Bonobos

Pants never sleep. Sure, they lie there, inanimate, static, maybe reaching some strange, lethargic hibernation-state similar to that of resting fish, but they never sleep. The pant business can move fast, and in this business you either lead, follow, or take the afternoon off and cry to your Pantaholics Anonymous sponsor. The quest to deliver the perfect pair of trousers at the perfect hour has driven some men, and women for that matter, over the edge. But there are rare instances when the human spirit triumphs, and the endeavor exists eternally as a testament, nay, a monument, to all that Man dares to accomplish and dream. Such is the story of our pant delivery intern Beatrice Buchholtz* of Stuebenville, Ohio. She arrived only this fall in the Big Apple, with nothing but a suitcase full of hope and a duffel bag bulging with anti-microbial hand sanitizers. She’s no whiz at Excel, and she can’t lint-roll corduroy worth a lick, but she has a big heart, and she never allows a tough pant delivery to break her spirit. No matter how obscure an address, how clandestine a location, she will get the daily delivery of Mint Juleps and G4s to their rightful owners, come rain, sleet, or one-dollar hot dog. Sure, she gets a little flustered at times, but it doesn’t stop her. She simply parks her bike, wipes the frustrated tears from her glasses, and gives herself a moment to calm down. Then it’s off again, slicing the city in two to the hasping rhythm of a greased bicycle chain, laughing into the wind, delivering pants. And mom said she wouldn’t last a day in the big city. Shame on you, Mrs. Buchholtz. Shame on you.

Beatrice during a “Time Out.”

*Disclaimer: Beatrice may or may not actually exist