The weekend had arrived and I was stoked about heading up to the mall to check out the scene, check out the chicas, and get some new threads for rockin’ when I was breakin’. I picked up my phone and I gave Blazin' a call, “Hey Mrs. B. is Brock around?” I asked.
She told me, “No, he went to the mall already.”
I was thinking, “You’ve gotta be Effin’ bleepin’ me!” but I said, “Alright cool, tell Brock I called Mrs. B.” and then I hung up. You know what though? That was classic Blazin', I should have known. Check that, actually I did know, that’s why I called his ass at 9am in the morning and the mall didn’t even open until 10am. I’m telling you, that boy was always in a big hurry to get somewhere and he’ll be in a big hurry to leave once he gets there too.
Instead of getting all frustrated as all shiznit. I grabbed a couple of winter hats and headed down to the basement to practice head spins. What sucked was that my P.s were working, so I had no ride to the mall. But the cool thing was that I didn’t have to hide my head spinning for a change. I usually had to hide my head spinning from my parents – that move really freaked out my P.s. And not the good kind of freaked out, like “Freak-a-zoid” kind of freaked out but the bad kind of freaked out where they would give me the third degree about how dangerous it was to spin on my head.
With the P.’s being at work, I had cranked up the jams, put on two knit hats and started practicing my head spins; taking my frustrations out on being unable to go to the mall. I’m not sure if you get this or not, so I’ll tell you about it. I had to wear two winter knit hats as I spun around on my head because gravity and standing on my head put massive stress on the top of my head; the floor really dug into my scalp when I revolved around with head spins. In fact, it burned like fire sometimes, if I really have to complain about it to you. Truth be told I was a little worried that I was wearing down that spot on my head and eating my hair away from all of the head spins I had been practicing. I was always checking myself in the mirror for a bald spot or tapping that part of my head after I took the knit hats off to see if there was any blood. It always ended up just being sweat. If you think about it though, I was putting the weight of my entire body all focused on one little tiny spot on the tippy top of my head.
Try it with no hats on if you think I’m exaggerating. I bet you would lose a chunk of your hair after a while. Heck, hats off to someone who can HEAD spin with his or her hats off though. They are HEAD and shoulders above the rest. I’d even buy scalped tickets to watch someone HEADspin at a double HEADer without a hat on. Okay enough of that BALDerdash. I’ll quit while I’m aHEAD.
While head spinning and listening to “Party train” by the Gap band it dawned on me – call Bruiser. I can call Dan the man Bruiser for a ride to the mall. Bruiser was a guy I knew from church. Every Wednesday night the P’s would drop me off at church for Pastor Paul’s youth group. It was for Jr. High and high school aged teens to learn about god and Jesus and the Bible and such. I kind of just went for the girls but I did like Pastor Paul, he was funny.
I had seen Bruiser at Wednesday night youth group for a few months but we didn’t start talking until a few weeks ago when he saw me throwing down with breakin’ moves on the tan carpeted upstairs floor at our church while we were waiting for group to start. I hadn’t hung out with Dan Bruiser outside of youth group yet; he just gave me his number last week and told me to call him sometime. And the way I figured it, this was sometime.
When I first saw Bruiser camped out on the floor of youth group half lying down, half sitting up, just chillin’ like a villain, and listening to Pastor Paul preach, I thought he might have been around thirty or forty years old or something. It turned out that he was just a senior in high school, only 17 years old. But he was rocking a big thick beard just as you’d expect to see on Jesus Christ himself. He had a stocky build and a mature demeanor. Even if Bruiser didn’t have the beard rockin’, you still would have thought he was in his 20’s at least. He had that kind of mien. Do you know what I mean, Jellybean?
I gave Bruiser a call and fortuitously enough, he was home, “Yo Bruiser, Sup man, its Phil K Swift from church, I’m looking to get to the mall lickety split and see if there are any breakers up there causing a disturbance … I’ve got to check out some thread stores and that kind of shee ott. Are you in?” I asked.
“Alright B – I’ll meet you up there,” it sounded like he was rushing me off the phone.
“ -Wait dude … hang on …” I then got into it with Bruiser about how Blazin' was shakin’ and fakin’ and how he had scurried and hurried and how I was home alone and on the phone and I was just trying to find someone with a Cadillac brougham, so I could roam the mall, that’s all.” I was spewing out the old crambo to Bruiser like a champ as I was hoping to avoid being a tramp.
“What the heck in friggin’ frack are you talking ‘bout B?” he said while chuckling to himself over the phone.
“What I’m trying to say is – “ I said
Bruiser laughed and cut me off, “You need a ride to the mall B?”
“Abso-positiv-alutely,” I said.
Bruiser without delay said, “I know where you live B. See ya in a minute.”
“You do?” I asked – I had forgotten I had told him.
“You said you lived by that monstrosity off Main St. … you called it your north star that guides you through the cornfields at night, when it was dark on your way home from old boys,” Dan the man Bruiser said. (He knew about Brock, even though Dan hadn’t met Brock yet, I had told him all about him.)
“I had forgotten I told you about that,” I said.
Bruiser hung up the phone and started heading over.
Bruiser usually called me B or B-boy as in Breaker or Break boy. I was kinda new to this whole B-boy world, I admit it, but I was on my way to becoming a bona fide B-boy.
At church on Wednesday nights Bruiser was usually sporting B-boy attire like most of the breakers I knew. You would usually catch Bruiser in a Black Kangol hat with clear framed Cazal glasses, red suede gym shoes with white fat laces neatly woven to the top of his shoe. And that Jesus beard I was telling you about; Bruiser rocked it like the king of the Jews himself. (I hope lightning won’t strike me for that.) But hey, how many people can say that Jesus Christ the B-Boy himself was on his way to their house? And at last, I was about to scoop up some freshy-fresh zipper pants.
Bruiser showed up at my house in less than the 20 minutes. I barely had enough time to finish my grub. He pulled up in his blue Mustang with a boom box sitting in his backseat. I asked Bruiser, “Sup with the boom box brah?”
“I use it when I’m playing basketball at the park on the weekends,” he said while running his fingers through his beard.
“That’s all fresh my man, we ought to bust out with that on Wednesday nights, right before group starts, I’ll show you my copters I’ve got rockin’ while you bump the box!”
“Alright B,” he said and then he blasted his box.
I didn’t live very far from the mall, by car at least, so we got there lickety split.
Bruiser pulled up by the food court of “Dorktown mall,” stopped by the entrance, and said kind of mysteriously; “Alright B, I’ll get back …” which in weeks past was his way of saying “bye” on Wednesday nights.
I was like, “What?”
Bruiser repeated with a curious look in his eyes; “Alright B, I’ll get back wit ya,” he said as his smile grew even bigger and more mysterious. It seemed so random.
“You’ll get back? Wazup wit dat,” I said taken aback.
And as usual, with all coolness and coyness, he cryptically said, “I had prior plans before you called,” he paused and then smiled like someone who had just won a prize then said, ”Doooood – I’ll get back, hurry up, I’ve got to go meet this clam.”
Suddenly I got it. Bruiser’s got himself a skeezer and he was looking to get some smoochy-smoochy going. Guys always start acting funny when there is a girl on their mind. I told him, “Don’t do anything that I wouldn’t do!”
“Yeah, right! I guess I won’t be doing anything then,” he said and then started laughing his nuts off as if someone was tickling his pits.
“Cool my brother, when and where will I meet you?” I asked curiously.
“Don’t worry about it,” he said keeping his mysterious ways going.
“It’s cool bro, whatever is clever. Do what you gotta do,” I said.
As I exited his Stang, Bruiser said in a baritone voice, “So you’re staying here at the mall B?”
I nodded yes.
He reassured me, “I’ll find ya B.”
“Last time I had this much mystery I was watching a ‘who done it’ movie,” I said.
I headed into the mall through the mirrored food court door, and I was digging me. I usually wore hip and happening clothes, so I really dug checking myself out. I was instantly greeted by two birds flying high inside the mall, right near the skylights which presumably made their way inside without an official invitation. I’m not sure why I even looked up as I walked in because there were three young kids giggling their heads off about the lollipops their mom had just given them and there was a baby crying inside the double doored section of the entryway that begged for everyone’s attention.
The birds were precariously flying right over my head. It made me think about a buddy of mine; Russ and what happened to him while we were at an outdoor festival called “Chicago fest” in downtown Chicago last summer. While we were standing in line to get some Chicago beef sandwiches at an outside vendors stand, a bird crapped runny brown and white smagma-like goo all over his hair, shirt, and whatnot. And let me tell you, it was not pretty. So when I walked past the screaming baby and giggling kids I sort of crouched down and made my head as low as possible to avoid the birds. Then I laughed at myself; as if that would prevent bird shit from hitting my head or something ,because, you know, if they’re going to get you, they’re going to get you.
The mall is an instant sensory overload: I spotted three teen girls licking ice cream sundaes under a fake tree in the crowded foot court. An elderly couple was sharing one of those baked hot and huge fat pretzels with the large over sized salt sprinkles on them. And two hot moms that didn’t know how to dress, but were still hot anyway, were pushing strollers and gabbing away while their babies were fast asleep.
I started looking at the three girls licking their ice creams again. They were right underneath the path of the flying birds. Their hot fudge and vanilla swirled ice cream had an eerily similar color scheme to my buddy Russ’s hair that day right after the avian creature had dropped a bomb on him at Chicago Fest. If I was going to get ice cream at the mall that day, I was not now, or if I did, the color scheme would not be brown and white. One little incident in life can really ruin the way you look at things forever. Like the time I heard about rats crawling up the sewer pipes and into people’s toilets. I have never sat on a toilet seat the same ever since. -and now, neither will you.
I’m not afraid of birds or anything but I didn’t want to get crapped on, so I made haste past the food court. Two dudes who looked all artsy fartsy were sitting at the coffee shop sipping on their coffees like a bunch of know –it-alls; I could tell by their facial expressions that they thought their shit didn’t stink. Both of the dudes were wearing argyle and one of them had a plaid knit hat as his lid. I mean, it was hot inside the mall, so obviously it was his fashion statement but you could tell that these were the same types of dudes that wore their knit hats outside in the middle of summer when it was 100 degrees outside, just for the sake of their fashion. But for whatever reason, his hat annoyed me.
They had their boat shoes shined sparkly clean and their polo shirts were buttoned up to the top. I mean, who buttons a polo shirt all the way up to the top? These jackasses, that’s who. I just knew they were having conversations about things that they really didn’t even care about but they were just trying to look cool and sound cool for the people that might overhear their conversations. I could see it in their haughty eyes.
I walked past the two rich kids and said, “Hey, I like your hats! Are you from Richville?”
“Thanks,” The one dude said but he barely even looked at me.
“Yes, do I know you?” the other chump said in a groomed condescendingly voice, as I thought: I knew it, you spoiled brat.
I quipped, “My grandpa has hats just like them,” I smirked and then uttered cocksure, “Are you guys wearing those hats inside because you’re chilly? Sup wit dat,” I said as I had changed my feigned snobbish voice to a ghetto-like dialect. I could tell that one pissed them off, but they just looked at me with disdain.
They looked at me with their strained smiles, rolled their eyes at each other, and went back to talking about argyle socks, daddy’s BMW, and how rough their life was because they had to tell their maid repeatedly to tidy up their rooms for them. If I had any more balls I would have said it louder, but instead I sort of muttered as I walked away, “You guys should wear longer skirts if you’re really that chilly.” But either way, they weren’t paying attention to me. I was that other “95 percent.” Anyway, that was our mall; it was filled with a bunch of nut jobs, spoiled brats, hot chicks, kids, birds, and at least one cool breaker like me.
As I walked around the mall looking for Chess King I kept my eyes and ears open for my capricious buddy Blazin'. He was certainly not the quietest cat around so, if he was at the mall, I’d find him. The mall was packed like a gangster at a sit-down. Everybody was there to hang out, shop, or just flat out cause trouble but usually just innocent trouble. After sauntering around for a bit I was unable to find the thread shop or Brock - so I made my way to the Mall directory.
While I was peeping at the mall directory looking for the thread store on the map, I saw out of the peripheries of my eyes an apparition of a dude down the hallway that was pacing around like a confident young punk. He captivated me in the same way my buddy Blazin’ would captivate someone; just with his mien and posture. Something in my gut said that this silhouette of a guy in the arcade was a B-Boy. He was wearing a gray hooded sweatshirt – hood on and had this certain swagger. What hat one wears can really tell a story.
The gray sweat shirted dude was not really doing anything in particular other than standing around the arcade looking tough and pacing once in a while. But it was the way he was standing and pacing that told me he was cool. He had this B-boy stance about him. Takes one to know one I guess. I started making my way over towards the dude but furtively, not to interrupt his focus.
His gray hooded sweatshirt was draped in sweat by his neck, his gray jogging pants were tight, but not too tight, and his white leather shoes were very white, bright angel white; if he ever got lost at night, he wouldn’t need a flashlight kind of bright white. Upon closer inspection, I could see that the gray sweat shirted dude was not rockin’ fat laces. Not that fat laces were prerequisite but most of the breakers I had met either had ‘em or wanted ‘em. It’s not that fat laces automatically meant ones a B-boy. However, it means something. But even though he had regular laces, I still had an instinct that the cat was like me, a B-boy, a hip cat.
As I drew more near I could see that he was right around my age; 8th, 9th, maybe even 10th grade. I was wearing my red suede, fat laced b-boy shoes and my nylon windbreaker along with sweatpants. He caught a glimpse of me and perhaps I offered him some ambition to engage. The dude started top rocking all hip hop dance style while throwing me an occasional glance. He had more of a hop step to his rock than I had seen on most B-Boys. Old boy dove to the floor in a twist motion, his head and hands simultaneously hit the floor with the rest of his body perpendicular to the floor he began to revolve on his head in 360’s. He looked like a mini tornado. His gray hooded head was spinning around the floor while his hands rhythmically tapped the ground, keeping his head spins in action.
This B-Boy must have tapped around at least 20 revolutions on his head with his legs arranged in a V pattern. Then he closed his legs, which made him look like an upside down capital “T.” His speed had doubled; he quit tapping the ground, put his arms out even with the ground, and continued spinning at least 20 more times no handed head spins until he finally succumbed to gravity.
He quickly stood to his feet, I extolled, “That’s Chicago Bro that was straight up Chicago!”
He got this confused look on his face and said, “We are in Lombard?”
I told him, “No, I mean your breakin’ is Chicago, Tall Chicago; Chicago is the windy city … a place with Large buildings, Large egos - Larger than life in fact. Saying that your breakin’ is ALL CHICAGO is like saying that you are the coolest Emmer Effer that has ever walked the planet is all I’m saying.”
He looked at my shoes, then furrowed his brow while tightening his right jaw, and grunted, “You break kid?” He was a little out of breath still.
“You know it,” I said.
“Show me what you’ve got kid,” he said as he looked down to the section of ground that he had just rocked. He pointed his finger in an aggressive way and said, “Right here” in a gruff tone, and then stared me down.
I bounced around a little with a swaggerliscous top rock and then slid to the floor into footwork. After scatting around, which was more or less to loosen up and find my groove, I then plunged to the very hard, very slippery beige tiled mall floor and started rotating into fast helicopters; one after another, after another. While I was twirling around I felt compelled to keep on going. After watching that boy’s head spins for days, it made me feel like I had to show him that I knew what was up. I finished off my copters with backspins and then I leapt to my feet. My counterpart was extending his hand out towards mine and said, “Sweet kid, sweet! You’re pretty damn Chicago too.”
“Thanks dude,” I replied while catching my breath.
I started to ask him his name, where ya from, how long you been breakin’ and stuff like that but before I could even get any answers out of him he just point blank asked me, “You want to walk around the mall kid?”
“Sure dude, let’s do the mall,” I said. I instantly took a liking to him. He was a cocky eff. He was a bona fide B-boy. And I liked him.
He finally answered one of my questions as we were walking around but it came after a few minutes of silence, so it really seemed out of the blue, old boy said, “I’m Bob” and then he paused. I thought he was going to say more but he didn’t. Then he paused for a million more seconds and then he blurted gruffly, “– and your name izzzz?” you should have seen the cocky look he gave me. He was a smart ass to the bone. But It didn’t bother me. In fact, I think that made me like him more.
He made me repeat myself a few times? Maybe he had trouble hearing me I wondered, considering he was still donning his gray hood and all. He never took it off.
Bob asked, “Where do you want to go kid?”
I told Bob about my quest to find zipper pants, and about how I might run into my flighty buddy Blazin', and I also told him to let me know if he saw Jesus Christ wearing B-boy regalia.
He laughed, gulped, and took a deep breath as he said, “I don’t want to see Jesus just yet kid,” then he crunched his brow and said, “Let’s find that zipper pants store kid.”
As we were walking around the mall I told Bob how I hadn’t seen Blazin' yet and that if we didn’t find him soon, he’d probably be leaving on account of his fiddle footedness. But Bob didn’t seem to care whether we found him or not. He seemed content. However, Bob got a big old roar out of my use of the words “fiddle footed,” which made me explain to him that I liked to read the dictionary for fun sometimes. Which made Bob roar even more – he even roared through his nose. He had a crazy laugh.
I didn’t want to sound like a “holder” or anything. You know someone who holds someone’s nuts. Meaning someone whose an ass kisser or an overly complimentary person, but I told him anyway, “Yo dude those were some pretty damn straight head spins dude.”
“You like to say the word dude a lot don’t ya Dooood?!” Bob said with an odd smirk.
“Either way my man you’ve got head spins for days,” I said with ebullience.
Then I started telling Boogie Bob about how my buddy Blazin' and I were always practicing together in his garage and as if he didn’t even hear what I had been saying to him, he interrupted and said randomly, “You can call me Boogie Bob or just Bob, Mr. Phil K Swift or you can even call me dude, kid. I was just busting your chops. I say dude all of the time, dude.”
But something in the tone of his voice belied what he had actually just said. I got the impression that he really did not like being called “dude.” But I would also had bet that he called other people “dude” all of the time. He just didn’t want to be another “dude.” I’ve got no problem with that though. We are all hypocrites once in a while.
“Sup with the zipper pants you’re all high on kid?” Boogie Bob asked.
“They balloon out really big when the zippers are down and they will make my windmills look all bad to the bone when I’m sportin’ ‘em. And when you zip the sides all the way to the top, the pants tighten up all tough. And that my friend will make me look all sexy for the girls,” I said cocksure.
Bob derisively smirked at me and said, “Ok Mr. sexy, let’s go get you those pants.”
I started heading to the Mall directory when Bob chided, “Where you going kid?”
“The name of the store is Chess King,” I said while scoping out the directory diagram.
“Yep, I know – follow me kid K Swift,” he said while already in full stride towards the elevator.
Boogie Bob and I waited for the elevator for about five minutes. The elevator only held about four people at a time. But 4 moms, 4 strollers, and 2 old farts were already ahead of us waiting to get in. While we waited, in between banter, Bob was sort of talking to himself in a joking way and said, “Hey mother do want another?” which drew a few cross looks from said “moms.” And when the last group of moms had finally left us, Bob unabashedly said, “I think that last Mamasita heard me. Did you see how she kept looking at me like a piece of candy?” he said with a dopey smile.
“Yeah right, she was looking at me,” I said.
When we got into the elevator, it had that elevator smell, like a machine, or sulfur, or something. It kind of reminded me of the smell of bumper cars at the amusement park. I couldn’t quite put my finger on it but it just had that elevator smell. But thank god it didn’t have that elevator smell like at the county general hospital. The maintenance man at the hospital once told me that skunks had made a home for themselves and their babies at the bottom of the elevator shaft and they can’t seem to get rid of the skunks that had taken up residence there. I had been in and out of that hospital a few times over the past few years for asthma or boo boos or even just visiting grandparents and stuff like that, it always smelled like skunks, and it probably always will. I told Bob about that right when we got into the elevator and he said, “What’s your point kid?”
“I guess I don’t have one,” I said, which made him laugh through his nose with this repetitious “hiss” sound that filled the otherwise quiet elevator. Then it was silent – and to change the subject from uncomfortable silence, on a whim I unassumingly said, “Take off your hood for a second.”
I asked him that question because he was clearly a master of head spins and I wanted to see if he had a bruise on his scalp or a patch of hair missing on his head or something. I knew that I had put on two thick snowmobile hats while I was busting out with my head spins, yet the very top of my head would still hurt like heck, even though I had padded it like a mo fo. And Bob only wore his hood. I guess I was just wondering like heck if I was going to see a bald spot, a red spot, or a scab or something on Bobs head, I just had to see.
Bob proceeded to take his hood off, which by the way, he had on ever since I had met him just ten minutes before. Then, as if it was in slow motion, he took off his hood while staring me square in my eyes. He was bald. I was taken aback, and out of surprise I said to Boogie Bob, “You’re bald.”
He nodded and smart assedly said, “Thanks kid, I didn’t know that.” Then he smiled smugly.
At that point, I figured I’d ask him anyway, “Does it hurt the top of your head when you do head spins?”
Bob smiled, “Nahh, izz all good, kid,” he said.
I continued asking him about his shaved head because I had been paranoid I was going to get a bald spot on my head one day from the head spins I had been practicing. Bob replied, “No, I didn’t shave my head because of wearing out my scalp from head spins or anything like that kid,” he paused for a moment then he unaffectedly continued, “I’ve been getting chemotherapy, I have blood cancer, they call it: A, L, L. or Acute Lymphocytic Leukemia, it’s a bee-otch but Eff that bee-otch,” Bob proclaimed.
I really wished I hadn’t asked him to take off his hood anymore. Heck, I didn’t even know he was bald under that gray hooded sweatshirt of his. I just wanted to know if the top of his head looked the same way mine felt. After that brief moment of awkwardness Bob still remained the same, he brushed it off as if I had only asked him for a piece of gum. The doors to the elevator opened up and Bob said, “Take a right kid, Chess King is this way” as he pointed down the malls hall.
“I hope this isn’t un-cool of me Bob, but what is it like to have cancer? I mean, can you feel it?”
Boogie Bob responded, “Actually Boy Swift, now I know you are cool! Most people would avoid that question like the plague but here you are asking me what you want to ask me. You’re not treating me different like I’m just some cancer dude; you’re just asking me a question, the same way you’d ask anyone a question; just like I’m an ordinary guy – not some dude.”
Bob was quiet for a few minutes, so it seemed. I mean, really he was probably just quiet for a couple of seconds, but this was the kind of conversation that made silence seem long.
Then Bob continued, “At first, I spent most of my time pretending that it wasn’t really happening to me but that doesn’t mean that I want other people to go on pretending. But at the same time, I don’t want to be treated as, “cancer dude.” Know what I mean kid?”
I nodded and said, “kind of?” I tried to understand, but I’m not sure I did.
Bob continued talking to me in this sincere voice yet playful patina smile, “I hate fake people Kid, but I can tell you are for real Phil K Swift. You know what though?” Bob paused, and then talked before I could say anything, “Sancer Cucks! Cuck Fancer! … Effff it though,” he bellowed in the loudest voice I had heard him use since I had met him. In fact he was shouting so loud that everyone in the mall and everyone in the heavens could hear him; he really seemed pissed. He had garnered dozens of eyeballs our way, that’s for sure. But neither one of us cared.
“Word,” I said, “How did you know you had it?” I asked.
Bob looked at me with a pale stone face and tiredness in his eyes and uttered with a slight gulp, “It started off as a cold or flu, well at least I thought that’s what it was and I just couldn’t shake it. I was sick for 4 or 5 weeks during the football playoffs; I kept waiting for it to go away but it wouldn’t. As the days passed I kept getting more and more tired. Finally we went to the doctor’s office but he just sent me home with some flu medicine.
The next day my mom said, “Bobby, we are going to the emergency room so we can see what in Sam Hill is going on around here.” Bob had used this mom sounding voice as he had said it to me - and if that was accurate, his moms’ voice sure did crackle a lot. Then Bob continued, “The ER doctor ran some blood tests and within 24 hours I got the news that I had Acute Lymphocytic Leukemia; A L L.”
I listened and nodded along as he told me about his cancer diagnoses and then we both said simultaneously, “There it is.”
I smiled and Bob smiled back and then he snapped out of the glum look he had on his face and said, “Chess King, kid.” He put his hood back on and we walked into the store.
Bob asked me again why I was so intent on getting the zipper pants. So I explained to him how every time I got some new hot happening threads and wore them to school, some random girl would come up to me and start asking me about my clothes.
This really got his attention. “So you mean, these zipper pants will get girls to start talking to you kid?” Bob asked.
“Well first of all my brother, I just think these pants are pretty damn cool but either way - killer threads get the girls talking to you … and you’ve gotta love that.” Then I sheepishly said, “I never know what to say to girls in the first place, I mean, once they start talking to me I’m cool but I’m just not good at approaching them, so the clothes do my approaching for me,” I said while I went through the clothes on the racks.
“Hey kid, I like that angle – whatever is clever,” he said.
Bob and I were going through the clothing racks forever when Bob picked up a pair of pants and held them up high, “Yo Kid Swift, are these the zipper pants you’re talking about?”
I rushed over to Bob and confirmed with a, “Heck yeah.” I sifted through the hangers and sizes but to my dismay, they didn’t have my s