“A person is never happy except at the price of some ignorance.”
– Anatole France, French novelist
Somewhere in the cozy confines of the nether regions, the folks who volunteered as the first wave of trouser testers must be chuckling at their enduring legacy, the Big One they had managed to inadvertently pull off. Indeed, who would’ve thunk it? Who could’ve imagined that the mere act of placing one’s hand in one or both of the two pockets located above and on either side of a pant zipper held the very real potential of forcing the zipper downward? But what’s even more perplexing than this quirky little truism – that not even the advent of button-fly jeans could repair – is this thorny issue of bystander apathy.
Why don’t more people step up to the plate and inform these poor souls that they’re flying low and their pilot may stumble out? And for that matter, why are strangers, in general, hypocritically gun shy about coming to the aid of those in obvious need? The reasons vary but, sadly, none would stand a chance under the fires of cross-examination.
Perhaps it’s the mutual embarrassment factor. Maybe the stranger notices the briefs poking through the zipper but fears that on a subconscious level, by mentioning the slight, this anonymous somebody will feel as though this Good Samaritan is, in some perverse way, checking them out. Pardon me. You seem to have a pinch of guacamole on your butt. Here, let me wipe it off. A benign comment or a potential lawsuit finding its legs? In some cases, with the hyped-up touchy-feely types, this line is wafer-thin. Better to stay a shadow.
It could be that these observers are at a loss for the appropriate words. Take hosiery, for example. Upon noticing a stranger, or even a co-worker, emerging from a potty break having her pantyhose haphazardly hiked up over her shirt, tact may call for a thoughtful approach. And with time tick-tick-ticking away, the window of opportunity may certainly close before the initial shock wears off. Same goes for the pitiable sap who unwittingly plays the part of the gap-toothed two-punch fighter during conversation. Or could that be spinach between the molars? What to say? How to say it? Oh, too bad, time’s up. Trouble is, it could be Popeye’s beloved, or any of the other primary- or secondary-colored foods out there in circulation. But it also could be an awful case of tooth decay. To know for certain may warrant further inspection, an avenue often too awkward to pursue. Better to clam up.
Or maybe these sock-in-mouth eyewitnesses are amusement junkies, reveling in the delirium of watching others make the social rounds whilst towing along a two-foot wedding dress train of toilet paper on their left heel. Or it could be that these unsympathetic oafs are entertaining side bets with fellow insiders on how long, exactly, the leftover spaghetti sauce will be left on display on a certain unsuspecting victim’s nose, forehead, and left cheek. This after, of course, a normal, mundane five-and-a-half minute conversation where this stranger – or supposed buddy – failed to mention the faux pas in the first place.
And finally, there’s the pity factor. As distressing as it is at times to realize, reality quite often embodies a cruel, cold, uncaring beast. It’s not uncommon in today’s Machiavellian society for the have-nots to be relegated to the repressed realities of occasionally wearing dirty clothing, emitting a disturbingly foul odor or – the horror! – snapping up last season’s fashions off-the-rack. And while it just may be a coincidence that a fly is circling the head of another and about to touch down and nest, it also could be that a financial squeeze has forced them scrap the shampoo and conditioner for the time being. Better to keep a respectful distance.
But only for a while, until the person’s out of ear shot and the all-clear sign is given. Then, of course, it’s open season. Traffic reporters bandy about the term ‘gawker delay’ routinely at accident scenes. Those coming across the scene of any type of accident, be it motor vehicular in nature, or any one of the above aforementioned less serious casualties of neglect, can’t help but pump the brakes and stare. Then, when the coast is clear, when the dust settles, the therapy begins. These people – everyone, that is – at one point or another, blab about their accounts afterwards, and even compare notes with other Pharisees. “Hey, guess what, Paul, I saw a guy with his fly open, and, what, with the wind gusting the way it was, it’s a wonder this moron didn’t catch pneumonia. I didn’t say anything, of course – didn’t want to give him the wrong idea – but I gotta admit, I did stare at it for longer than I should’ve.”
What comes around goes around; down the road, the circle always closes. Ah, the guilt these people should feel … but unconsciously don’t.
