gray? Well it’s pretty boring, but—”

“Boxer-briefs.”

“You’re still wearing the dead guy underwear?” she exploded. “After all your brooding yesterday, you still—”

“I was not brooding.”

“You’re doing it right now!” she said, almost delighted. “You look like you’re trying to get your eyebrows to touch your lips.”

It was such a startling comment that Sam momentarily took his eyes off the road to glance at his own reflection in the mirror. Dammit, she had a point. Kit must have seen the realization hit because she immediately started cackling.

“It’s just underwear!” he exclaimed. But the mantra was no more convincing to Kit than it had been any of the times he had repeated it to himself over the last 24 hours.

“A deeeeead man’s undearweeeeear! Spoooooky!” she said before bursting into a fresh bout of giggles.

Sam’s face was hot. His hands grew sweaty on the wheel. “I have the underwear I have,” he said. It came out softly, not forceful, not a shout. Just a helpless declaration. But something about it must have made an impression on Kit, because her laughter trailed off almost immediately.

They drove in silence for a full minute, both of them staring straight ahead. Then Kit finally spoke. “Boxers.”

“What?”

“Orange, with little dinosaurs on them.”

“Are you…?”

Kit shrugged. “Now you know what sort of underwear I’m wearing too.”

Another moment of silence as the statement settled in. “You wear boxers?” Sam asked.

Kit shrugged. “They’re comfy.” She was smirking again, but this time Sam was included. “There’s a whole world of underwear options out there, Sam. You’ve just gotta think outside the boxer-briefs.”

* * *

Underwear is an ongoing series:
First // Series

Story by Gregory M. Fox

Underwear (VII)

Posted on by gmfx

It was a vegan bakery. From inside his car across the street, Sam studied the little shop. Was there any trace? Any remnants of the past showing through the new, trendy facade?

None that he could see.

The problem wasn’t the bakery itself. And he didn’t have anything against vegans. He did have the thought that it must be a sad life without cheese, so all the more need for delicious baked goods. Sure, a cookie without butter or eggs apparently cost twice as much as one with them, but that didn’t seem to be a problem here. The shop was nestled between an upscale boutique and a stylish cocktail bar. There was a Tesla parked in front of him for crying out loud. Clearly an eight dollar muffin would be no big deal in this neighborhood.

Maybe he should have become a baker instead of a cop. He definitely wouldn’t have to deal with corpses as a baker, right? And there was no reason he would ever need to find out that he wore the same underwear as a murder victim. And if he ate a donut on the job, it wouldn’t be some sort of ironic joke, just a perk of the job.

But he liked being a cop. Didn’t he?

Sam knew he should go. Still, his eyes drifted back to the building across the street, up to the second story and the northernmost window, where his old bedroom had been. Dammit if even the windows weren’t different. They were modern, double hung windows that probably didn’t let in a cold draft all winter, then swell so much they wedged themselves shut in the summer. There might not even be a bedroom on the other side of that window. It was probably an office or a storage space. He doubted the people who ran businesses here now needed to sleep in the spaces they rented.

Thinking now of his parents, Sam remembered that he had three missed calls from his father along with three voicemails he hadn’t listened to. He didn’t open any of them up now, but texted his dad anyway: Went by the old place this morning. It’s nice of course, but it’s not the same. Wonder what will happen to it now.

Not the same – an understatement. No abandoned store fronts or plywood panels on broken glass doors. There were actually flowers growing in the small beds along the sidewalk. And even this early in the morning there were people around. There was more life and energy here than in even his best childhood memories. The area had been completely revitalized, and it was all thanks to the clever dealings of Richard Polbrock, the man whom Sam had found dead in his underwear in a part of town as run down as this had once been.

Sam knew that’s why his father had called. He had watched the news and knew that Sam had been at the scene of the murder. And his father would understand why Sam had stopped by the store and apartment that had once been theirs – before Richard Polbrock bought it and canceled their lease. Sam hoped that if they never actually talked about it directly, neither of them would have to admit the truth: that they were glad Richard Polbrock was dead. Sam didn’t want to describe that crime scene to his father. He didn’t want to here satisfaction in the man’s voice, didn’t want to reduce his father to that sort of base cruelty. And he didn’t want to spend any more time thinking about that corpse in his underwear.

It was just underwear, right? It didn’t mean anything.

It was just underwear…

* * *

Underwear is an ongoing series:
First // Series

Story by Gregory M. Fox

Climb

Posted on by gmfx

WHY do you climb?

What sort of a question was that? John huffed as he drove a piton into the rock face, and not just because of the exertion. He hadn’t even wanted to do the stupid interview, but his friends had convinced him that it would “inspire people.”

Why DO you climb?

The question echoed in the vacuous space where his answer should have been. How could he articulate something so basic? Why does he breath? Why does he eat? Of course, those were things everyone did. Very few other people climbed mountains on multiple continents. So shouldn’t he have an answer?

Why do YOU climb?

The question stung like an accusation. Why must he justify his past time. Who cared? Certainly not the reporter. She seemed even less interested in the interview than he did. And in her blank, dispassionate stare, John had finally seen the pointlessness of his entire life.

Wind buffeted him on the rock face, howling:

Why do you CLIMB?

Cheek pressed against stone, John looked down. How insignificant he was to that wide world below him. How extraordinary that he should get to see it.

And because the alternative would be falling, he climbed.

* * *

Story by Gregory M. Fox

Underwear (III)

Posted on by gmfx

Jones was squatting down, inspecting the corpse’s face. “Son of a bitch,” he said. “It really is Rupert Polbrock. Devin, go call it in. This case just got bigger than a bunch of beat cops.” Devin Collins nodded and walked out of the house. Jones started looking around with increased fascination at the flattened shag, sagging couch, and faded curtains. “People have always said he was a bit of a scumbag,” Jones said, “but I still wonder how he ended up shot in the back in a place like this.”

“Maybe it was an affair,” Kit offered, examining photos of a smiling couple which notably did not include Rupert Polbrock. “You know, angry husband sort of thing. Happens all the time.”

“Probably,” Jones said. “But if you’re as loaded as Polbrook, why do you need to go slumming?”

“Slumming?” Sam asked.

“Well, yeah,” Jones said gesturing around vaguely.

“I live in a neighborhood like this,” Sam said sharply.

“Yeah, but you don’t own half of Hay Street.”

“This guy’s really that rich?” Kit asked.

“Oh yeah,” Jones said. “The guy probably has a swimming pool full of money in his backyard.”

“Damn, why couldn’t he have slummed it with me?”

“It’s not a slum,” Sam grumbled

Devin Collins strolled back inside. He was a laid-back officer, one of the only black officers on the force. He moved slowly despite his height and long strides. “Well, half the homicide division is on the way,” he announced “and even the commissioner is coming.”

“Sounds like it’s going to be crowded,” Sam said. “We’ll wait out front.”

“Oh will we?” Kit said sarcastically.

But Sam was already heading out the door. “Come on,” he growled.

“Jesus. What’s got your boxer-briefs in a twist?” Kit teased.

“Nothing,” Sam growled.

When the fellow officers exchanged inquisitive glances, Kit explained, “Farnsworth’s been getting all existential over our dead guy’s underwear.”

“Existential?” Collins asked, perking up.

“Yeah, you know, ‘who am I?’ ‘Life is too short.’ ‘What sort of underwear should I buy?’ That sort of stuff.” Sam glowered at Kit’s imitation of him, but she just shrugged her shoulders.

“Oh, well that might be an identity crisis,” Jones offered casually, “but it’s not exactly existentialism.”

Kit sneered. “What are you talking about – not existentialism?”

“It’s not a crisis,” Sam insisted, then glanced again at the dead man’s underwear. “It’s just . . . weird, you know?”

“Weird like you’re discovering that the universe is ultimately meaningless, and it’s up to you as a free individual to determine the course of your own life?”

Jones stared at his partner with his eyes narrowed. “What the fuck are you talking about, Devin?”

Collins just shrugged. “Existentialism.”

“What the fuck, man?” Jones asked, still waiting for the punchline.

Devin straightened up slightly and stuck out his chin. “I double majored in philosophy in college. That’s how I’m gonna make detective in a couple years.”

“Alright then, Detective, enjoy your case,” Sam said brusquely before finally stepping out the door.

“I’m telling you,” Kit said in a loud whisper as she followed Sam out of the room, “crisis.”

* * *

Story by Gregory M. Fox

Underwear is an ongoing series:
First // Series