AllFreeNovel
Share Us
My addiction: buying underwear on eBay. It started innocently enough. I was preparing to go away to college, and when I went through the dresser to pack undergarments, I noticed they were all pretty ratty. I’d sort of let myself go those last few months. I couldn’t bear the thought of going into an actual store and having to make a choice.
I grabbed my laptop and browsed. The adrenaline kicked in immediately, and by the time I’d made my choices, my father’s credit card was smoking.
“Wait. Tell me this again. You bought underwear on that auction site?”
My father said this to me at the dinner table, with the rest of the family watching and taking in every word.
“I did, Dad, but they’re not used. They’re new, with tags.”
My sister and brother nearly choked on their food, laughing. My mother even gave in and had a few laughs at my expense. I didn’t share with them that clicking on that buy button satisfied an inner longing. It filled a long-empty void, and immediately I was addicted.
Six years later, I’m still at it.
There was no more space to store bras and underpants and camisoles in my tiny space or my roommates’ rooms. I had bought all I could for myself. I’d switched to buying underwear for friends and family, mystifying them, and embarrassing a few. And it wasn’t just pretty things; I bought roommate Brian boxers and T-shirts, and for my brother and father and cousins, too.
Here’s the scenario. On my day off, I’d take bags stuffed to overflowing—not gift bags either, but grocery bags printed with Walmart, A&P, and Kroger—and hand them out.
“What’s this?” my Aunt Rita said, pointing to a bag with fabric spilling out of the top.
“Look,” I answered, holding up the two-inch-wide straps of a 46 DD in leopard print. “I thought of you.”
Pulling out more colorful brasseries and ladies’ 2X underpants, my mother Lillian, who was looking on, sputtered, barking out a laugh. “Oh, Jesus Lord, Bella is at it again. I thought you had that under control!”
“I do. I don’t buy them for myself.”
“I wondered why she asked me what size I took,” Aunt Rita said. “I thought she was making fun of me.”
Everyone’s gaze went right to Aunt Rita’s gigantic boobs.
It was inappropriate, and my addiction was far from under control. When my family and friends had enough bras and panties to last their lifetime, I started looking for items to take the homeless shelter nearby, buying whole lots of cotton underpants of every size—seconds and dye errors and other mistakes in production that didn’t impair their use but commanded a ridiculously low price.
Looking at countries of origin, I thought of the tiny women and children working in factories with horrid conditions in the Philippines and Bangladesh at the mercy of their bosses. It made me sick. Buying well-known brands definitely didn’t mean the garments weren’t made using child labor. I became more selective about the purchases I made, buying from the twelve or so brands I knew for certain were made in the USA.
I took an enormous trash bag of underwear into the shelter. The managers were so grateful, elaborating on how appreciative the residents would be. The second time I went, they simply said thank you. The third time, the receptionist said they were all set for underpants for a while.
The joy of buying was taking a hit. And then I met Jill Worth. Rocko had dated her for a while, a caring, generous woman who worked for the City of Detroit shelter systems, which housed younger women and girls.
“She’s got these clients who came in with the shirts on their backs. Can I hook you up?”
“Yes! Please.”
From then on, my obsession became buying underwear for this underserved group of young women.
During the dinner hour in the evening, business at the car wash slows down, so I was unfortunately free to peruse the sales. I was just about to buy a package of three Vanity Fair low-riser boy shorts for moi when I heard the squealing of brakes.
There’s a gas station attached to the car wash, but it’s entirely self-serve. I watched as though it were happening in slow motion as a big Econoline van careened into a gas pump line and smashed head on into an Acura. The driver of the Acura had just filled up and was in the car wearing his seatbelt. The customer at the pump on the other side of the aisle had been just about to fill up when the crash startled her, and before she let go of the hose, enough gas had come out of the nozzle that a spark, possibly from the impact of the van, caused everything to go up in flames.
I could see from the kiosk that the driver of the Acura had his eyes closed. We have glass breakers all over the place at the car wash, and on instinct, I grabbed one off my desk before I ran outside.
Others had come to the driver’s aid but could not get his door open. The flames licked under his car. I squeezed into the crowd at his door and broke the window, hoping the glass didn’t cut the driver. I got the door open, pushed the air bag away, and reached in. I tried to push the release button on his seatbelt. Other arms were squeezing by me, trying to get at it, and then I remembered the belt cutter on the window breaker. I leaned inside the car and got the waist belt cut and then the shoulder strap.
Another customer helped me pull the driver away from the car that was nearly engulfed in flames and lay him on the pavement.
“Did anyone call 911?” I called out. “There’s a fire extinguisher right behind that pump.”
I was worried about injuries from the crash and remembered ABC from nursing school. Airway, breathing, circulation.
He was breathing, thank God. I felt his neck for a pulse, and that was pounding away.
