Mr. Swales' wears Pants

Tonight, Mr. Swales wore pants.
Since March, David Swales has come to the hotel I work at every other week on business. And I have delivered room service (generally a cup of soup or a chicken quesadilla) to this kind old man with his English accent and his wild array of boxer shorts. Each time I go to his room, room 815, I am greeted kindly at the door, asked in to set the tray on the desk, and he grabs the check as I walk between him and the ironing board which is always covered in the next day's dress shirt- half pressed. And each time I enter his room, I am intrigued by the fabric flapping about his hairy man- thighs. The first night (appropriately in mid-March) offered a nice set of bright green shorts with shamrocks dancing in a scattered display of Irish pride. The next visit was a dull blue with golf icons neatly on the sides. I have since seen Red Sox emblems and one particularly vibrant design of peace signs. Tonight he called down, inquired as to the "stodginess" of the chilli, opted for a steak melt with chicken instead of steak (chicken melt?) and greeted me at the door in a strikingly well-pressed, crisply creased set of trousers- appropriate for public use and in no way indicating the muscular make-up of his upper leg region.

I walked away quite simply astonished that he had opened his door wearing pants. And by time I had reached the employee elevator, I was shaking with giggles as I realized that I work in an environment where it is not uncommon to be greeted by clients who are, in fact, NOT wearing pants.