Behind a locked door


Melvin Pringle, 34 years of age, married, and with two children, decided to buy a new pair of jeans. He worked as an x-ray technician at three different hospitals. On his days off he liked to wear jeans.
On this day, he was in the store that’s famous for rolling back prices. He’d selected three garments from a vast selection, and now he was locked in the store’s fitting room. He’d narrow his selection down to two pairs of jeans.
The first pair of jeans he tried on were too tight; he could barely get them over his hips. “Must’ve put on a few pounds since I got my last pair,” He thought.
He tried on the second pair, and they were tighter still. The third pair hung on a hook on the back of the fitting room door and Melvin reached up and undid the top button of the garment, and worked the zipper up and down.
He was slightly myopic, and leaned closer to see the tiny label at the waist of the jeans. “Good,” He thought. “They’re a size larger.”
He slid the jeans he had on down to just above his knees and they bunched up tight. He lifted his left foot up and nearly lost his balance. The floor tile was slick, and his stockinged feed offered little grip. He extended his left arm, pointed the toes of his right foot down, and attempted to withdraw his leg from the jeans.
He fell with a muffled whooshing noise, and as he went down his right hand shot out and grasped the pair of jeans hanging on the door.The hook let go and with a louder crash, Melvin lay on the floor in a pile of jeans, his face buried in denim.
Now, with his eyes close up and personal with a shiny zipper, he grabbed the little toggle-handle, and when he slid the zipper shut, hairs from his neatly trimmed beard caught firmly in the mechanism.
Melvin took a deep breath, sat up, and leaned his back on the front of a built-in bench. He reached up with one hand, and grabbed the door handle. “I’ll lift myself up, swing my butt over and sit on the bench.” He told himself.
Halfway through this maneuver, his stockinged feet slipped again, and down he went, with his left elbow slamming hard into the bench seat.
Perplexed, he sat staring at the inside of a pair of jeans, with his thighs and legs entirely at the mercy of tightly coiled denim.
Knocking came on the door of the fitting room. A female voice called, “You alright in there sir? I heard a big noise.”
“I’m stuck. And I’m on the floor. Can you give me a hand?”
The door clicked, opened slightly, and Melvin saw a broad red vest, above which a pair of wide eyes looked down at him in wonderment. “Oh dear Lord,” was all he heard before someone speak into a hand-held radio, “I need security at the fitting rooms, in clothing… some guy’s got his face stuck in the crotch of a pair of jeans.”

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