Oh, pants!

My pants keep falling down.

For my British readers, I should note that I'm referring to my trousers. If my British pants kept falling down - well I'd be really worried.

As it is, it's bad enough. I am pacing nervously in the dim, dusty waiting room, trying hard to not appear nervous. Which is quite difficult when you're pacing nervously and your pants keep falling down. But I am proud of myself for remaining calm and dealing with the situation. My mom has always told me "deal with it, Jimmy". No matter what is happening. "Deal with it, Jimmy". Truth be told my mom is always a little weird. My name is not Jimmy, for starters.

The ad in the small town paper had been simple enough:
Wanted: Trainee Private Investigator. Must be Well Dressed and Calm. Apply in Person at...

I'd better not give the actual address.

So, after buying a decent outfit, trimming my beard, and printing out my resume, I'd walked across town towards the fading business district. The really strange thing is that my new pants fit great and didn't fall down once while I was walking from there to here. But once I got here - well let's just say I've started wishing I'd bought a belt as well.

The ancient house that serves as HQ for Gabriel Host, INC, PI is not air-conditioned. A midsummer day in this little Southern town is more than hot. It is hell with doilies. And yet, every time my pants fall down in this creaky old room, my legs feel like icy columns.

I stop pacing, pull my pants up, and sit down.

Immediately, an office door opens and an elderly gentleman shuffles out. He is wearing suspenders.

"Welcome Jimmy", he says, smiling knowingly. "Do you believe in ghosts?"