Integrity behind the sparkles

Here’s to the Sparkly Pants Guys of
the world.

It was winter break, and I was
wandering the streets of Los Angeles,
killing time in a shopping district with
my mother. My father left us alone,
content to gorge himself on Korean street
food, and I spent the evening windowshopping.
As we passed one boutique, we noticed
a rack of skinny jeans outside, with the
obscenely low price of $10 advertised
on a piece of cardboard. My mother
pestered me to try on a pair, claiming that
I could always use new pants, and shooed
me inside.
The shop was deceptively large, and
deserted, leaving me to awkwardly search
out the fitting rooms.
It was then that I met him. While I don’t
recall exactly how it happened, I will
never forget him.
He was about a head shorter than me,
stout and bulkily built.
He wore a peach-colored flannel shirt,
the bottom buttons undone, and a pair of
black stretch sequin pants, which he had
to constantly pull up and readjust (as they
were clearly too small).
His eyes were offset by massive, dark
glue-on eyelashes, and atop his head lay a
toupee that just barely clung to his scalp.
When he spoke, his gravelly voice
was reminiscent of Harvey Firestein, a
mixture of Jewish and Brooklyn accents.
His strangely disarming smile never left
his lips.
Sparkly Pants Guy directed me to the
fitting rooms, and I slipped away silently,
trying to make this as quick and painless
a process as possible.
As I changed, I couldn’t help but overhear
a large group of people in the stalls
next to me. It became clear, from their
criticisms and laughter, that they were all
good friends, trying to pick out an outfit
for a member of their gaggle. He was
a young man, supposedly a rapper, and
was off to shoot his first music video. I,
hoping not to disturb anyone, slid past
the group and in front of the communal
changing room mirror.
They fawned over me, these total strangers,
each offering his or her comments
on my new pair of skinny jeans. Overwhelmed,
I fled the dressing rooms, unsure
of how to react. Eventually, I made
my way to the register, pants in hand.
My mother stood near the front of the
store, having grown impatient. She, too,
had been startled by the sudden appearance
of the Sparkly Pants Guy, and as I
tried to purchase my pants without further
interruption, he pulled me aside.
“You look just like your mom,” he said,
before adding, “She’s quite the looker.”
Suddenly he froze. My father had entered
his shop, and now loomed viciously
over the Sparkly Pants Guy, cold disapproval
clear on his features.
Without skipping a beat, Sparkly Pants
Guy grinned, and said to my 6-foot-2,
190-pound plus father, “Hey, your dad
ain’t so bad either.”
We must have been laughing for hours.
I still have those pants.
I tell you this story because it would
probably never happen in Granite Bay.
Sparkly Pants Guy was an individual, acting
and speaking as he chose without fear
of approval or societal acceptance. And,
while I’ll never know much more about
him, if I had to guess, I’d say Sparkly
Pants Guy was a pretty happy man.
So here’s to the Sparkly Pants Guys
of the world, those who dare to do as
they please, those who can shrug off the
judgments of others, those who can find
their own sense of personal, linguistic,
and cosmetic fashion. Wear those sparkly
pants with pride.