‘Going to Paris is like going into a war zone . . . bombers and hijackers everywhere.’ : The Man in Plum Trousers

We’re getting ready for a trip to Europe, but I’m not certain we’re going to make it. I can’t find a pair of slacks I like.

“You have shopped for pants for three days,” my wife said. “Surely there is something that pleases you.”

We were standing in the middle of Bullock’s.

“The problem,” I said, “is when I find a pair of acceptable slacks, I don’t have a jacket to go with it.”

“Then buy a jacket.”

“I have enough jackets.”

“You can always use another jacket.”

“But then I’ll have to buy a shirt to match.”

“Buy it.”

“I don’t need another shirt.”

“So what?”

“Well, if I buy a shirt I don’t need I feel . . . sated.”

“Tell you what. I’ll buy the shirt and the jacket. All you have to buy is the pants. But for God’s sake, boy, do it!” The P.A. system announced the store’s closing in 10 minutes.

“Hurry!” she said.

“I can’t possibly buy a pair of slacks in 10 minutes.”

I’m not sure I want to go to Paris anyhow. I’d be content to go to Lake Isabella again.

“You’ve got to be kidding,” she said.

“Going to Paris is like going into a war zone,” I said. “Bombers and hijackers everywhere.”

“I’ll take my chances.”

“There are no bombers or hijackers at Lake Isabella.”

“You go to Lake Isabella then,” she said. “I’m going to Paris.”

“Don’t come crying to me if they blow up the hotel.”

Friends have also invited us to visit them in Dublin.

She glowed at the news. “That sounds great!”

“We might as well spend a weekend in Beirut,” I said.

Before she could tell me that sounded great too, I said, “Forget it.”

Since it is our first trip to Europe, I had to apply for a passport. It is not easy for someone who resembles an Arab terrorist to get a passport.

I stopped off at the Post Office in Van Nuys, carrying my birth certificate and two photographs. There was no line. I smiled with happiness.

“That birth certificate is no good,” the lady behind the counter said.

“No good?”

I knew the happiness wouldn’t last.

“It isn’t stamped,” she said.

“I have used this same birth certificate all my life,” I insisted.

“It isn’t good enough for the American government.”

“It was good enough to get me into the damned American Marine Corps.”

“You’ll have to write Sacramento.”

I filled out the form she gave me and sent it to the office of the State Registrar of Vital Statistics with a check for $8.

They sent it back.

The fee for official birth certificates had gone up to $9, a letter informed me. It went on to say that I could also get a certified copy of my marriage or my divorce papers for $9 each. A death certificate is only $5.

I sent the $9 and six weeks later my passport came. Then the Arabs started blowing up Paris. Suddenly we needed visas.

“If you think I’m going to spend all day waiting in line outside the French Consulate you also believe in fairies dancing on the lawn,” I said to my wife.

“You’ll have to,” she said. “I work.”

Of course. Writing a column isn’t work. Real work involves sweat and regular hours. Since the simple stringing together of words requires neither, it falls more into the category of hobby than employment.

“No problem,” I said. “I’ll hire a Mexican to write the column.”

“I didn’t mean you didn’t work. I mean you . . . well . . . “

“Work less? “

“Something like that.”

People used to ask my mother what I did for a living. She told them I typed.

I got the visas. We already had the passports. Our travel agent took care of the rest. Her name is Marsha Calig.

“Everything will work out just fine,” she said.

Marsha is a pro. From her standpoint, everything probably will work out just fine in terms of flight and hotel accommodations.

But there is the question of new slacks to consider.

“I don’t understand,” my wife said, “how you can turn such a simple task into such a monumental chore.”

“You’re right,” I said, “I’ll skip the pants.”

Touche! She had spent hundreds of dollars on clothes for the trip and I was willing to forgo one pair of slacks. I would wander the great capitals of Europe in rags. I had her pinioned with guilt, a husband’s best friend.

“Fine,” she said abruptly. “With the money we’re saving on slacks, I’ll buy a new raincoat.”

It isn’t supposed to work that way. She had out-maneuvered me.

“You win,” I said. “I’ll buy the slacks.”

“Good,” she said. “These.”

“I don’t wear plum-colored pants.”

“They aren’t plum-colored, they’re a shade of brown.”

“They’ve got pleats. I don’t wear slacks with . . . “

She was walking away. “Where you going?”

“To Paris. Have fun at Lake Isabella.”

I think I’d better go with her. She’s got the credit cards. See you on the Champs Elysees. I’ll be the guy in the plum-colored pants.