Incompetent Abroad: Losing the Panties

A pair of women’s panties has come into our possession, and the three of us agree as one that we must do something with them.  But what? Disposing of this intimate artifact would pose no problem for mature men. But the Morris Brothers still have some emotional growing to do.  

I would not want you to conclude from what I say here that panties have a habit of simply dropping into our lives, that we are, so to speak, a panties destination.  Far from it. We have seen years go by without the sudden appearance of even a single pair of unsolicited panties. (They have not always been good years, but we have managed.)  Here’s how we came by them. Last night, I volunteered to wash a load of our clothes in the ship’s laundry, never once suggesting the obvious fact that Roger and David feel they’re too good for such labor.  Anyway, I filled the washer, let it run its cycle and then put the clothes into the dryer. Somewhere along this via dolorosa of personal hygiene, I discovered the panties had insinuated themselves among our own items.  But by then I was back in our cabin, and the laundry room was closed for the night.

True, I could have taken the panties back the next day and left them—unless, of course, there were other people there, which was quite likely.  Would anyone believe I was returning them instead of preparing to rinse out my own private fantasy? Would you? Clearly I had no choice but to retain possession of the aforementioned unmentionables, ship’s gossip being what it is and all.

Armed with this perfectly serviceable rationale, I began soliciting opinions from my brothers on what we could do to turn these homeless panties into an instrument of levity.  Roger, who lacks the fraternity grounding in foolishness David and I have to draw on, thought it might be fun for David to put the panties in his luggage for his wife to discover when she unpacks for him at the end of the trip.  David thought it would not be fun.

David suggested I pull the old Cinderella ruse, going from door to door and inquiring if there was a bottom within that precisely fit the itinerant garment.  I countered with the proposal that he trot down to the Hermes store on Deck 3 and offer to swap the panties for the $355 scarf I had my eye on. As bargaining points, I told him he could mention that the underwear was freshly laundered and appeared to have the tensile strength of Kevlar.  Like the slug he is, he rolled over and went to sleep.

So here’s my plan, masterful in its simplicity.  I’m going to wait until just before the breakfast rush starts, after the crew has finished its cleanup rounds, and then drop the panties in the corner of an elevator.*  Who among this very proper crowd would dare even to look at them, much less bend to pick them up? Call me easy, but I find the prospect hilarious. 

Juvenile?  Of course. Poor taste?  Unquestionably. Beneath contempt?  Perhaps. But a stray pair of panties is a terrible thing to waste.

*  As it turned out, this is what we did—and the results were pretty much what we expected.   For a good hour, the panties lay untouched in the corner of the elevator as it went up and down.  Roger and I took turns standing outside by the elevator door and watched passengers make quick exits without looking back, as though they feared by doing so they might encourage the panties to follow them home.  Finally Roger brought David and me the sad news that the panties had vanished and that there wasn’t even a strip of yellow crime scene tape to indicate they ever existed. I swallowed hard but put on a brave face.  Adieu, you wandering briefs! You will always be a wedgie in our memories.