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The Day the Pocket in My Pants Started Talking to Me
Sometimes, when least expected, my pants talk to me.
This happens without any effort on my part.
I’m sitting shotgun at the end of a row of other jazz lovers, listening to a large group of young musicians making music, and I am in thrall. Enthralled. Enraptured. That is, until I hear an annoying but familiar voice making comments about love, life and laughter. I look around to see who’s talking out of place. Nobody. But the voice continues. It is coming from my left pants-pocket, where rests the tiny audio recording device I use to make notes when pen and pad are nowhere to be found.
The voice is my own.
The device has somehow turned itself on, and now I’ve got to squirm quickly, dig down past datebook and cash, and try to retrieve the thing. It is still going on with its internal dialogue. I grab it, bring it out and smash my finger against the OFF button. Fortunately, most of the people around me are still wondering about the source of the voice—they haven’t pinpointed my pants yet.
The evening is saved.
From this day forth, I punch the fail-safe switch after each verbal note, hoping it won’t happen again.
But, my pants being haunted, or the recorder being haunted, the dang thing still switches itself on now and then…but only to entertain me. My disembodied electronic muse has a mind of its own, and I kind of like the fact that, like a two-year-old, it tries to get my attention at unexpected and appropriate times.
In fact, were it not for the notes residing in my pants pocket, this little piece of writing would not have occurred. The first line says it all, and I dutifully write it down. The voice speaks loudly and says THE DAY THE POCKET IN MY PANTS STARTED TALKING TO ME.
Like most diligent writers, I obey my muse and start writing, my pants creating what you just read
© Jim Reed 2014 A.D.