Lost Purple Thong, Responds to Name "Tootsie"

Owner distraught. Also chilly.

A pair of purple lace thongs turned up in my laundry the other day, neatly folded between the sheets and a half-dozen pair of crew socks.

If this was Woodstock and not New York City, the notice would already be up on the Facebook community page:

Purple Lace thong, Medium, gone missing at laundromat. Has never been away from home, except for one night with that creep in West Hurley, and probably frightened. Very affectionate, responds to the name, “Tootsie”.

There would, of course, be a picture of the thong clinging adorably to somebody’s ass. And within minutes of the posting, there would be a deluge of comments:

Have you contacted the Ulster County Missing Lingerie Department? They’re great at getting the word out.

What a pair of cuties!

Leave a frozen Margarita on the porch. If it’s in the area, it will come running.

Thongs contribute to the objectification of women and are a danger to wildlife. There is a young deer near Wittenberg Road with a pair of retro-style Wacoal panties stuck in his horns who has been unable to forage. People like you disgust me. You don’t deserve to get laid.

In Greenwich Village, we are more accepting and sophisticated. I took a photo of the panties on a silver platter, as I have always believed that in these matters, presentation counts. Then I went down to my neighborhood dry cleaner, where I discreetly and soberly handed the thong over to Danny, the owner.

Okay, I lied about that part.

A pair of purple thongs showing up in your laundry is a gift from the comedy gods. Not as hilarious as the time my friend Herb and I saw a double dildo in the street on Seventh Avenue, an episode I am proud to say I documented in the New York Times, where it will last till the end of time, but still pretty good.

Just the idea of a stranger’s thong turning up in the laundry is hilarious. That long skinny bit has been between the butt cheeks of somebody I don’t even know. And then it turns up fresh and laundered on my pillowcase. My head, her butt. I don’t even work that side of the street and nonetheless, the id reels.   

 

Where was I? Bringing the missing thong back to Danny the dry cleaner, which I did with a proud flourish.

Ever see the high school band majorettes whipping their banners around during the Macy’s Thanksgiving Day parade?

 It was like that. Though I admit that Danny, who commands an impressive nonverbal vocabulary, was a tough room to play that morning.

Sophisticated and Mature Joyce: Hey, Danny, look what turned up in my laundry!

Danny: Hmmmm. (Translation: Yeah? Well, it’s a laundry, stuff gets mixed up all the time, you wouldn’t believe the tasteless crap that comes through here. Don’t get me started on slogans on men’s boxers.)

Sophisticated Joyce: Some woman – I don’t want to be sexist, it’s the Village, it could be a guy, it could be someone in transit – she, he, they are probably very upset. They’re probably over at the greenmarket, buying asparagus Commando. The weather’s been warm, but it’s November, how long will that last? (Pointing to a rod over the counter, sometimes used for shirts.) You could put them up there, Danny, over the counter where anybody coming in would see them.

Danny: Hmmmm. (Translation: Yeah, that’s gonna happen.)

Sophisticated Joyce:  Or better, yet, put them in the window with a sign: Is this your tasteless, sleazy thong, which we thought went out with Victoria’s Secret? Come and get it. No judgment.  I could write it for you. It would be great for business. You’d be a cleaner who cared about the community.

Danny: Hmmmmm. (Joyce, for Christ’s sake, will you get out of here? I have a business to run.)

I am a sensitive person. I was a reporter for years, I know when someone wants to get rid of me and how to ignore it.

But I happen to have a life, too. I am getting ready to publish my novel, which this is not the place or time to discuss. (“The Satyr in Bungalow D”, a comic novel set in a fading resort town in the Catskills in the early ‘60s, Pub. date: Memorial Day.)

Anyway, I had by then figured out what happened with the underwear:

It was love. That purple thong saw my rough and ready crew socks — I’m thinking it was the sturdy charcoal grey — and though thong and socks were from two different loads and this relationship could never be, that purple thong wanted those socks with every fiber of her being and flung herself into my laundry. It got a little rough there in the industrial wash, but the thong has to admit, she liked it. So when it came time to hit the dryer, she stuck around, only to be shut down.

“We had some fun, it’s over,” the brutish sock said.

This is a long shot — my readership is not what it was when I worked for Sulzberger, the great and terrible. But if you’re missing a pair of purple lace thongs, go to Rainbow Cleaners, on 15th Street, between Fifth and Sixth, and ask for Danny.

Otherwise, that photo goes up on a milk carton.