Leave Them In Stitches

Not to long ago while working on a television series I ended up coming into work on a day I originally had off. This isn't unusual for the world of television which operates fast and loose with words like 'schedule' and 'hours' to the point where we make brain surgeons with constantly beeping pagers look like homebodies. Which is strange because we aren't the ones saving lives, though I suppose give us a big enough budget and we can defiantly script, cast, and shoot the illusion of life saving.

We might not make as big a difference as real doctors, but you can't argue the blood we work with is far less nausea inducing, not to mention its edible!

The work we had planned to finish the day before wasn't finished and so I came in for what promised to be a couple quick hours.

Now I will not pretend to know the inner workings of the universe, won't attempt to grasp the un-graspable, but I will tell you this: somewhere out there some flag goes up, some light begins to flash on some intergalactic dashboard the moment you suppose a job will be quick and painless and calls to action something, anything, that will prevent it from being so. This unfortunately is one such story.

A co-worker by the name of Sky and I were heading first to the west side of the city to a storage unit to pick up some stuff for the production, drive it across Toronto to the east side and deliver it to another building where one of the departments on the show had set up shop.

We diligently loaded up the rental truck, hauling object after object up the ramp until the thing was full. A heavier and more awkward job than first expected, we were all the same making fairly good time when we pulled away from the storage unit.

I'd like to think it was the rain's fault for what happened next, though any meteorologists and/or physicists reading this might argue that five minutes of light drizzle can not cause a metal ramp to get slippery. To this I say that all meteorologists and physicists who will will not keep their mouths shut should stop reading now, because it was most certainly the rain's fault.

See Sky and I were at our destination unloading a large and awkward piece of metal and I was walking backwards down the ramp when one of my feet slipped (yes, I'm sticking with slipped) and suddenly found itself involuntarily leaving the safety of the ramp. My other foot stood steadfast as the first collided with the pavement. My legs, now further apart and on completely different levels than would be advisable produced a loud ripping sound, the likes of which I had never heard before.

I looked down cautiously, fearing the tearing noise was some muscle or bone that had decided to split off from the rest of my body. It turned out to be much worse.

I had never had a pair of pants rip before, in fact I may have been going through life convinced its something that only happens in cartoons, like a falling anvil or the ability to pull a door out of ones pocket, fling it against a wall and proceed to use it. But then there I was with a large rip straight down the center of my shorts, so long and expanding that there was very little keeping the two legs connected.

I stood there dumbfounded, unsure of what to do next as Sky probably began wondering why the heavy piece of metal was not moving.

I couldn't tell from my vantage point what underwear I was wearing, and my memory of getting dressed in the morning seemed to be of no help, so I stood there, praying for a brief moment that they were an acceptable pair, ideally not anything with a bright Superman 'S' imprinted on them... not that I own such a thing.

At this time I would also like to ask a certain cashier that may at some point in her life stumble across this and who may disagree with some statement's in the last paragraph to also please stop reading and not tell tales about a certain Cidiot and his boxer purchases, which clearly flies in the face of any cold hard facts printed in this column.

So now here I was, virtually the beginning of the day with a whole lot more to go, the unnatural realization that my shorts were torn longer and wider than the Grand Canyon. Then it hit me. I was at the Wardrobe Department!

I finished unloading the large metal object that by this point had tripled in weight, I then ran into the Wardrobe Department as fast as my legs could carry me. Okay that's a lie, I slowly moved towards said building, trying to avoid moving my legs at any angle or length that would get me fired for indecent exposure.

Finding the head of wardrobe I asked him if he had a needle and thread I could borrow.

"Of course," he replied. He then asked me why.

Sheepishly I explained the events that had unfolded, he took a quick look and then beamed with a reassuring smile.

"Oh that's no problem, just take them off and we'll get someone to sew them up for you."

Now by this point you probably think the embarrassment and awkwardness is coming to an end for me. For this I say thank you for your wishful thinking, the worst though, was this...

I was sent to the bathroom to change out of my shorts so that the woman, the best in the business I was ensured, could mend them. As a substitute to wear while I waited I was given a plastic garbage bag with two holes cut in it.

A garbage bag.

I proceeded to put it on, like a cross between a large plastic diaper and something MC Hammer might have worn back when he was 2 Legit 2 Quit.

I stood for a good two minutes facing the bathroom door, bracing myself to walk out into the busy room in a garbage bag, allowing the proper amount of blood to rush to my ever reddening cheeks.

Fifteen minutes. Yes fifteen minutes I stood off to the side of the room as the woman went to work on my shorts, allowing everyone in a ten foot radius to get in as many garbage bag diaper pot shots as they could dream up. I contemplated my career choice, there are probably few brain surgeons who find themselves foregoing scrubs for the clingy comfort of a black garbage bag.

Finally the shorts were presented to me, and you know the woman really must be the best in the business as it was as if they had never ripped in the first place. I quickly waddled back to the bathroom, tightly holding the garbage bag for fear it slip off in one final embarrassing act.

"You picked a good place to rip your pants," offered a nearby wardrobe assistant as I headed for the door, "could you imagine what the Props Department would've done for you."

I could not. Though when I do visit Props I'll be sure to keep my eyes open for falling anvils, the rules of the real world and of cartoons have never felt so murky.

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