Uncle Morty’s Good Luck Pants (Part One)
by Joan Ramirez
copyright 2018
“Will you please put on a pair of pants?” Emma Thomas screamed. Patience flies away when you’re six and close to missing your first period.
Uncle Morty stood in the hallway of the Thomas house holding an empty hanger. “They’re gone.”
Emma stomped her feet. “What do you mean?”
The short little man stared at the hole in the hanger. “Someone took my good luck pants. I can’t drive without them.”
Emma smacked her cheeks, sending the freckles on her nose into a tizzy. “You promised to take me to school. You can’t drive a taxi in your bathrobe. I order you to get dressed right now.”
Uncle Morty rolled his beetle bug eyes. “I’m the grownup. Don’t talk back.”
Emma ran into the man’s bedroom and opened a closet filled with pants. “Pick a pair and let’s go.”
The doorbell rang. “We have to answer that,” Uncle Morty said. “Maybe it’s someone with news about my lucky pants.”
Emma pointed to a grandfather clock. “Look at the time. We have to hurry, or I’ll be late for school.”
Beads of sweat poured down the man’s face. He bit into a fingernail. “The last time I drove in traffic, someone scratched my car.”
Uncle Morty loved his taxicab as much as his family. He cleaned it and his lucky pants at the end of each workday, putting one in the garage and the other in a special bag in his closet.
While they exchanged angry stares, the doorbell rang once more.
“This is the United States Government. Will someone open up?”
Uncle Morty held his head in his hands. “I bet a thief has stolen my pants. I’m ruined. I’ll have to sleep in my cab instead of drive it.”
Emma carried a footstool to the front door, climbed up, and looked
out the peephole. “It’s a soldier.”
Uncle Morty folded his arms. “Is this another one of your jokes?”
“See for yourself,” Emma said.
The pounding grew louder. “I ask you to open in the name
of the President of the United States!”