The weather is dank and miserable as I pull up to one of Lombard’s many dive bars. It’s around 3 in the morning, and there’s a middle-aged man sitting with his legs splayed in the doorway. He’s surrounded by plastic bags filled with detritus.
“Hey, man, you call a cab?” I shout through the lowered window.
“Yes, can you please help me up?”
I begrudgingly get out to do so. As I reach down to offer him my hand, I notice that his paper hospital pants have a huge tear in the crotch and ass. I can see both his scrotum and his colostomy bag.
“This ain’t happening.” I turn to get back in the car.
“You’re refusing me service? That’s violating the Americans with Disabilities Act!”
“You’re violating the Americans with Pants Act!”
“I’m wearing pants!” he pleads.
“According to Prince’s definition, you probably are. But I’m of the opinion that if I can see your nutsack, they ain’t pants.”
“I can’t have that shit on my backseat, man. I’ve got other customers. If you want, you can call a friend of yours on my cell phone, and they can come pick you up.”
“I don’t have any friends! Please, I want to go home!” He’s on the verge of tears.
“It’s not gonna happen.” I get back in the car.
“I don’t think there even is an Americans with Pants Act!”
“Good luck, I’ve got to go.” I drive off, leaving him in the cold and wet.