There's an old lady in my building, and I remind her of her dear husband, Harvey. Harvey's been plant food for a good fifteen years now, but she likes to tell me how much I look like him. "You could be brothers," she's fond of saying. She's shown me pictures, but I don't see the resemblance. Then again, the pictures she shows me are those old time photographs that make you think that the world was in black and white before the early 60s, and that men always wore hats and ties wherever they went. I can almost see the photographer sticking his head under a black blanket before he pushed the flash button, releasing a puff of smoke. Maybe Harvey and I share some DNA. Who knows?
Anyway, due to my resemblance to her dearly departed, actual or imagined, I have taken over some of ol' Harvey's former duties on and off for the past few years. Now if you're a sick, immature bastard like I am, you're thinking, "He's banging the old lady?" No. I am not banging Vivian Eisenberg, age 77....but on Sunday afternoon I came about as close to it as I'd like to ever come. I usually just change a light bulb or two, get something for her off a shelf she can't reach, or sometimes I run to the post office for her to get stamps for her "correspondence." The fact that she refers to letter writing as "correspondence" amuses me enough that I go get her the stamps when she asks.
When Viv called me on Sunday afternoon to come over and help her out with something, I internally sighed, and said, "No problem. Be right over." I threw on my sneakers, and went down to her floor, thinking I'd probably have to move her coffee table while she mopped up, or something. I knocked on her door, and she answered with her arm in a sling, wearing only a slip and a bra. I immediately looked away, embarrassed, but entered, trying not to make eye contact. I asked her what happened to her arm. She had taken a fall, and broken it, and she needed me to close her "brassiere" for her. Now, it wouldn't have been so bad if I just had to hook the thing together from behind. I'd zipped her dresses up for her in the past, and I survived that. This was just a bit creepier, but I figured I'd do it, get back to my apartment, and pretend this never happened. There was only one thing preventing me from doing that, though... And it wasn't a little thing either. In her haste to get the bra on, Vivian forgot to put her left breast in the cup. There I stood utterly skeeved out, and there her left tit hung all the way down to her waste. I kept looking away, as she retold the story of her fall and her broken arm.
DO YOU NOT SEE THAT YOUR TRIPLE Z-CUP, 77 YEAR OLD LEFT TIT IS ON THE LOOSE?, I wanted to scream. My mind raced.
Should I say something? Why isn't SHE saying something? Did I enter another dimension in which I was the lead in a twisted version of "The Graduate," and Mrs. Eisenberg was trying to seduce me with her gargantuan, droopy left breast?
She was an attractive woman back in her day. I could always tell from the pictures she showed me that Harvey was a lucky guy, but I never knew how lucky. I'm sure before gravity took over, Harvey probably had some good times with Viv's fun bags, but those days were long gone, and I knew it was time for me to be gone as well.
"I'm not really good with these things," I nervously told her. "Let me see if I can get someone else to help you," I continued, as I ran out.
"It's just a hook," she said, as I walked out, leaving her and her mammoth mammary hanging, both literally and figuratively.
I knocked on her neighbor's door, explained the situation to the woman who answered, and she graciously agreed to help.
I made the mistake of telling Shmegs the story. He's now emailed me at least a dozen pictures since Sunday, each with the subject: "Does this make you horny?--Vivian."
The least objectionable one is below:
This woman has absolutely nothing on Viv. The fact that I know that makes me wanna shower.