Grannie Panties Are UnderRated

by Gayle Erickson

  Elle’s mom paid her twenty-five cents to do the laundry, and while her Holly Hobby sheets spun around in the water, she would use the quarter to buy a Coke out of the vending machine. She would then walk back to the park, sit on the grass across the street, and watch her classmates play. As they were pushed in the swings by their moms and accompanied down the slide by their dads, Elle would drink her Coke and wonder what it would be like to be one of them.

  And now here she was, some ten years later, in another hot, damp laundromat with the same bad memories and an entirely new set of problems.

  Elle had been in Hawaii for only a few weeks after being banished from Japan and was just now getting her life back together. For days, she had slept on the hard fake-leather seats in a boarding area of the airport, using the pillow and blanket she had taken from the plane. Elle had been paralyzed, incapable of action. The only thing tethering her to reality had been the throbbing ache of the cold sore on her lip and the nausea. Elle had been physically sick. Perhaps a result of withdrawal from nicotine. Or alcohol. Or cocaine. Or all of them. She had been desperate for a cigarette but wouldn’t allow herself one.

  Elle had debated calling Mitch but decided against it. Though anxious to talk to him, she had decided it was best to wait until she had sorted herself out more. If she called in her current condition, she would break down in tears and that would only worry Mitch.

  After three days, a security guard had finally approached Elle and in a polite, but firm tone, told her she was longer welcome at the airport. Forced to act, she had exchanged the yen Mike had stuffed into her hands for dollars. Grateful for his act of generosity, Elle had bought some deodorant and toothpaste in a gift shop and gone into a bathroom to wet her hair and brush her teeth with her finger. Satisfied that she was somewhat presentable, she had headed outside into the Hawaiian sun, unsure of what lay ahead.

  There had been a billboard advertising an English language school outside of the terminal. It reminded Elle that a former student of hers from English First had moved to Honolulu to open a school of his own. He was an incredibly nice man; maybe he could help her. Elle found a telephone booth and looked in the Yellow Pages for a list of English language schools. Although she hated to spend thirty-five cents on a wrong number, she started at the top of the list and phoned each school, hoping to find the one owned by her former student. Luckily, it had taken only four calls—$1.40—to find her friend’s school.

  He remembered Elle as a good teacher. Fortunately, he had been a student at the beginning of Elle’s tenure, before she had started drinking so heavily. When she had explained her situation, he immediately offered her a job, asking when she could start.

  Elle had then used the Yellow Pages again to find the address of a youth hostel. After taking a bus there and checking in, she walked to a nearby drug store. Johnny and Mike hadn’t done a very thorough job of packing her belongings, and she was missing several essential items. Mindful of her limited resources, Elle had bought only what she deemed absolutely necessary: an ill-fitting bra (there weren’t many choices), a pair of flats, and some makeup to cover the bruise on her cheek. Even though it had been against her better judgment to spend money frivolously, in honor of Mitch, Elle splurged on three pairs of red thong underwear. Hoping her condition and circumstances weren’t completely obvious, she had started work the very next day.

  This was Elle’s first trip to the laundromat. To save money, she had put it off for as long as she could, hand-washing her bra and underwear in a bathroom sink at the hostel. As Elle watched her clothes tumble in the machine, she craved a cigarette. Quitting smoking had been incredibly hard. Still, Elle was determined. She had changed. There was no going back to the mess she had become.

  Elle thought of Mitch. She missed her best friend terribly and longed to talk to him. She had tried calling him several times, but he never answered. Elle would try again later. She wanted to hear all about his evening with Kenji, to explain what had happened, to make sure he was okay.

  Ting, ting.

  The bells on the front door rang. Elle looked up. A young guy around her age walked in carrying a full pillowcase on top of his shoulder. He wore a gray T-shirt, athletic shorts, and sneakers. He was sweaty and seemed slightly out of breath. From his short, cropped haircut, Elle guessed he was in the Navy or the Marines. There were military guys everywhere in Oahu.

  He set his pillowcase down and pointed to the washing machine next to her. “Is this one taken?”

  Elle shook her head. “It’s all yours.”

  “Nice.” He dumped the contents of the pillowcase into the washer. “All the machines on base were being used, and my stuff is rank.” He smiled widely. “And besides, I wanted to go for a run, anyway.”

  Elle considered the stranger. He was good-looking in a very American way: the boy next door who plays baseball and is an Eagle Scout. Elle realized she missed this sort of guy and was grateful her cold sore had finally healed.

  Laundry started, he turned and jumped on top of the machine next to Elle, extending his hand out to hers. “I’m Win, by the way.”

  Elle turned to return his handshake, then remembered she wasn’t wearing a bra. The only one she had was currently being washed. As Elle shook his hand, she tucked her shoulders forward. She was wearing Mitch’s Ramones T-shirt, which was big and baggy on her, and she hoped it would conceal her bra-less boobs. What sort of freak walks around without a bra?

  “I’m Elle,” Here, Elle paused. She was going to do this right. She had learned. “Actually, my name is Michelle. I just go by Elle.”

  “Nice to meet you, Elle. My full name is Winston—no offense to my grandpa, but I’m sure you can understand why I wouldn’t want to go by that name.”

  Elle smiled. She was at ease with Win. He had bright, twinkling eyes and a relaxed, easy manner. He oozed authenticity. He was someone who shoveled his elderly neighbors’ sidewalks when it snowed and stopped to help stranded motorists change their flat tires. Win was the type of guy who would have volunteered to play Legos on the living room floor with Jimmy. He would have let her brother sit on his lap and drive around the block in his pick-up truck with him.

  Win looked at Elle’s T-shirt and lifted his chin. “The Ramones. Good band. ‘Blitzkrieg Bop’ is a killer tune.”

  Impressive. Win had good taste in music, too. Elle would have taken him as more of a country music kind of guy. She tucked her shoulders in even further, hoping he wouldn’t be able to tell she was missing a bra.

  Win sensed her unease and mistook its meaning. “Hey, look, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to bother you. I’ve been on a carrier with sixteen hundred dudes for the last six months—I’m a little rusty.” He smiled apologetically.

  “No, it’s fine.” Elle found his humility refreshing. “I get it. I’ve been living in Tokyo for the past few years. I’m a little rusty, myself.” Elle realized this was the truth. When was the last time she had flirted with an American guy? She couldn’t remember.

  “Tokyo? Cool. I was supposed to deploy to the Pacific, but Saddam Hussein had other plans, and we ended up in the Persian Gulf. What were you doing in Japan?”

  Win’s question flustered Elle. How should she answer? She didn’t want to lie. She had done enough of that already. “Um . . .”

  Win looked at Elle expectantly. She was taking too much time to answer. It was a simple question. Get it together, Elle. “Sorry, I seem to be having a hard time thinking in English . . . I was an English teacher.” That was the truth. Well, sort of.

  “Nice. What was that like?” Win leaned in closer to Elle.

  Again, she wasn’t sure how to respond. She hadn’t thought this through, explaining her life in Japan. It was too soon. Elle wanted to direct attention away from herself. “Um, it was fun. Not nearly as intense as being in the Gulf, that’s for sure. Are you in the Navy or the Marines?”

  So the conversation began, lasting longer than the time it took to wash and dry their clothes. Win made it easy for
Elle. He was warm, funny, and engaged. For the first time since leaving Tokyo, Elle was relaxed and having fun—a reprieve from what she had been through.

  Laundry done, Win stopped Elle at the door as she was leaving. “So, some of us guys are having a bonfire at the beach tonight. You should come—that is, if you don’t have any plans.”

  “Yeah, sure. That sounds fun.”

  Elle took down the details of the party and promised to meet Win later that night. As she walked back to the hostel, Elle was excited about the possibility of seeing him again.

  By the time she made it to the entrance of the hostel, though, Elle’s confidence had waned. Who was she kidding? She couldn’t meet Win. Sure, she had gotten away with not revealing too much of what had happened in Tokyo, but how long could that last? Win wasn’t the type of guy who would understand—let alone condone—someone who had behaved the way she had. To him, people who used drugs would be losers, like the stoners he had gone to high school with—guys who smoked a bowl before playing Black Ops in their basements with a bag of Cheetos, while he and his friends had the balls to go out and face the enemy themselves. The way real men did.

  No, it would never work. Win was cute and nice, but it was futile to expect anything could ever come of it. Why waste her time getting her hopes up?

  Elle walked through the door into the hostel, depressed about her situation. Blasting from the radio in the lobby, she heard Mariah Carey’s “I’ll Be There.” Elle stopped. Was this a sign? I’ll be there. Maybe she should go.

  Elle was confused. Her gut told her that she had no business meeting up with Win; he was out of her league. Still, this had to be a sign, and Elle had promised to pay more attention.

  She would go. She had to.

  Elle looked at her bag of clean clothes with the three pairs of red thong underwear in it. They had been worth the splurge. She would wear a pair to the beach that night—Mitch would be proud.

  Chapter Thirty

  Talking Heads: “This Must Be the Place”

  June 21, 1994

  7:17 p.m.

  It was a sublime Hawaiian summer night. Ukulele music was playing against the backdrop of a perfect sunset across the ocean. All around, families in matching Hawaiian-print shirts took pictures with their disposable cameras to properly document their dream trip to Waikiki Beach.

  Win had invited Elle to a luau dinner with his parents. He had missed them on his long tour away and had purchased tickets for them to come and visit. Elle was nervous; it was critical that she make a good impression on his family. Despite her fear that it would never work, Elle and Win had gotten serious rather quickly—she didn’t want to mess things up now.

  Elle liked the person she was around Win. He challenged her intellectually, and she remembered she was smart and had interesting opinions and ideas of her own. Together, they went for runs on the beach, made dinner in his officers’ quarters, watched movies, and talked until dawn. Elle was so comfortable with Win that she had even opened up to him about Jimmy’s death.

  Elle hadn’t provided all the details—like how she had taken her brother out of his crib, put the stuffed animals around him, and her pink blanket on top of him—but she had been honest about how devastating his death had been. Win had listened with perfect understanding and sympathy. He made it easy for Elle to live up to her vow to be a good person. She wanted to be better for herself and for him.

  Though Elle had worn her thong underwear on their first date, she and Win had not yet had sex. He had been a total gentleman, stopping after kissing and heavy petting. Elle was glad; being chaste gave her more time to erase all her wrongs. She would cleanse herself of all her mistakes and be pure again for Win.

  Yes, Elle would be the kind of girl Win deserved. The kind of girl he wanted to introduce to his parents. That’s why this night was so important.

  Win looked across the table to his mom, Sue. “You should order something to drink, Mom. You’re on vacation and it’s my treat.”

  It was clear Win adored Sue. Elle suspected she was the consummate mom, the one who proudly displayed macaroni artwork, taught Sunday school, and spent hours sewing her daughter’s first prom dress. She was the type of mom who protectively stuck her arm out in front of the child next to her when stopped at a red light in her station wagon.

  “Yes, dear. Get something.” Win’s dad, Winston Jr., whom everyone called W.M., seemed equally suited in his role of patriarch. He had kind, gentle eyes. The eyes of a dad who didn’t need to raise his voice when disciplining his children. His disappointment in them would be punishment enough.

  W.M. placed his arm encouragingly around his wife’s back and winked conspiratorially at Elle. “I just might get something tropical myself.”

  Elle felt like she had been placed in the middle of an episode of The Brady Bunch. The way the Martins spoke kindly to each other, sharing one silly anecdote after another, made them seem just like the sitcom family on TV. With her short ash-blonde hair and in her pantsuit, Sue even looked a little like Carol Brady. “And then mother got icing all over her face!” Cue laugh track.

  Indeed, the Martins laughed easily. Not the snarky laughter gained at the expense of others that Elle was accustomed to, but a laughter of sincere and uncomplicated happiness.

  Do people like this really exist?

  The Martins—a quintessential American family—were a first for Elle. Growing up, she had spent most nights alone with her radio, savoring every bite of the chocolate brownie dough she took out of her Swanson’s TV dinner before microwaving it. “Family dinners” came on the rare Sunday nights that Bobbie didn’t go out on a date. Even then, men were rarely in attendance.

  Sure, Bobbie dated, but her boyfriends came around almost exclusively late at night after the bar closed. Elle considered the parade of men who spent the night in their sad little apartment: the one who grew up in pre-Castro Cuba and channeled Jim Morrison with his messy hair and tight leather pants; the one who was a conspiracy theorist and believed in UFOs; and the one who broke it off with her mom by playing her the REO Speedwagon song “Time for Me to Fly” on their stereo which doubled as a TV stand. Elle barely spoke to any of them, but she deduced from the jackets left by the afghan on the couch that her mom was not alone in her room. A new jacket meant a new “friend” and there was a new Members Only or leather one every few weeks. Elle grew up accepting that men never stayed long. Least of all the ones who were only babies.

  So, while years at the bar and her work at the Big YAC had honed Elle’s ability to make small talk, sitting here with the Martins—the nicest, most welcoming family she could imagine—made Elle uncomfortable.

  She was out of her element and wished she could talk to Mitch. She still hadn’t been able to reach him despite numerous attempts. What was he doing right now, at this very moment? Was Mitch missing her as much as she was missing him? Elle hoped he was with Kenji. She pictured him at a table off to the side, observing her as he had at the Big YAC. What would he make of the Martins? Of Win? Would he approve?

  Sue clapped her hands in delight. “Oh, okay. I guess I am on vacation.” She turned to the waitress wearing a grass hula skirt. “I’ll try a piña colada.”

  W.M. motioned toward Elle. “What about you, young lady? Can we tempt you with a piña colada? Or how about one of those daiquiris?”

  True to her promise on the plane ride, Elle hadn’t had a drop of alcohol since leaving Tokyo. Even so, she considered ordering something now—a cocktail would certainly help ease her nervousness. And besides, a daiquiri wasn’t really a “drink,” was it?

  Elle looked at Win. He smiled broadly and winked at her in the same way his dad had. No, she wouldn’t drink. Staying sober was a key element in her plan for self-improvement. “Sure, I’ll have a strawberry daiquiri, but can you make it a virgin?” Elle turned toward W.M. and Sue, explaining, “Alcohol and I don’t mix too well.”

  Alcohol and I don’t mix too well. This was the version of the truth Elle had bec
ome comfortable with, and what she had told Win their first night together at the bonfire when he had offered her a beer. Win had accepted her explanation without hesitation. Would his parents?

  Elle hoped they wouldn’t disapprove, but if her relationship with Win was going to work, she had to be as forthcoming as possible. Elle saw no reason to divulge all her past, but she didn’t want to start with blatant mistruths. After so many lies in Japan, it felt strange to be honest, but good and necessary.

  “You know, that’s a great idea. Make mine a virgin, too.” Sue smiled at Elle. “Heaven knows I don’t need the calories!”

  That was it. No looks of confusion or disapproval. Elle didn’t drink. Okay. If she didn’t drink, neither would they. Elle shouldn’t have been surprised; Mike and Carol Brady weren’t the type to pass judgment.

  “So, tell us about your family, dear.” W.M. directed his attention toward Elle, leaning slightly forward over Sue.

  The question caught Elle off guard. Her family? She hadn’t given Bobbie much thought since her arrival in Hawaii. She had successfully locked away the devastating circumstances of her mom’s death to deal with when she was in a better place.

  What should I say?

  “Well, I was raised by a single mom . . .” Elle paused to gauge the Martins’ reactions. Neither of their faces registered any negative emotion, so she continued, “Her name was Roberta, but she hated that name and went by Bobbie. She . . . um . . .”

  Elle pictured Bobbie behind the bar, cigarette in one hand, laughing her deep, throaty laugh at something a customer said. She wanted to remember her mom this way, not lying mangled on the hard asphalt. Their relationship had been wrought with misunderstanding and disappointment, yet her Grandma Jean had been right. Bobbie was a good person. She didn’t deserve to die so young, in such a tragic and brutal way.