Just a week into my sophomore year of college and I was already crushing out so hard on this dude who lived down the hall from me in my dorm. He was a freshman, tall, large, fit, on the rowing team, VERY hairy (think: back hair—I cringe now) and probably about the manliest dude I’ve ever found myself lusting after. His name was Dave, but there were already so many other Daves in my friend circle that when referencing him, I took to simply calling him Hall Dave.
One night, he invited me over to watch a movie. The movie he had in mind was Meet the Feebles.
For the uninitiated, Meet the Feebles is this horrifying film in which the lovable muppets of your youth engage in graphic acts of sex and violence, all in the noble name of cult black humor. I was not amused. It was boy stuff, but I endured it. I endured it because I wanted his boy stuff. I wanted to makeout with Hall Dave. I was going to make this happen.
Sadly, as it turns out, and against all odds, a movie that revolves around puppets watching pornography did not get two college students in the mood. I left, awkwardly, a few hours later, doing a (short) walk of shame (after all, he only lived about 10 doors away from me), sans the intentioned shame.
A few days passed. Nothing. Maybe I had blown it. Oh well.
On a particularly crisp fall morning, I woke up, threw on clothes and scrambled to class, late, as usual. On the way out the door, I grabbed my bike, lugged it down a few flights of stairs and took off for a building across campus.
Everything was going fine until I reached The Diag, which is where it became difficult to pedal. My bike instantly froze up—I wasn’t able to move at all. Something was wrong.
I do NOT have time for this, I thought, as I dismounted and leaned over my gears to try to see what the problem was.
To my horror, I saw a bra wrapped completely around one of the cogs.
Now double that horror; I looked up briefly and, out of the corner of my eye, saw that Hall Dave was walking briskly toward me.
Oh, God, I thought. Stay cool, Pensiero. Don’t make eye contact. Maybe he won’t notice you.
“Oh, hey,” he said, with a half-cocked smile on his face. “You having some trouble?”
“Uh, yeah…” I replied. “It’s just that…well…I have a bra stuck in my bicycle.”
“Uhm…weird,” he said. “Can I…uh…help you with that?”
“Uhhh, no…no…I don’t think so. It’s really ok.”
He bent down and began to pull at the soiled bra, it’s former white sheen greatly marred by dirt and bicycle grease.
“Jeez, it’s really stuck in there,” he said. “Any idea how that happened?”
“Yeah, heh heh, it sure is…nope, no idea.”
“Is it YOUR bra…or what?” he pried.
Or what?! OR WHAT!?! It certainly looked like my bra. Last week we were watching a movie in his room and now here we were desperately trying to dislodge what appeared to be yesterday’s brassiere from the machinery of my bike. How could this be happening!?!?
“I’m not sure…but yeah, yeah I think it is,” I responded.
After about three and a half minutes of tugging, twisting and untangling, he finally loosened the thing. He stood up and sheepishly handed it back to me.
“Uhm…what are you going to do with that?” he asked.
“I don’t know. I’ll figure it out. Thanks for all your…help,” I said, trying to be at once cordial and obvious about my desire to just get this strange ordeal over with.
“No problem. Uh, see you later.” He half-waved and continued to walk in his original direction.
Still holding my bike, with throngs of hurried co-eds all around me, I pivoted to throw the bra as far away as I could. It landed, in a mysterious yet salacious position, atop a nearby shrub. Some grounds crew member was going to have a good story to tell in the afternoon.
There were a million questions running through my head. Whose bra was it? Mine? It certainly looked like mine—but how had it gotten stuck in the gears of my bike? How was I ever going to face Hall Dave again, let alone makeout with him?
Unfortunately, I had neither the answers to these questions nor the time to ponder them further. After all, I had a class to get to.