1. Even as a young boy the huge cups swinging on the clothesline fascinated
me.
Miss Greenberg was the nicest lady on the block. Zaftig and kind, hers
was the best door to knock on for Halloween. She always saved a full-sized
Milky Way just for me.
My Dad said to me in private, “she reminds me of a ‘57 Cadillac.”
I thought her a jolly, friendly and kind woman not worthy of the brunt of
a joke.
Her bra went out like clockwork at 2 pm each day. You could set your
watch by it.
It was not a well to do neighborhood so I imagined that she only had the
two bras, which she alternated between washings. We were all poor but no one
was dirty. All of our clothes were worn and faded but the bra was always
gleaming evidence of the care given by personal attention. No machine-washing
for this vital accoutrement.
It was a metaphor for life, something of value that served an important
purpose but had the mystique that would grab and hold on to a young boy’s
attention.
I fantasized about the day I would somehow be given permission to see
one up close. I shaded my eyes and carefully observed the enigma, the frilly lace
top and double clip in the back. The dangling straps that made me think of my
fingers making the OK sign.
I studied and strategized the garment devising the most efficient way to
unhook and peel away my gift-wrap to reveal the elusive and mysterious Bonnie
and Clyde.
The bra gave me hope. It taught me if I worked hard enough and was
good I would be rewarded. It was my beacon illuminating my way through
puberty into manhood. The dependable symbol that illustrated if you cared for
something it will remain as beautiful as the first day you ever saw it.
It was very windy that Friday, and there was no bra on the line. I
wondered if Miss Greenberg was ill.
I looked down from my second story widow and saw the bra on the
ground tumbling in the breeze to rest near a puddle of mud. I dashed down the
stairs to confront the teenagers playing with it. They were using it as a slingshot
and mimicking old ladies donning it as a babushka. They ripped it apart. They

2. had no idea of its importance. The feeling of reverence it gave me.
The bra was torn to shreds. I went and gathered the pieces and had no idea
what should be done. If I returned it, it might have seemed as if I were the Lil
perv downstairs.
I threw it in the garbage pail, but before I put the lid on sealing it’s fate, it
spoke to me. The tiny label said 44 D under-wire Chantel 3281. I ripped it off. I
knew I couldn’t remember all of that. I ran upstairs and smashed my piggy bank.
I counted $23.89 in change. Would that be enough? I took the tag and a jingly
paper bag full of my booty to the Mason lingerie store on the corner of Pure and
Benevolent. I concocted a story that it was my Mom’s birthday and she had seen
the bra in a magazine. The big question, how much will one cost?
“Well Sir”, the young lady said, “this bra is thirty-five dollars plus tax.”
My heart sunk.
“How much do you have?”
“23.89,” I sheepishly admitted.
“You are quite lucky sir, we are having a sale just for this one day and the
price with tax is 23.79 that gives you a dime for bubble gum. Would you
like it gift-wrapped sir?”
“Yes Maim.” I liked being called sir.
I got my gum and snuck back into the house to see Miss Greenberg
staring blankly out the window at the empty close line. It was her turn for trick
or treat. I left the pretty pink box at her door, rang her bell and ran away.
The next afternoon at 2pm a brand new Chantel 3281 was swinging in the
breeze.