Adventures of the Center Ridge Bra

Once upon a time, on the zippered edge where two cities meet, there was a bra. 

It was a bra of unremarkable color - darker than beige but lighter than mocha - whose cups stood proud if lonesome.

It was a bra of indeterminate size - bigger than an A cup but smaller than Milwaukee.

It was a bra with a story. 

*Actual bra not pictured

One May afternoon this bra suddenly found itself lounging in the westbound lane of Center Ridge Road, not far from a Taco Bell restaurant. Its hook-side pointed to one zip code; its eye-side, another. It was out of place in so many ways.

But how did it get there? 

Did it take flight from atop a load of laundry traveling in a cracked plastic hamper in the back seat of a 1998 Toyota Corolla, soaring through a rolled-down window to exciting lands unknown? 

Had it been hastily stuffed into the cup holder of a late-model Mercedes during a moment of stolen passion, after which incriminating evidence had to be hastily discarded?

Was it torn from the torso of a middle-aged woman leaving the Taco Bell drive-thru who was tired of her dead-end job, tired of McDonald's nuggets, and tired of the patriarchy holding her back with underwire and cotton? 

The bra answered no questions. It stared silently at the cloudy sky.

The following afternoon, the bra had curiously relocated. No longer reclining in the asphalt street, it now sat askew on the apron of the Taco Bell entrance, in a spread of unforgiving gravel.

How and why had it moved?

Had this bastion of femininity lost a street fight, perhaps relinquishing its turf to a stained t-shirt? Did a turkey vulture mistake it for a meal of carrion and try to carry it off, only to drop it with disappointment? Had it tried desperately to hitch a ride by grabbing a car tire and holding on for dear life, only to be dragged then left for dead?

Again, the bra refused to give up its secrets. 

The following day it disappeared, as quietly as it had arrived. There was no fanfare and no explanation. Perhaps no one noticed but me. My heart dropped a little to gaze upon the spot where it had lain, now empty. I had begun looking for it each day when I passed by. I imagined the bra had seen things it would like to discuss, and my ears were ready.

Once again, I wondered what had happened.

Was it washed away in a sudden downpour from an angry sky? Was a skinny high school employee at Taco Bell forced to fetch it out of the road, darting between cars and judgmental stares? Did an underpaid city worker pinch it with two fingers and drop it off at some heretofore unknown lost and found at the police department? Did the bra's original owner reclaim it and her societal oppression? 

We may never know.

Then, two days later, a re-emergence as mysterious as faith. I spotted its flesh-toned foam cups standing at attention from the grassy stretch between the road and Taco Bell. Its elastic band, once flat as the Mississippi, now curled into a ball as if ashamed. One cup looked seemed to have been crushed inward with a punch. It was battered, but refused to go quietly into that good night.

I admired its resilience. Who else but a bra - that symbol of modesty, liberation, and oppression - could face the stench of exhaust, the threat of lawnmower, the pain of being ignored night and day, and still persist? 

I wanted to know its story. The adventures its seen, the scars it bears, what it dreams of at night under the naked stars. What would this bra say, if it could talk? 

It vanished once again, only to re-appear a few days later in the grass on the opposite side of the Taco Bell driveway. My heart leapt for joy at spotting it once more. But where had it gone for such a brief time?

Was it vacationing at Lake Erie incognito, pretending to be a bikini top, snickering at all the people it had fooled? Had it been gently cupping food for a starving stray dog with sad brown eyes? Was it staring forlornly into dingy washateria windows, searching for its matching panties long since missing? 

The bra is still there, even now, watching over Center Ridge Road from the grass, still refusing to explain itself. A paragon of silence in elasthane and lace.