I walked in the door, took one look at her face, and knew it was bad. Real bad. Real, real, real bad.
“What are you gonna been doing on my t-shirts drawer?”
“I can explain.”
“Lookit at the this one!” She held up two t-shirts, clean ones, that had been unceremoniously lying on the floor. “And what you gonna say about the that one?” She snatched up another.
“Look, honey, what happened is…”
“I don’ wanna hear no ‘This honey happened is’ poop talk! What are you gonna be saying on the this one? Huh?” Now she had moved to the shorts drawer, and there, spilling out of the drawer and onto the carpet were six or seven pairs of shorts.
“I was finishing up at court, see, and…”
“You ain’t gonna do no up court finishing and come home and dump out onna my shirts and shorts! You ain’t gonna touch on my shirts and shorts! You been marrying on me twenty-five years and you don’ never gone in my clothes drawers!”
“Please calm down! There’s no need to shout.”
There was actually a pretty good reason to shout
“I’m gonna tell you onna shouting! What is THIS? You gonna tell me on THIS? What’s onna THIS?” Now she had moved to the panty drawer. The holy, untouchable, perfectly folded, immaculately organized panty drawer was now the focus of my attention. “What’s a gonna been happening on THIS?”
“It does kind of look like a tornado went through it,” I admitted.
“I’m gonna tell on you about some tornado!” she shouted. “That’s a my panties drawer! Why you goin into my panties drawer? You got no business in my panties drawer! I ever gone into your biker tool box with the wrenchy things you don’ can’t use right and always bustin stuff so you take it to a bike shop for fixing and cost a lotta money? I ever mess with that, no I don’t! Why you messin my panties?”
While she caught her breath to get ready for another round of hollering, I took my chance to explain. “Well, what happened is, Brad and Tink had a bike wreck and got hauled off to the hospital in an ambulance. I was gonna go see if they needed anything.”
“What’s a Bradandtink?”
“Brad and Tink. Tinkerbell. They’re biker friends.”
“Ohhhh,” she rolled her eyes. “Itsa dumb biker story again time getting all run over on the car.”
“No, no car. So I’m on the way to the hospital and G3 calls and says ‘Can you get some clothes for Tink?’ and I say ‘Sure.'”
“This Tinks person’s a girl or a boy?”
“Tink is a girl.”
Mrs. WM’s eyes narrowed, which looked pretty gnarly because they’re already pretty narrow. “How come you a boy gettin’ clothes on a girl? How come she ain’t wearin’ on her own clothes?”
“She was, but they cut ’em off in the ER because she was concussed and shredded with road rash.”
“Why it matters she’s a cussin’?”
“Concussion. Knocked out. Blam-o to the head. So I went to get her a change of clothes so when she got discharged she’d have something to wear. Simple.”
Mrs. WM looked at me. Her eyes widened as it hit her. The color drained from her face.
“Aw fuck,” I thought. “Here it comes.”
Here it did indeed come
She wasn’t angry anymore. She was in a panic. “You gonna gave on my panties to the girl?”
“Now, before you get all excited, honey…”
“Please don’t tell me you gonna gave on my panties to the girl. Please don’ tell me onna that. Please don’ on the Jesus.”
“Honey, I went through the drawer and took out a pair at the bottom. They’re like, practically brand new. They were so clean and sparkly I had to put on my sunglasses when I held ’em in the light.” That part was actually true. Mrs. WM had a thing about panties being clean enough to eat off of. So to speak.
“What’s a color?”
I could tell she was racing through her inventory. “They were kind of gray. Don’t worry, honey. I’d never give her those big granny things or the skinny little thong-dealie with the fadeaway in the center.”
The mental picture clicked. “They were on a kind of gray with a little pattern speckle, isn’t they?”
“Yep. That’s the pair.”
“I don’t ever wore that hardly once or twice.”
“See? I checked, honey. They was clean enough to run up a flagpole, or plop out on the desk at a job interview. You’re golden. She might not have even worn ’em.”
Mrs. WM cracked a sharp glance. “What kina girl ain’t wearing on underwears?”
“Biker chicks. They’re all commando half the time anyway. Trust me.” Oop, I thought. Too heavy on that last one.
“How you gonna know onna biker girls underpants or not?”
“Uh, well, you can kind of see there’s no pantyline when you’re riding behind them.”
“How come you ridin onna girl’s behind? You always tellin’ me about you’re going on the fast and can’t no one stay on your behind. Now you’re tellin’ me about a girls underwear panties line ridin’ on her behind?”
“Here, honey,” I said. “Let me help you pick this stuff up.”
She glowered. “You thinkin’ about touching on my panties again and we’re gonna have to be another big problems.”
“Yes, dear,” I said, and slowly backed away.