Swish, Swish, Swish (A sequel of sorts to 'Clack... Clack... Clack...')

Tom browsed through the thrift store when he discovered the absolutely perfect thing for the Seventies Night festivities at the Falcon's Club he and his wife, Beth, planned to attend. This was even more special than the Ronco Veg-A-Matic he bought at a garage sale last year. Not seeing a price tag, he carried it over to the young, gum-chewing sales girl. Her name tag said 'Tiffany.' "How much are these pants?"

Tiffany took the pants, looked at the tag inside, looked at Tom, looked back at the pants, then asked, "Who're these for?"

"They're for me."

She just stared at him for a moment as if choosing her words carefully. She blew a bubble, sucked the gum back into her mouth and said, "They're too small."

"They are not too small. I checked the tag. They will fit. I'll show you. Do you have a fitting room?"

Tiffany pointed toward the back of the store while managing to roll her eyes, twist a curl of her hair in her fingers, and seem mildly annoyed.

Tom followed her finger until he came to a slim door that led to a white-painted, puny room with a full-length, smudged mirror and plywood seat inside.

When he slid the pants up to his waist, he found the snap to be almost two inches from buttoning. Undeterred, he sucked his gut in as far as he could, but still remained almost an inch from success.

With desperation starting to settle in, he studied the room. A bit above the bench he saw a clothes hook attached to the wall. He hooked a finger around it and yanked hard. It felt well anchored.

Throwing caution to the wind, he removed his belt from his other pants and slid it through the hoops, stepped up on the seat, slipped the end piece through the buckle, and forced the hook through the closest hole on the end. Wishing himself luck, he braced his feet against the wall where it met the bench and leaned back.

He sort of hung in space, not unlike a mountain climber leaning over a cliff edge in preparation to rappel. The belt pulled painfully tight around his waist, threatening to split him in two, but he found himself able to successfully button and zip up the pants.

Then he grabbed the strop and pulled himself up enough to grab the hook and finish pulling himself upright. Unhooking the end of the belt, he stepped back on the floor and admired himself in the mirror.

Perfect, he thought.

Tom went back to pay, making a swish, swish, swish, with each step. "See, I told you they'd fit. I like them so much, I'm going to wear them home. My wife is really going to be surprised."

"Yes, she is," Tiffany said between gum chews. "Six dollars. All sales final. No returns."

"Oh, I would never return these."

*

Tom called his wife while walking to his car. "Hi Beth! Just wanted to let you know I'm on my way home. I thought maybe we could grab a bite to eat on the way, or at the club. Whichever you prefer."

"Sounds good, dear. You sound chipper. It must've been a worthwhile trip. What's that swishing noise?"

"I don't hear any noise."

"Maybe it's the connection. See you soon."

*

Tom entered the house and walked along the hallway toward the steps. Swish. Swish. Swish.

Beth stepped down onto the main floor in front of Tom. "What is that noise… oh my!"

"Tada!" Tom said, throwing his arms into the air and turning a slow circle.. "Surprise! What do you think, eh? Was like finding gold. Perfect for tonight!"

"Big bell jeans," Beth said. "How unexpected. And you want to wear them tonight?"

"Well, yeah, perfect right."

Beth hesitated for a moment, staring at him not unlike the way Tiffany did. Then said, "Maybe we should wash them first."

"We don't have time."

Beth sighed, "Tom, dearest, I know how tragic it was for you that they went out of style, but those pants are way too small for you."

"I don't know why people keep saying that. First Tiffany. Now you."

"Tiffany?"

"The sales girl at the thrift shop where I found these. She said the same thing. Look, see? Buttoned! I couldn't button them if they were too small, now could I."

"I don't know how you managed it, but they are too tight. I really don't want to hurt your feelings, but your stomach looks like a wilted mushroom crown drooping over the stem." Beth crossed her arms. "I don't want you wearing that."

"Well, I'm going to wear them. You'll see. People will find them festive, as getting into the spirit of the night. Everyone will wish they had them."

"I have a bad feeling, dear. Things rarely work as expected for you Swit men."

*

They arrived at the club early and made their way to an empty table. Kung Fu Fighting played from the DJ booth. Along the way they heard some, 'Hey, Tom, groovy'; 'Far out, Tom'; and one 'Looking pretty solid there, buddy.'

"See," Tom said, "they appreciate the nostalgic look."

Beth sighed. "Tom, dear, they are only indulging you. There isn't so much as a peasant or tie-dyed shirt to be seen, much less big bell jeans."

Then Tom tapped Beth's arm and pointed across the room. "Isn't that Steve who works with Tommy? I think he took my picture."

"I believe that is him. He's Helen Spurgeon's son and she is at the table. Jane Rogers is there too. If he took your picture, it will likely end up on his Facebook page for everyone to see."

"Cool," Tom said, "let's order." Tom ordered a burger and Beth got a small chef salad. Tom looked at her salad and said, "That isn't very much to eat. You're not hungry? Want to share my fries?"

"I might eat a few fries, but, no, my stomach doesn't feel up to eating heavy right now. Maybe I'll get something else later. I just can't shake this feeling."

"What feeling?"

Again, Beth sighed. "The feeling that something is going to go horribly wrong."

*

As the night went on, Beth started to relax more. Tom loved to dance and they cut quite a rug across the floor. At first she kept a wary eye on him, and found the constant swish, swish, swish, of his pants distracting. Still, his exuberance became infectious, and she laughed along with him as they moved across the dance floor singing to old favorites and reminiscing.

"Tom, I'm sorry. I'm having a great time. I really am," Beth said, "but I need a drink."

"Well, let's sit and talk for a minute. I'm ready for a drink myself," Tom said.

Beth ordered a glass of wine and Tom a beer. They continued talking about the old days as the songs played. 

Helen Spurgeon walked up to their table. "I'm sorry to interrupt, and I hope it isn't a problem that I ask, but is there a chance that the hippest guy here might dance one dance with me?"

Tom said, "I'm sorry, Helen, I can't -"

"Oh, go ahead, Tom. I don't mind. Have fun," Beth said. "It'll give my feet a bit of a break."

Then Helen said, "Please? I haven't danced all night. Just one?"

Tom said, "Sure, Helen, why not?" 

Beth watched as they made their way to the floor. Tom looked back and mouthed 'It's the jeans.' Beth rolled her eyes.

Foreigner's Double Vision just finished up. Then the Bee Gees song Stayin' Alive started. A song that really got Tom going.

Beth looked over at Steve and saw him holding his phone toward the dance floor. She assumed he was recording his mom and Tom on the floor.

She then turned to watch Tom dance. He's a bit stiff, but still has the moves. 

They must've seen Saturday Night Fever a million times and Tom worked to get every step right just like John Travolta's character, and he did his best to do it again. Tom always ended with that pose posted on all the album covers and posters. Beth remembered how turned-on she'd get when he did, and he always made sure to look only at her.

Tonight was no different. And as the last few notes faded away, Tom struck the pose, looking directly at her as he'd always done. She began to smile back at him when the unthinkable occurred.

Her worst fears couldn't touch the horror of what happened next. The music stopped, and an almost complete silence fell over the room. Only a half stifled scream from somewhere behind her, and Steve's uncontrolled laughter filtered through to her.

"Oh my!" was all Beth could say.

*

"Hello."

"Tommy, honey, it's your mother."

"Mom, do you have any idea what time it is?"

"It's ten-fifteen dear. It isn't late."

"It is when you have to get –"

"It's about your father."

"Oh my God! Mom, is he ok? Did he get into an accident? Heart attack?"

"No, honey, that would be a normal occurrence, something you Swit men don't understand. It was more like fabric fatigue I would say than anything else, dear."

"What?"

"We're at the Falcon's Club for Seventies Night and your father wore big bell jeans he found at the thrift store."

"Cool!"

"Not cool. They were too small and the constant swishing as he walked was extremely annoying. But, he insisted. So, against my better judgment, I left him to do his thing."

"Mom, what happened?"

"He was dancing with Helen Spurgeon. You know her. She's that Steve's mom you work with. Your friend."

"He isn't exactly my fr–"

"He's kind of weird, you know - your friend. He might've been hitting on Jane Rogers. She could be his grandmother. Is he that hard-up?"

"Yes, typically, and I don't really care about Steve right now, mom. What happened with dad!?"

"Well, like I was saying, your father was dancing with Helen to the Bee Gees 'Stayin' Alive.' At the end, he did his John Travolta pose -"

"The iconic one with him stepped forward, arm pointing in the air, and looking toward the camera like on the DVD cover?"

"That's the one, and your dad looked right at me when he did it. Ohhhh, It used to get me so hot and -"

"Mom! Enough! I don't want to know."

"Well it does. Did anyway. Doesn't have quite the same effect when the pants are so tight his gut looks like a wilted mushroom cap draping over them. Turns out the pants couldn't take the pressure. They exploded."

"What do you mean exploded?"

"Well, Tommy, one second they were there and the next… well… denim flew everywhere. The seat of his pants hit Helen square in the face. Almost knocked her down. Jean confetti is strewn all around the dance floor. It was worse than you wearing that dumb Star Trek thing to work."

"Did Tess tell you about that?"

"Tess tells me everything, dear. She showed me the video your friend Steve -"

"He is NOT my friend!"

"Whatever you say, Tommy. Anyway, there stood your dad, still in that pose with his tighty-whities on which don't fit well because his gut's big but his legs are small, and that means his underwear crotch hangs loose…"

"I don't want to hear about this, mom. I really don't…"

"Well you need to, honey. It's important so YOU don't do this. You are too much alike. So there he stood in that pose and his scrotum slid out and dangled there like a pathetic, pink pendulum."

"God, mom, really, just stop!"

"It's a curse you Swit men seem to have as you age. Amazing how low it hangs -"

"MOTHER, STOP!"

"Ok. Fine. You'll find out anyway in thirty years or so. I should warn Tess. Maybe she can find a cure. Anyway, I need you to run to the house and grab some sweats out of his top drawer and bring them here. He's hiding in a bathroom stall right now. You can take them to him. Maybe talk to him. Mainly, we have to get him home."

"And your friend, Steve, is kind of an asshole. You remember that song we used to sing with you that went 'Do your ears hang low…'"

"Yes…"

"Well, he's substituted 'balls' for 'ears,' and is laughing hysterically." Then Beth thought for a moment, and added, "And I think he recorded it."

Beth heard a heavy sigh from Tommy, then she heard him say to Tess, "Please look at Steve's Facebook page."

A few moments later, she heard Tess in the background exclaim Oh shit! And then Tommy came back on, sounding tired, "I'll be right there."

*

Beth stepped out onto the back deck where Tom sat staring at nothing. "You ok dear?"

He absentmindedly scratched at something on his arm. "I can't believe I'm still trending on the internet."

"Tommy said it might be a long time. Your video inspired so many people to play around and change it. He said it might last longer than 'Star Wars Kid' whatever that is."

"It's been three-months! Don't people have better things to do?" He gave up on the scratching and went back to staring at nothing.

Beth moved a chair beside him, sat down and grabbed his hand, gently squeezing. "Well, you always wanted to be famous."

"Famous, maybe. Not infamous. They still call me Mr. Bodangles at work."

Beth didn't even try to hide her smile. "They love you at work. It's just another way of bonding." She squeezed his hand again a little more firmly, and said, "You have to admit, the stuff they are doing with it is pretty clever. You have inspired a lot of creativity. If it were not you, you'd be eating it up."

Tom chuckled. "You're right. What was it, a day maybe two and they had somehow placed an elf hat on me and added the Jingle Bells tune, but sang 'Dangle Balls' instead."

Beth laughed. "Yep. My favorite is still, 'He's got balls that dingle, dangle, dingle…'"

"You don't have to sing it."

"Yes, I do. It's an earworm for me, and the video is hilarious."

"So you watch the video's of them mocking your husband?"

Beth got up from the chair and stood in front of him. "Tom Swit, just so you know, every single mock-up about you from this incident I have come across I have not only watched, but recorded."

"That isn't right, Beth."

"Maybe not, but it's necessary. I have also given copies to your mom and to Tess. So if ANY of you Swit men look to do anything that might backfire badly again, we will have an intervention that will include watching all these videos."

"You can't. That's diabolical!"

Beth just smiled.