Free Pants: From Brad Pitt's Ass to Mine

When I first saw the torso of Brad Pitt in Thelma & Louise, I understood immediately how I could never measure up and become a movie star. Of course, there was also his hair. And then there was the face.

Part of my joy of living in Hollywood is I get to do production accounting. Oh sure, it’s glamorous. Vendors to pay. Quick Books Pro. Reconciliations. Filing. I have learned to trick the system into giving me very specific reports. Exporting to Excel gives me the tingle. I have done this for years. Luckily, it has devolved into weekly Wednesdays, only. For international companies.

I continue with my tale.

Every other Wednesday I work for a company that produces commercials for the Latin market. The Wednesdays in between, I work for a company that produces commercials for the Japanese market. You know how stars won’t be in American commercials, but they’ll appear in Japanese ones (Bill Murray in Lost in Translation). We have worked with Madonna, Guy Ritchie and Brad Pitt for years. It’s bizarre. I’ve never met any of them, but I cut checks to “their people.” I have never signed a confidentiality agreement, so I can tell you this: Brad Pitt gets a SAG contribution toward his Pension Plan (oh, about 10% of his full fee) for two days of work that is enough money to buy a brand new house, cash, in the Midwest.

The commercial that we usually shoot with Brad Pitt is for Edwin Jeans. He works a day or two, makes his 10 times the amount of a new house in the Midwest and moves on. These commercials in Japan are very successful.

Usually, when the shoot is over, there really isn’t much swag. (Though at my Latin production company, I’ve come home with cans of soda and Christmas lights.) But this year, for some reason, we were left with two enormous boxes of Edwin Jeans. These suckers are expensive. I was lounging about in the office in my Perry Ellis workout shorts and old sneakers. The executive producer was out today. I was planning a quick data entry afternoon followed by an escape to the gym. As I was leaving, the admin guy (little Japanese kid. Sweet, but very messy, let’s call him Nao, which is his name.) and I were saying goodbye when I noticed these two boxes for the first time. I asked him, “Are those Edwin Jeans?” I guessed the brand since I was punching in expenses for two hours for the Edwin Jeans job and what else, on earth, could they be? And Nao answered, “Yes. Take some.”

It was like odd Christmas in LA in August. At first I thought, “I will never fit into Brad Pitt’s size. I better try on a pair.”

I took the 33 X 33 jeans and zipped around the corner, dropped my Perry Ellis pig shorts and yanked up the Brad Pitt pants. And they fit. A bit snug. But not uncomfortable.
Could this be possible? Me in Brad’s jeans together at last? My ass a Brad Pitt ass?

I ransacked the boxes. “Are you sure I can take as many as I want?”
And Nao said, “Yeah. Sure. We got so many this year.”

Certainly, one would think Brad Pitt’s legs would be longer than mine. And his waist must be thinner, no?

Okay, the pants do bunch up a bit at my ankles. I’m really a 32. After Yoga. But there I was, tucking into his 33 waist jeans and they fit. I took eight pairs.

But something struck me as I was sifting through the box. Obviously, any rational person would realized there was no way Brad Pitt could have worn all these jeans during the shoot. There were just too many. Then, I saw a pair that had serious dirt marks on the knees. They could not have been factory made. It was real dirt. So I figured, “Brad must have worn this particular pair during the shoot.” The other peculiar thing about this particular pair: At the back, the waist was taken in about two inches and held together with two large safety pins. Sigh.