boxers, bars and a hole in one.

This morning when I opened the door to my apartment, I momentarily froze as I noticed a man in the hallway. He was standing at the apartment next to mine with nothing on but his boxer shorts, knocking. Once I got past the initial shock of this half-naked man standing in my hallway, I noticed that his boxer shorts had little golf clubs on them.

You can tell a lot about a man by his boxer shorts.

One color, typically some shade of blue, means they haven’t got the time to really bother with something as foolish and arbitrary as picking out boxer shorts. He is a minimalist and is typically easy-going. A man who goes for something a little more creative, let’s say gingham check or a stripe, has a little more vanity, is worried about who is going to be in the position of seeing his boxers and wonders what they’ll think when they do. This guy also uses some form product in his hair, and spends more time than he should getting ready.

And golf-club-boxer-guy, well, he likes to be defined. He probably has his initials monogrammed on some of his shirts and maybe towels. He has a tennis racquet key chain, a Notre Dame sweatshirt and a Dave Matthews Band bumper sticker. He likes everyone he meets to know what he likes, where he came from, and who he is.

So golf club boxer guy smiles at me, embarrassed (aren't we both) as he continues knocking on the door that he appears to be locked out of. I smile politely, go about the business of locking my own door and walking to the elevator try to hold back the laughter bubbling up in my chest.

I know he’s not locked outside of his own apartment because there are only three other apartments on my floor, all of whom I know, and all of which he doesn’t live in.

There is the old woman across the hall with the mounting pile of delivered issues of the Times outside her door, making me wonder whether or not she’s actually still alive. There’s the other woman at the other end of the hallway who is probably in her mid-to-late-forties with jet black hair and pale skin, and whose wardrobe was bought in the early 80’s and hasn’t been updated since.

And the other apartment, the one next to mine is the one that is occupied by two young girls. They are college-aged and blast their Kelly Clarkson so loud that I can hear through the walls as I’m trying to fall asleep, and they pre-game with friends in the hallway on Saturday nights with cheap bottles of pinot noir.

This is the door Boxer Man is standing outside of. I wonder how he got into this predicament, how long he’s been standing out here knocking, and what he’s going to do if no one lets him in. I also wonder what happened last night.

All I know is that it somehow included bars, booze and women, and that he probably had better times in mind at the time he started out last night, than the time he’s having right now.

Oh, and I also know that he likes golf.