One morning in Brooklyn, Adam Grossetti lost his pants. The fliers he posted, seeking the public's assistance in the search for his trousers, included a brief description of the pants and of the circumstances in which he lost them. What may have been unclear, to those who failed to read the fliers carefully, was that Grossetti was not wearing the pants at the time of their disappearance. He is an actor and a playwright, not an exhibitionist. That morning, Grossetti, 38, was on his way from his apartment in Carroll Gardens to an audition for a television commercial in Manhattan. They were looking for an Australian, and Grossetti is one, born and raised. His favorite suit was on a hanger, draped with one of those plastic bags from the dry cleaner's that are open at the bottom: a three-button Valentino suit, light gray with faint, thin pinstripes. It was made in Italy, purchased at Century 21. He could recall the price of the suit -- about $700, courtesy of his wife -- but not the size of the pants. 'Thirty-three, 34, I think,' he said, tapping his stomach. Rather than wear the suit to the audition, and risk getting it sweaty, Grossetti had decided to carry it with him and change at a friend's place when he got out of the subway. He left his Union Street apartment, holding the suit over his shoulder, in that relaxed and confident manner of relaxed and confident men: One of his one-act plays was going on tour in Tasmania. When Grossetti took the suit out at his friend's apartment, the pants were gone. They were his wedding pants, the suit pants he had worn in March when he and his wife, Chloe Walker, 36, were married in Central Park, on the Bow Bridge. It was 10:30 a.m. on July 27 when he realized he had lost his pants. All across the city, people were losing the things they carried: canes and cameras and car keys. Random, seemingly mundane stuff -- unless, of course, it was yours. At the Metropolitan Museum of Art, three pairs of glasses, three school ID cards, a hotel card key, a sweater, an eyeglass case and an iPod were found and turned in that day. Someone lost a 16-gigabyte flash drive on a Staten Island bus and offered a reward for it on Craigslist. People have lost their pants in Brooklyn, their passports at Madison Square Garden. And there was the time a few years ago at the Met, home to more than 2 million works of art, when a set of false teeth was discovered. An elderly man approached security later that day and explained that he had lost his teeth. He was handed the dentures. He put them in his mouth, chomped a few times and then handed them back. 'Nope,' he said, 'these are not mine.' Grossetti went to the audition, wearing gray slacks instead of the missing pants, and then retraced his steps when he returned to Brooklyn. 'I thought it's probably on the bloody bed, you know,' he said. 'So I look there, and it's not there. And everywhere I look, the sort of panic-o-meter is starting to just tweak up a bit.' So he wrote the fliers, grabbed some tape and went out again. The pants had been folded over the hanger, pinched down by a bracket and covered by the shirt and the jacket. He was certain the pants had slipped out as he walked from his apartment to the Carroll Street subway station, a route of three and a half blocks. Grossetti put his cell phone number on the fliers, but no one called. The next day, he saw a family standing around one of his fliers. They were laughing out loud. When they walked away, he tore it down. 'I've never owned a really expensive piece of clothing, but that had nothing to do with it,' he said. 'It had something to do with it, but it was not what cost the most. The cost was an emotional cost. Every time I wore the suit I was connected to that moment of dancing with my beautiful partner in Central Park.' The part in the commercial went to someone else. The pants have not turned up. New York: the city of missing teeth and dashed hopes. The other day, walking by the 76th Precinct station house, he approached a police officer preparing to step into a patrol car and inquired about his lost pants. 'He just looked at me,' Grossetti said, 'and shook his head.' 