99 Percent Mine

“I need to lie on your couch for a bit,” I tell her, toeing off my boots. “I just did something unforgivable.”

“Okay,” she says without hesitation, like the excellent friend she is. We’ve been lying on each other’s couches since high school. I will lie on her couch until the day I die.

Except lying on her couch is not an option, as it turns out. It’s stacked with underwear. Truly seems to have hardly registered my arrival; she goes back to her sewing machine, illuminated by a bright overhead lamp, and the whirring resumes.

Truly Nicholson is the queen of a cult indie underwear label called Underswears, and no, her name is not a nickname. Well, it was initially. She was called Truly in utero when she finally made her appearance on an ultrasound screen. That little baby was truly a miracle.

I assess her bent-over back. “Finish up now. I think you’ve done enough.” I doubt she’s eaten anything in hours—possibly days—worrying about grease on her fingers. Crumbs, stains, and drips are her mortal enemies. “Truly, I need to tell you about a totally insane thing I just did.”

Wheeeee. The sewing machine rolls about two inches of tiny stitches. There’s clicking, and then, wheeee.

Robotically, Truly lifts the machine foot, repositions, depresses the foot, and then, wheee. Her eyes are completely blank. I’m pretty sure she’s already forgotten I’m here. When I see she’s finished sewing the current pair, I turn the lamp off from above her.

The terrible enchantment is broken. She slumps down onto her forearms while I find some chocolate-flavored milk that hasn’t expired. I pull piles of laundry off a little-used armchair, deposit her on it, and hold the straw up to her mouth.

“A little dramatic,” she whispers, hoarse, and her pale green eyes roll over to focus on me as she drains the entire glass. Her hands are useless to her by now.

Her strawberry-blond hair seems to have dulled out to the color of straw, and her dimpled cheeks are pale. She calls herself plush-sized. She has a spectacular bust line and a bottom like a heart. Her every line connected to a joint is curved, like she’s been drawn with a pinkish calligraphy pen. I wish things were different, so I could marry her. I will hate whoever she chooses.

Except no one would marry me. I’m insane.

I look at the completed underwear. Ten in a stack. I begin counting. There have to be three hundred pairs done, easy. Probably more. “How long have you been doing this?”

“What time is it? And what day is it?” She’s not even kidding.

“Tuesday night.”

I put the glass aside and take her cold hand in mine. She closes her eyes as I gently try to straighten her fingers. The tendons resist me like wires. I begin to rub. I don’t think she can feel anything by now. “You are destroying yourself.”

“My website glitched and double-sold. Two . . . hundred . . . and . . . fifty . . . pairs. I cried for over an hour.” She’s detached. “Five hundred pairs total.”

The Jamie part of my brain works out what kind of money that would look like. Math isn’t my forte, but it’s a lot. “You should have just reversed the transactions.”

“I just . . . couldn’t. People would have been disappointed.” She takes her hand from mine and holds out the other one. The fingers are curled and this time, when I flatten them out gently, she whimpers in pain. “Ow, ow, ow.”

“You don’t owe anyone anything. The money isn’t going to be worth it if your hands turn into lobster claws. Carpal tunnel is no joke.”

The urge to ask her if she has been to the doctor is almost overpowering me, but I hate it when people ask me. I bite the tip of my tongue and go into the kitchen again. Her fridge is about on par with mine. I find bread in the freezer and put some slices in the toaster.

“If I can just clear these orders . . . ,” she says from the other room, her voice drowsy. “I’ll get this lot done and sent, and then . . .”

“Then you’ll think of another great swear word or insult, and this entire process starts again.”

Underswears are high-waisted, organic cotton underwear with thick, seamless trims and sturdy bulletproof gussets. Your butt cannot eat these undies. They all have an insult or offensive phrase printed on the butt. I’m wearing a pair right now that say FUCKER in graffiti script.

While I wait for the toast, I look at the new release. They are red with a blue sailor stripe, with the words HUMAN FLOTSAM. I photographed the prototype a few weeks back. “Human garbage, nautical style,” I say to myself. “I need a pair of these. Are they missing something?”

Truly groans. “Li’l anchors. Why did I decide to add the anchors?”

“Whimsy. You’re all about whimsy.”

“Well, my whimsy means five hundred miniature anchors. That’s your job, please.” She gestures to a tiny parcel.

“Sure.” I’m no stranger to sewing on tiny fixings, ironing, and packing. I lug crates of underwear down to the post office. The sheer number of anchors momentarily overwhelms me, but I squash it down. Truly must feel so much worse. Besides, I need to take my mind off what I’ve just done.

I just pushed down the Looney Tunes red ignition handle and imploded my fragile friendship with a person who really didn’t deserve that.

/> The manual task is exactly what I need: something to focus my entire being on. Anything less than perfection risks being deemed a second. I check the cotton color, measure the exact center of the waistband, thread a needle, and stitch the anchor on, using five not-overly-tight stitches. Tiny neat knot, clip, next. Only 499 to go. I show it to her, and she nods without saying anything. Her phone is lighting up with rapid-fire text messages.