Useful Boobies

I got an interesting phone call yesterday. At about three o'clock in the afternoon, my cell phone rang. I didn't recognize the caller's number, but it was local, and I had a few things posted on Craigslist recently so I thought maybe it was someone calling on the TV hutch I had for sale.

“Hello?” I said.

“Hello is this Carrie?” an old woman's voice replied.

“Yes,” I said.

“Carrie Davis with Hanger?” she inquired.

“Yes it is,” I said. “Who is this please?”

“Well,” she started, “My name is Bessie and I got your phone number from someone at Hanger. They said I should call you with my question.”

Normally, my coworkers in the office do not give out my cell phone number without first letting me know that someone had asked for it. I was surprised when she said she'd been given my number, so I went on to inquire further.

“OK, great,” I said. “Um, who was it that you said suggested you call me with your question?” I asked.

“Well, he said he was your brother-in-law or former brother-in-law or something,” she explained.

This threw me. My prosthetists is a good friend of mine, as are all of the members of the office staff here in town, and I couldn't figure out how she could possibly confuse members of our office staff with members of my family, or vice versa. I thought about my former brothers-in-law and wondered if maybe one of them had given Ms. Bessie my number. That didn’t make sense, either.

“Hmmmm,” I said. “This is quite a mystery. At any rate Bessie, what can I do for you this afternoon?”

“I saw on the news that Hanger was accepting donations of prosthetic parts to be shipped overseas to assist with the terrible tragedy in Haiti,” she said. “I called Hanger to see if they would be interested in my prostheses and the gentleman I spoke with told me to call you.”

In my head I was wondering why they hadn't just given her the information instead of referring her to me. Maybe she was an upper limb patient, like me, and had other questions?

“That's wonderful,” I said. “We are accepting donations of prostheses and they will all be used for a very good cause.”

“Well, I wasn't sure if you'd be interested in my prostheses,” she said “because they are breast prostheses. They are all different shapes and sizes and I have four of them. You know, some years I was bigger than others and my weight kind of went up and down, so we needed to make bigger and smaller breasts year after year to keep up with my good one. Anyway I have four left breasts and I'd like to donate them if you think that they could use them.”

While I doubt that there are many women in Haiti who lost left breasts in the earthquake, I thought her gesture was very sweet and genuine. She had been stockpiling these prosthetic left breasts, waiting for something useful to do with them; something charitable and for the good of women missing various sizes of left breasts. Yes. Very sweet, indeed,

“You know, I'm not sure about whether or not we're taking breast prostheses,” I said. “But, let me give you the number to our local office. You should talk to Jennifer or Shelley and they will know for sure whether or not we're accepting those.”

Suddenly, I realized who had given her my phone number. It was Scott, my boyfriend's brother, who had purchased our bar “Hangar 57” from us last year. To this day, when I meet someone new in town and they ask me where I work and I say “Hanger," they think I'm talking about the bar. I then take a few minutes to explain what Hanger Prosthetics is and that Hanger 57 is no longer ours; that it  now belongs to Scott, my pseudo-brother-in-law from my common law marriage to Tim.

Now, if you were to meet Scott, you would be shaking hands with a guy who embodies the word “country boy.” Scott was raised in Montana and grew up living off the land. Tim has told me many stories of enduring frigid winters along the creek in their humble home heated by a single burning fire and eating only what they could catch. They stood in line for government cheese, went into the woods as kids with guns to hunt for food that would sustain them for the season, snuck booze and smokes from their folks, and drove cars down winding gravel roads for miles and miles all when they were 12 years old or younger.

To say they grew up “hillbilly” is an understatement, but it’s also what endears me to them. It’s like a survival story that I sometimes wish was my own, as I’ve completely romanticized the idea of living along Rock Creek, raising hens and growing a beautiful and bountiful vegetable garden, then canning my crops for the long winter ahead. “Yeah,” says Tim sarcastically. “It was just like that.”

I love their backwoods Montucky tales though, and every time I see Scott I see the “Montana Boy” in him, along with the bloodshot eyes, the sign of too many nights of whiskey and women and the giant wad of Copenhagen smashed into the his lower lip. He’s usually working off a hangover or working on a buzz, and I imagined how the conversation went when Bessie dialed Hanger 57 Sports Bar and Pizzeria yesterday morning, thinking it was Hanger Prosthetics, looking to make her donation.

“Hanger 57, this is Scott,” he’d say, rubbing his hand over his scratchy, stubbly beard and shaking off last night’s closing shift.

“Yes hello,” Bessie would say in her grand-motherly voice. “My name is Bessie and I recently saw the article about Hanger and the work you are doing and I wanted to call because I have four left breasts that I'd like to bring in.”

Without flinching and while rubbing the sleep from his eyes, Scott would say, “Four left boobies, huh?” He’d pick a piece of chewing tobacco from the tip of his tongue, inspect it and wipe it on his jeans. “Well Bessie, that sounds like a real good idea. I think you should bring those in pronto.”

“Would you have any use for them?” she would ask.

With his eyes closed and rubbing his forehead he’d say, “Yup. I think we can find somethin’. You just bring those four left titties in here and flop ‘em up on the counter an’ we’ll figure it all out, darlin'. Don’t matter if ya have one or none or hell, even four – we like all kinds here. We’ll see you an’ all yer mellons real soon, K?”

Though I know the conversation was probably nothing like that, I enjoy imagining this version versus the one they actually might have had which was undoubtably just confusing and awkward. Being a country boy means that Scott was also kissed with southern charm, and he has a very tender way with the ladies.  Terms of endearment like darlin', lil lady, and sweetheart roll off his tongue and I bet he made Bessie feel like a million bucks before their actual conversation was through.  I let Bessie in on my epiphany.

“You know what, Bessie?” I said with a chuckle. “By strange coincidence and circumstance, I just realized how you got my number. You spoke with my boyfriend’s brother who owns a sports bar called Hangar 57. He's the one you who gave you my number. Turns out, that even though you called the wrong Hanger, you got to the right place.”

“Well how about that?” she said. “I just want these old breasts to go to good use, you know?” she asked.

“Yep,” I said, looking down at my own that are now spilling out of my D cups; my right at least 1/3 larger than my left. “I know what you mean.”