Two-tone ska music plays in the background. It is dark outside and the urban thurough-fare is dimly lit by streetlamps. An attrractive young floppy-haired man emerges from behind a beat old Buick and tosses a small rock at an apartment window. Hot chick #1 peeks outside and the man ducks behind the car. Once again our protagonist slips out of the darkness and throws a chunk of asphault towards the tenement. A light goes on inside. Hot chick #2 cranes her well formed neck out her window and again this Tom Joad, this Jack Duluoz hides from her stare.
Window three allows us to observe the visage of an older, not-quite-attractive, somewhat unattractive actually (soory if she's your mother) woman. Ironically (HOW IRONIC!), "hero" remains in the light. Woman smirks knowingly.
Oh no. I am a confused viewer. Has this young man lost his mind? Will he enter her apartment and in some short time enter a place only previously known to her husband? Will they share a cup of tea or perhaps some brandy . . . just enough to let their guards down so that they can proceed to the inevitable? Will they gasp and shreik? Perhaps we will be welcome to another shot of Hot Chick #1 and Hot Chick #2 covering their heads with their pillows as we hear the muffled sounds of a headboard bouncing against the wall? Perhaps this woman is their madam, their mother. Assume they are his ex-friendlies and he is exacting a disgusting revenge.
But no. He is there for his pants. Left absentmindedly in the laundr-o-mat. And this older woman holds the key.
Man retrieves pants. Shruggs. Leaves. Walks back into the hell that is his life.
But where are his previous pants? The ones he was wearing when he went in in the first place? The red track pants with a white stripe running down the side. For the love of god! What kind of Sysiphean life does one lead, forgetting and retrieving pants from location to location to location to location to location?