by L. Tucker

I’m walking down Seventh Avenue maybe five years ago. I’ve always got time to kill, between leaving work at 5:30 and writer’s group at 8 p.m. 

June is a nice time to explore the neighborhood. I decide to do some window-shopping.

I’m a couple of blocks from the Dance Studio on Union Street where we usually meet. But we’re not meeting there tonight because of the heat. Instead we’re meeting at air conditioned Ozzie’s on Lincoln Place. I’m enjoying the walk, but something doesn’t feel right.

Something around the hip area.

What panties did I put on this morning? Then I realize the danger I am in.  They’re the Gap panties that look deceptively brand new, the ones with the stretched out elastic.

I wonder if I can get to the Dance Studio without my underwear falling off. I’ve got two and a half blocks to go. My long, black skirt has a very high slit in the back. Not good.

I try walking fast, carefully. But it doesn’t stop the ribbon slide down my thighs.

I can’t just let my underwear fall down right on Seventh Avenue. I go slow trying to balance speed and agility. Finally I make the turn onto Union. My underwear is just above my knees as I
scoot as quickly as I can to 808 Union, where I ring the bell, go upstairs to the Dance Studio and adjust
my underwear as much as I can in a semi-private place. I tightly run into the bathroom and remove my panties.
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Quietly
and murmuring pleasantries, I leave the Dance Studio deciding to go
straight to Ozzie’s, so as not to get into any more trouble. Just a few steps away, I discover a $5 dollar bill wadded up and a little torn on the ground. Today is my lucky day. I  order a latte.

At writer’s group, we eat cake and drink coffee as we read our work. Toward the end, I feel a  distinct rumbling in my stomach. "Do you want us to walk you to the subway?" Louise asks. "No thanks," I say, hurrying them off. I need to use the ladies room before going back to the city.

It’s a unisex one. It could be cleaner but isn’t the worst I’ve seen. I reach for the toilet tissue – tissue, I discover. There is one square. Damn. Now I wish I hadn’t sent Louise off. I’m checking my bag for any kind of tissue. Naturally there’s nothing.  I
use every inch of that square as efficiently as I can and I must say
that I’m actually pretty proud of what I was able to do with that
square.

In
the attempt not to tempt fate any more than I have to, I decide against the $1.50  subway ride home, opting instead for an expensive cab.

I think about writing a letter to the Gap. I mean, I like their jean jackets and all, but can they please make a decent pair of panties: the kind with waistbands that last as long as the panties themselves.