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The guy in line in front of me unzipped a small pocket of his cargo shorts and extracted a customer loyalty card. He pulled his wallet from another pocket.
After he paid for his merchandise, he unzipped a long, narrow pocket at the bottom of the array of pouches on his shorts and tucked the paper against a quarter-inch or so collection of receipts already on file. It was a perfect fit.
I counted a half-dozen other pockets on his cargo shorts, all of them bulging with something. The shapes looked like a notepad, pens, phone, baseball, cords, keys, glasses, a screwdriver and a water bottle.
"He's wearing a desk on his thighs," I muttered.
Cargo Shorts Guy left. Now it was my turn at the counter.
I stabbed myself on three pens, two flash drives and a lockbox key trying to fumble my cards and cash out of my right-hand pants pocket. I crammed the receipt into the same pocket, then reached into my left pocket to dig out my car keys, which had slid beneath the cell phone and tangled in a rubber band and wadded-up plastic bag. I couldn't remember why the plastic bag and rubber band were there.
"What I need," I said, "are more pockets."
I pulled a notepad out of my shirt pocket and made a note: "Buy cargo pants. I need more pockets."
Some people swoon over fashion. I don't care if it's in style. I want places to carry my stuff.
I remember the winter I picked out my first parka. I didn't choose the coat because of its thick practicality against frigid Northeast Ohio Januarys.
No. I stood in the store and said, "Whoa! It even has pockets on the shoulders. And look, the pocket has a pocket. I need this coat."
The lining and batting probably helped, but that's not what kept me warm that winter. It was insulated by the cache of pocket stuffings.
Decluttering the house became a snap. All I had to do was step outside. I carried everything in my pockets.
Somehow, I drifted away from clothing sporting extra pockets. I suspect it's because my wife, instead of buying me nerdy pants with a plethora of pockets, brought home a computer bag with a shoulder strap.
"Why do I need this?" I asked.
"Open it," she said.
It was full of pockets. Big slots that fit my laptop. Medium pouches for tablets and papers. Small spots for gizmos, gadgets and whatnots. I have a lot of whatnots.
"Look," I yelled. "There are even pockets inside this pocket. Whoa! I found a hidden pocket. This is going to be great."
I've encountered only one tiny problem with my bag of many pockets -- I never remember in which one I stashed a thing when I need it. I'm like a dog frantically digging up the yard searching for a long-ago buried bone.
Every now and then, I rediscover a hidden pocket and reclaim a stuffing -- and sometimes a hibernating frog -- but never when I'm looking for it. So I jam into another pocket and keep hunting.
I am not one of those guys who makes jokes about women with their bottomless purses. Oh, I have some wisecracks. I wrote them down. I just can't remember in which pocket they're safely secreted.
That's why I want cargo pants. I'm going to reserve the upper left-hand zippered pouch for a single item -- a map of which treasures are buried in which pockets.
— Write Cole at burtseyeview@tribtoday.com or on the Burton W. Cole page on Facebook. He'll answer as soon as he remembers in which pocket he stowed the charger for his devices.