"Pants Free in St. Paul," Erin Johnston

Today on Midwest Weird: A nonfiction piece by Erin Johnston, titled “Pants Free in St Paul.” Read by the author.

Erin Johnston is the co-creator and editor of Midwest Weird. And with Heath Smith and Amy Lee Lillard, she hosts the 80s and 90s pop culture podcast Fuzzy Memories.

Midwest Weird is an audio literary magazine from Broads and Books Productions. We’re the home of weird fiction and nonfiction by Midwestern writers.

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Episode Transcript:

This is Midwest Weird, an audio literary magazine from Broads and Books Productions.

We’re the home of weird fiction and nonfiction by Midwestern writers.

Today’s episode: A nonfiction piece by Erin Johnston, titled “Pants Free in St Paul.” Read by the author.

“We can do a haunted nighttime tour of St. Paul!” I yelled up the stairs to Mike.

“Huh. Could be good.”

“Yeah, or there is a mafia tour, apparently they have pretty significant roots in St. Paul.”

“St. Paul has always screamed mafia to me, not surprised,” Mike returned to the kitchen dressed in old torn jeans, and a grease covered shirt. 

“It could be interesting…maybe we will work that in on Saturday, because tomorrow is the brewery tour and food truck festival.”

“Okay, okay, slow down, this is supposed to be relaxing. It is our anniversary, and our first time away since Mason was born, let’s just play it by ear.”

“You do not get a spot on high demand tours by,” I quickly pulled out my air quotes, “playing it by ear.”

“High demand?”

“I see your skepticism and I raise it with a resounding set of Yelp reviews.”

Mike shook his head back and forth, “I will be in the garage – the part came for the Mustang today, and I want to try and get it in before we leave in the morning.”

Author’s Note: this is a very midwestern tableau – restoring a car in a garage for no other purpose than to show it off to other car restorers at some sort of car show.

“Good idea. If something goes awry on the Mafia Tour, it will benefit us if you have a marketable skill.”

“What? I think you might be confusing the mafia with a hostage situation. Either way, we need to immediately take steps to get you out of the house more.”

“Agreed…right into an old timey mafia tour,” I mumbled under my breath, as he headed to the garage.

Mike and I had a standing tradition of trying to get away for our anniversary every year in September. Following the birth of our son, Mason we were struggling to figure out how to even get away. For reasons unknown even to us, we settled on St. Paul, Minnesota.

Author’s Note: another midwestern tableau – leaving one midwestern town for a getaway in another midwestern town.

Mike and I enjoyed our getaways but already developed a sense of trepidation. It seemed that every time we ventured out some kind of weird found us.    

While our six-month-old snoozed, I hurriedly tried to pack for his stay at the sitters, and our trip. I just finished zipping the suitcase when I heard what sounded like a scream, silence, and then the garage door slamming.

I stood still until a long expletive cut through the house. I raced to the kitchen just in time to catch Mike at the sink.

“Holy SHIIIIIIIIIT,” I echoed, as I looked as his stomach. His shirt appeared to be stuck to his abdomen with liquid; a trail of the same substance formed a river from the back door to the sink.

“I can’t get it…” Mike trailed off as he tried to peel the white cotton from his body.

“Wait, Is that stuck? What happened?”

“Long story,” he gasped as he raced to put a cool washcloth on the patch of fabric stuck to his skin.

Belatedly, I realized the liquid was hot, and I was looking at a burn victim. I grabbed scissors and cut the t-shirt around the spot Mike was holding. As I cut and peeled, the stubborn square released from his body.

“At least we know we would have one hell of a stripper routine if the business goes south,” Mike mused as I held his tattered shirt, and he slid out of his soaked jeans.

I didn’t laugh, instead my eyes welled with tears, as I took in the large burned surface screeching its way across Mike’s middle, “What are we going to do?”

Mike winced as he moved, and suggested getting some more cool cloths. Immediately I started cooling washcloths and handing them to him. The burn was so active, the cloth would warm almost immediately.

“We need to go to ER,” I stated.

“Not a chance,” Mike replied.

“This is bad. This is like skin changing bad. This is instructional-video-teach-a doctor-how-to-deal-with-a-burn, bad.”

“Erin, I am not going to ER. We need to cool it and rinse it. Let’s just get that done.”  Author’s Note: is this a uniquely midwestern thing? Refusing medical care even when you clearly need it?

TEN MINUTES, FIVE WASHCLOTHS, AND THREE HOLY SHITS LATER

DING DONG. The doorbell rang out, causing my head to snap towards the front door, “It is probably just one of Evan’s friends,” I said.

Water. Washcloth. Repeat. DING DONG. Water. Washcloth. DING DONG.

I started to move toward the door only to come face to face with a neighbor from another block. I could not remember her name, and we certainly were not on an “enter each other’s homes without being invited” basis. She moved toward the kitchen, while the shock from the last ten minutes rendered me motionless.

“Erin,” Mike half yelled at me, I turned to him, fulling taking in the fact that he was standing in his underwear in the middle of the kitchen.

“Uhhh…now is not really a good time,” I managed, still unsure why our guest was here.

“I just need to ask Mike a quick question, and I could see movement through your glass door, so…” she rounded the corner into our kitchen before my legs started to work.

“Oh my! What happened?” her hand flew to her mouth.

“Small antifreeze accident,” Mike offered, his eyes glued to his stomach.

“She threw antifreeze at you?”

“I’m sorry?” my shock wore off as soon as I was accused of bodily assault.

Mike cocked his head and said nothing.

“No, I didn’t throw anything,” I stammered to gain footing in a pointless conversation, “He was in the garage, and something, well, I guess it was hot, well, I don’t really know…” I trailed off and looked at Mike. He was switching cool cloths in a frenzy, “If I threw antifreeze, is that even how it works?”

Now our nosy intruder cocked her head.

“What do you need?” I recovered.

“Well, I wanted to see if Mike could come give me an estimate to replace all of the windows on the front of my house, I would like to have it done before winter. They are sooooo drafty. Plus, I think it would be nice to have some new trim; it would really set off the new paint.”

“It is probably going to be little bit before I can get over there to look at it,” Mike cut her off and pointed his finger towards his injury and waved it up and down.

“Oh, well okay.”

My mouth fell open, and I resisted every urge to throw antifreeze, hot or not.  

“Well, let me know when you have some time,” she lingered as if we might cave and run to her house immediately. I started to walk her towards the front door. “I have some sunburn spray, I could run that over,” she added over her shoulder.

“Not that kind of burn,” I smiled and turned to face Mike and noticed his face looked scarily like the Joker. There was a smile, but it was creepily sinister and abnormally large, somehow inflated and filling the lower half of his face. Plus, he was still missing pants.

“I’ll just show myself out,” she murmured.

I rushed over to Mike and replaced the washcloth with a new one. Tears started to well again, when I heard, from somewhere in front of the house, “Oh my, it is really messy out here!”

“Who is that lady?” I threw my hands up in frustration.

Slow, deep chuckles erupted from Mike’s mouth, “I thought for a moment I was hallucinating and she didn’t really exist.”

I looked up from the cooling routine, “That smile is incredibly scary and off-putting.”

“Yeah, I am in a fair amount of pain, possibly shock, also she wasn’t lying, the garage is a disaster.”

“What happened?”

“Radiator caps are supposed to have a two click system, so you can release a little bit of pressure, but mine apparently does not, I clicked it once and the pressure blew the cap off, and in the process, blew antifreeze all over me and the garage. I am guessing it might be the original cap, and I didn’t think about replacing it yet.”

Simultaneously, we moved to the side garage door and opened it. “Holy shiiiiiiiit,” I offered for the second time in twenty minutes.

“Yep.”

The floor was almost entirely covered with electric green leopard spots. The spare refrigerator looked like the Ghostbusters prop crew slimed the entire thing. One side of my car was speckled with fine green spots, and the front of the mustang spewed green goo from every side of the grill and motor.

“I’ve got an incredible throwing arm,” I offered. Mike chuckled and winced, while I held out my hands “okay, what do I do to clean it up?”

“Just give me a minute and I will clean it,” he responded.

“I know you are bionic and everything, but the heat coming off you is alarming. You probably need to keep cooling that down before you cook your internal organs, or, I don’t know, go to the doctor?”

“Nope. But, I think you are right about the cooling,” he turned to get back to work and I surveyed the task ahead of me.

I slipped on some tennis shoes, and grabbed the keys off the garage shelf. I thought backing out my car would allow me to spray down the garage, and then push broom the substance out. I parked my car on the far-left side of the driveway, so I had a clear shot to the street and drain.

As I got out of my car, I heard Mike yell from the side door frame to the garage, where he was watching me, “It is really slipper…” my foot shot to the side, and my arm flailed about trying to catch my door handle. I steadied my body while I maintained an awkward side lunge position next to driver’s door.  I tried to move my back foot, and ended up doing the electric slide right back into the same spot. I slipped my shoes off and ran from the car, leaving my shoes behind as if they were on fire.

“I like what you did there,” he called.

Barefoot, I fought with the hose reel until it was in front of the garage, I retrieved my shoes, wiped them on the grass, and then put them back on to enter the garage.

“Wait a minute,” I hollered, after the hose reel was inside the garage, and after only one fall onto the garage floor, “is this hazardous? Am I going to get in trouble for flushing this out into the street and into the sewer system?”

“

What are our other options? Haz-mat truck?”

I stared him down and sprayed the hose through the garage in response.

FORTY-FIVE MINUTES, TWO MORE FALLS, AND ONE CHANGE OF CLOTHES LATER

I buckled Mason in my car to run it through the car wash, and headed to the pharmacy to get Mike some burn relief items. I was still unsuccessful at getting him to agree to see a professional, but as it was now, he could not even put on a shirt. I called the doctor from the car, and found out essentially Mike was right, outside of pain relief, we needed to keep cooling the area. I made an appointment for Monday, so she could check that it was healing properly, and hung up the phone with instructions to call if there were any changes.  

I cursed the mustang as I drove. Once inside, I cruised through the pharmacy until I found the burn aisle. I read packages, and debated remedies. Mason squawked.

“You’re right,” I swept my arm forward and dumped every burn relief item on the shelf into my cart, “we need everything.”

ONE HUNDRED AND FIFTY DOLLARS IN BURN RELIEF, AND ONE CAR WASH LATER

I was greeted by Zach at the back door of the house, “What the HELL is going on with Dad? Have you seen him?”

I rushed past Zach to find Mike sound asleep on the couch; shirtless, with his arms straight down by his sides, his face ghostly white, still pant-less.

“We might be looking at shock,” I murmured. I filled Zach in quickly and started to line up all of the pharmacy options on the counter, then I went upstairs to our bathroom, to find some leftover pain medication from a recent surgery.

“You all packed?” I jumped at the voice and the pill bottle flew out of my hand. I turned to find Mike yawning, holding his arms out from his body like an inflated bodybuilder, but still pant-less.

“I will put it all away later; I think you should be resting.”

“Why? Don’t we leave in the morning?”

“You still want to go?”

“Why not?”

“Ummm…you can’t walk like a normal person? You may need a skin graft? You can’t seem to find any pants?”

“One, offensive, I like walking like this. Two, if I need a skin graft, they will take my own skin, so it doesn’t matter where we are, and three, not wearing pants is a choice, not a circumstance.”

“I don’t know…it doesn’t seem like a good idea.”

“We will just take it easy; what is the difference? Let’s relax in the hotel we already booked!”

SEVENTY-TWO DISCUSSIONS, TWO PAIN PILLS, ONE RESTLESS NIGHT AND ZERO ATTEMPTS AT PANTS LATER

“I think four burn patches and then wrap the whole thing in that tape, like all the way around my body.”

I opened four burn patches and took the cool blue rectangles out, placing each one carefully on Mike’s stomach and down the left hip, where the burn was decidedly the worst.

“Maybe a layer between the burn patch and the tape?”

“You want cotton gauze pieces stuck in your wounds? It is that brown tape that only sticks to itself, not to skin. What about pants?”

We finished dressing the wound and he zombie walked towards his closet. He found his favorite pair of faded, flannel pants that predated our relationship. I believe they predate flannel, and are, in reality, polyester that disintegrated into a softer material that slightly resembled flannel. They are the worst, but if there was ever a time Mike could make an argument for wearing them out of the house, it was now. He kept them slung below his hips and we headed to the car.

Author’s Note: you guessed the most midwestern tableau! Flannel pants! Outside of cold weather or a holiday!

After I buckled Mason in, I headed to the driver’s side.

“Where are you going?” Mike asked.

“You can’t seriously think you can drive?” I said.

“You can’t seriously think I am going to let you drive?”

Silence.

“Erin, I love you, but I can’t think of anything more painful than slamming forward into my seatbelt four times an hour.”

“I am not that bad.”

Silence.

“Fine, but if you don’t feel good, I will take over.”

TWO HOURS AND ONE TIME THROUGH THE SONG RING OF FIRE LATER

“Do you want something to drink?” Mike wheeled the car into the gas station parking lot.

“Yes! A fountain pop, oh no, that is, Mike..Mike followed my eyes downward and noticed the large wet spot seeping through his t-shirt.

“Oh no! Not my pants,” Mike tried to check the condition of his pants while holding out his shirt.

“Maybe I should go in and get the drinks.”

“I don’t feel like you care enough about my pants.”

“Well, I would be lying if I said looking at you right now, they were my first concern.”  

A few short minutes later, drinks in hand, I slid into the car to find Mike’s seatbelt contorted and tucked underneath his body.

“That can’t be safe.”

“It is killing me; I think that is why I am getting some seepage.”

“Seepage?”

“I don’t know what the medical term is, oozing?”

“Barf. Okay, we should just turn around. This whole thing is one bad decision after another.”

“We are already halfway there, and we already dropped off Mason at the sitters. I feel fine. A little seeping ooze never hurt anyone; besides it is already a success for you; I don’t think I will be able to save these pants.”

ONE HUNDRED AND TWENTY MILES, ONE BATHROOM BREAK AND HALF A BAG OF CORN NUTS LATER

After navigating our way through traffic in an unknown city, we found our hotel and I could feel the tension of the last day melting away, and I believed for the briefest of moments, we could still salvage the weekend.

I gathered my wallet and bag so I could head into the hotel lobby, “I will go in and get our room keys, and a cart so we can get our stuff out of the car.”

“I can go in, babe, not a big deal.”

I reached out with my hand flat, “Not so much here, or here, but right in here,” I pulled my hand back and forth in a saw motion over the large wet stain on the front of Mike’s shirt,

“And also, here,” I waved my hand back and forth across his tattered sleepwear.

“Valid point.”

I unloaded all our suitcases and spread out our portable pharmacy. I pulled out some sheets I printed at home describing local activities.

“The good news is that the brewery tour and food truck festival are all in the same area, so you can just sit down and I will bring you food after we walk through the brewery.”

Mike practiced walking with his arms positioned normally, “How did I forget to walk in twenty-four hours?”

I shrugged, while he continued walking like a maniac, I picked up my phone.

“Oh no!”

“What?”

“Our mafia tour is cancelled!”

“Why?”

“It doesn’t say, just that they are going to refund everyone’s money. That is such a bummer, I really had high hopes for that. You know that whole thing was going to be nuts.”

Mike stopped, and swung his arms out dramatically, “This isn’t enough for you?”

COUNTLESS BEERS, SIX FOOD TRUCK ENTREES, ONE BREWERY TOUR, AND ANOTHER RESTLESS NIGHT LATER

“How did we already go through twenty-four burn patches?”

“I bought everything they had, I guess we need to find a pharmacy. These last ones should be good until later today. We can come back, take a nap, change the dressing, and then we have a dinner reservation at that piano bar, if you are up to it.”

“I’m fine.”

We threw a spare shirt in my purse, along with the map of restaurants and stores in downtown St. Paul, and headed out the door.

Absentmindedly, I listened to the GPS direct Mike, and took in the sites. I noticed a car veering into our lane and sat up a little straighter, “Mike…”

“I see him.”

SLAM. Mike hit the brakes hard, just as the car cut clear into our lane. Our car came to a complete stop inches from his bumper as he took off quickly.

“Owww…” I turned. Mike’s fingers were gingerly touching a now very large, very wet spot on his stomach and side.

We made eye contact and I scrolled through the GPS to find the nearest pharmacy.

 “Stop squirming,” I tried to hold the burn relief patch in place while attempting to clean the top of Mike’s shorts. We were in a unisex bathroom in the employee section of CVS, changing Mike’s shirt and bandages.

“Sorry, the others are sliding out of place.”

“I think we need to change them all,” I worked on tearing open patches.

A large audible poof of air escaped Mike as I trailed the tape around his torso.

Patches in place, clean shirt on, we exited the bathroom at the same time, oblivious to the small line outside the door, which included one employee, one elderly man, and a father with a small child.

Quicker on his feet than me, Mike smiled, waved his hand up and down, and said, “Seeping ooze.”

Head down, I barreled toward the exit.

The wounds set our routine for the rest of the day, and we ventured up and down the main avenue in downtown St. Paul. We found a little café or bar, had a bite or a drink, then wandered a little bit further. Then we would find another café or bar, and wander a little bit further. We repeated our pattern until mid-afternoon, when we headed back to the hotel for some down time before our dinner reservation.

“Your face looks a little drained – how is your pain?”

“I am not going to lie, that near accident really set everything on edge. I think I am going to take a pain pill before I go to sleep.”

“It is a pretty low dose, and you haven’t taken anything else today, the bottle says you can take two every four hours.”

FOUR HOURS, A LOT OF DROOL, AND EXACTLY ONE PAIR OF MISSING PANTS LATER

I rolled over and looked at Mike. His arms were perfectly straight by each side, and from the crisp cover, it appeared as though he had not moved at all during his nap. Naturally, he was pant-less. I groggily reached for my phone.

“7:08! Mike, Mike, Mike,” I very carefully shook him to wake him up and he had not without touching a wound, “Mike, our dinner reservation is in twenty-two minutes!”

Nothing.

“Mike…”

Nothing.

“Mike?”

I turned my back to find the TV remote, and open the curtains, and heard a distant and weak, “What?”

Slowly, I turned to find Mike sitting straight up in bed, his hair inexplicably fanned out in every possible direction.

His hands reached out for the little spikes and he frowned and shrugged.

“There is no way we are going to make that reservation; we have to change your patches, get your hair into some kind of shape, and get dressed.”

He raised one hand in the general direction of my face, “You left out the part of about the raccoon circle around your left eye, and un-smushing all your eyelashes on your right eye.”

“What? I shot up to the mirror and came away with some flecks of black on my hand. I licked my finger and tried to rub, but it seemed to be getting darker…or messier…or flakier.

Mike chimed in again, “I took two pain pills, but what did you take? I want some of that next time.”

“Hilarious,” I countered.  

He melted down the comforter, resting again on his back, “My vote is we avoid pants altogether.”

“I feel like pants are a clothing item that doesn’t fall in the optional category.”

“They are optional in this room. So, I vote we order in and watch movies. No pants and no hair issues,” his arm easily reached he directory on the bedside table, and he started thumbing through it.

“I can’t think of anything more relaxing.”

“Plus, we can catch a Dateline Saturday Night Mystery, I know how much you love that.”

I looked up to meet his eye and noticed the Joker face again, “You are the picture of romance.”

Two hours later, after gorging on pizza delivery, we settled in…careful to not touch, or make any sudden movements that might crinkle Mike’s ever crisping skin. The episode started.

“A marriage on the rocks, a mysterious illness, and a murder. If the seemingly happy wife didn’t kill her husband, why did the drops of antifreeze found of the garage floor lead the cold trail straight back to her?”

“Noooo,” I started laughing before I could finish a thought.

“This is not possible,” Mike added.

“I can’t wait to find out if she threw it at him.”

With as much seriousness as the moment could allow, Mike reached for my hand,

“Promise me that if you ever decide to off me, you won’t use antifreeze.”

Erin Johnston is the co-creator and editor of Midwest Weird. And with Heath Smith and Amy Lee Lillard, she hosts the 80s and 90s pop culture podcast Fuzzy Memories.

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