Sir, excuse me. Before you get any closer to those trouser socks, I have to ask: is that meaty bolognese sauce running down the front of your chinos, or are you gushing blood from a fleshy gunshot wound in this Banana Republic? I’m on thin ice with my manager, Trayson, and I can't afford another marinara mishap.
Please, my job is on the line here. I see the signs; I can tell you're a made man. The gold watch. The pinkie ring. Pores like gravel and a garlic bread smile. Word around the food court is the Mapletown Mall is in the middle of a turf war, and the four families—Macy's, Nordstrom, Sears, and Kohl’s—are going to the mattresses. If that's the case, I'll gladly kiss the ring and shuffle back to the brushed cashmere sweaters from whence I came. But if that's damp ziti, dammit, I need you to stay the hell away from the ribbed bouclé polo cardigans.
I can explain nonsensical violence to Trayson. But red gravy stains—with nary a noodle in sight—well, that's just negligent. He’ll think I'm eating Spaghetti-O's on break again. And I promised I was off the sauce. Especially after that ruddy tumble I took into a customer trying on our last Merino cable knit. Of course, the customer is always right. And there’s no doubt that you wear the hell out of a sandy brown, slim-cut chino. But if anything happens to our houndstooth double-breasted suit jackets, I’ll be sleeping with the pennies at the bottom of the fountain near the escalators.
Obviously, you're a big shot. One of these guys who confidently walks around with bodily fluids and Italian juices all over their flat-fronted, lightweight cotton chinos. But not everyone is lucky enough to button themselves into such breathable bottoms every morning. At least, not without worrying about encountering crimson noods.
Frankly, you don't know how good you've got it. Living like this is hell. You think I like putting on my Italian herringbone wide-leg pants in the dog days of summer? I sweat through my pleats every shift at the notion of encountering a plate of sloppy pappardelle. I miss the days when I could frolic in my breezy chinos without the haunting memory of spilled ragù.
At any moment, Trayson could catch me with ravioli lips and ship my ass back to Old Navy. That house of horrors practically begs their customers to shove puttanesca into their Sherpa utility joggers. I shudder at the thought of how much elbow macaroni you can jam into a child's size medium-performance fleece.
Time to come clean, Mr. Rigatoni Soprano. What's this scarlet stain smeared across the crotch of your casual, goes with anything, wrinkle-resistant chinos? Is it human blood? Or is it tomato blood? Should I seek refuge behind the oversized quilted carcoats and wait to pay tribute? Or maybe you're just a sloppy freak who can't tell their gun from their gabagool.
Oh shit. I forgot I was wearing this headset.
Heeeeeey Trayson. No, sir. I don't think we're running an Olive Garden. Oh, you found three sopping meatballs and a used spork wrapped in a crushed velvet cummerbund? No, sir. I can't explain how three glistening spheres of ground chuck found their way into our gentlemen’s girdles. Yes, sir. I'll try not to let the door hit me.
Turns out that's blood and bolognese on your sensible chinos, you son of a bitch. You framed me. Oh yeah, I remember you now. You were the fool whose Merino cable knit I ruined with my Spaghetti-O fingers. It wasn't my fault the break room was out of plastic spoons. But you know what? I'd do it again. I liked feeling those sticky rings ask for my hand. As for your Merino cable knit, that decadent napkin was a mere sacrifice to the spaghetti gods.
Go on, do your worst. You've dashed my lifelong assistant manager aspirations, why not take what little I have left? I kinda suspected one day I’d leave this Banana Republic in a human takeout bag. Just make it quick. Take that linguine out of the partially hidden back pocket of those smart-as-hell chinos and choke me until I see the pasta land. The one where every meal is al dente, parmesan paves the roads, and no one bats an eye as I recklessly wipe my fusilli phalanges with a luxurious alpaca-blend infinity scarf.