Free Notes From the Underwire: Adventures From My Awkward and Lovely Life by Quinn Cummings

beatified myself, if such a thing were possible. That’s when I noticed a tiny ballet studio across the street.
    You know , I thought virtuously, I’ll go that one extra step and put a flier in the ballet studio. Mothers sit in ballet hallways for hours, some of them are sure to want to support a local soccer team by eating carbohydrates.
    Glowing with the blended sensation of accomplishment and errand-combining, I trotted across the street and approached the front door. The lights inside were off but the door was unlocked. I stepped inside.
    “Hello?” I warbled.
    There was no response.
    I walked farther down the dark hallway, figuring someone was teaching a class in the back studio. I located the reception desk and saw no one. A cool breeze swept up my spine. It occurred to me that either someone had forgotten to lock up the night before or I was about to become the first scene in an episode of Law & Order. At best, I’d be the innocent bystander who discovers the tutu-clad corpse; at worst I’d be the innocent bystander, strangled by toe-shoe ribbons, who is later described by the detective as “dying for a career break.” Either way, I decided that outside the building was a good place to be.
    [Let it be noted that before I left, I carefully tacked a flier to the bulletin board.]
    Back outside, I weighed my options. There was no emergency number on the door and no security system to call. I walked into the lingerie store next door. In keeping with the general tone of the block, this was not a shop packed with ribbony bits of silk underwear hinting at depravity. It was the place that answered the question: “Where can I possibly get a huge pointy-cupped bra and a holiday-themed housecoat?” I asked if they had a contact number for the dance studio. They did not. They did, however, tell me that there was a police annex just around the corner.
    Police annex? Doesn’t “annex” mean extra bit? This is an extra bit of a police station? Like a third nipple? That couldn’t be right. Here in Mayberry “annex” probably meant small yet perfectly formed offices filled with clean-cut young people eager to walk into dark buildings. I walked briskly over to the police station, which not only wasn’t a station, it wasn’t even big enough to count as an annex. If it ate a lot of protein and gotenough sleep, it might grow into an annex. Right now, it was a deep closet, a place where you could pay a meter ticket or get fingerprints done for security reasons. Still, it was an official police station. I got to the door and noted a sign that read: “Open from 11:00 a.m. to 3:00 p.m.” I tried the door; it was locked. I checked my watch; it was 1:00 p.m. I knocked a few times and waited to see if Deputy Fife would emerge from the back room rubbing his eyes, but no luck. I’d have taken Otis the Town Drunk by this point. I walked into the shoe repair place next door. The cobbler smiled welcomingly.
    I gestured to the wall he shared with the police.
    “Do you know why the office might be closed?”
    He thought.
    “Sometimes, if it’s quiet, they don’t come in.”
    I guessed the local hooligans, whippersnappers, and roustabouts must have been in the pokey. I walked back to the ballet studio and paced outside a few more minutes, then determined that calling 911 was in order. I was promptly routed to a phone system that asked me to “Press one if this is an emergency.” Standing there on the street, I faced one of my civic conundra. Was this an emergency? Was arterial blood clotting on the sprung floor six yards away from where I dithered? I didn’t know. Was it not an emergency? Did I want to be one of those people who clog up the 911 system with calls complaining about how the neighbor is stealing my newspaper again?
    I did not. I just wanted someone to walk into this dark building who wasn’t me.
    I didn’t press 1 and waited in the silence.
    I walked back to the bookstore while I waited and bought a cup of tea.