Free Tietam Brown by Mick Foley

around my neck and chuckled just a bit. He patted my head, then playfully grabbed me and gave me what kids used to refer to as “noogies.” Maybe still do.
    â€œAndy, my boy, I think it’s time.”
    â€œTime for what?” I didn’t have any inkling of what my father had on tap, but I knew it would be weird.
    â€œCome on, let’s head downstairs.”
    Downstairs meant the basement, with which I was familiar. Our washer and dryer lived down there, where I did the family laundry once a week, making sure to wash his nasty sheets, all by themselves so that they wouldn’t touch my undies. The basement also had a separate room, which was always locked. On several occasions, my dad had made it quite clear that my entry into that room was forbidden.
    But on this night, the forbidden zone was exactly where we went. Tietam fumbled with his key chain for a moment, then unlocked the door, insisting that I close my eyes before he swung it open. He escorted me into the room and pulled a string that turned on a bare lightbulb. He granted me permission to open up my eyes, which on first impression revealed relatively little.
    A weathered furnace. A pair of old dumbbells, collecting cobwebs on the concrete. A rusty ax leaned against the wall, casting a thin shadow on a large book, which lay unceremoniously amid two rattraps in the corner of the room.
    I was disappointed momentarily. I had expected something more. Coming from my father, something much, much more. I turned to face my father, whose eyes were gazing upward. A happy gaze. A proud gaze. I decided that I too would gaze.
    Within a fraction of a second, my disappointment disappeared. My expectations were surpassed. My faith in Tietam was restored.
    Two ropes hung from the ceiling like an X, from which some clothes were hanging. Panties, hundreds of them, were hanging from these ropes.
    â€œNot bad, huh, son?” said my father, sounding content and peaceful, bordering on serene.
    I was unable to respond, my jaw being once again locked temporarily in Dickensian caroling mode.
    â€œAndy, this here represents my hard work. Every girl I’ve Teitamized since I began collecting back in ’76, our country’s bicentennial. With the exception of a few who bitched so much that I let ’em have ’em back . . . Now, kid, what do you notice about these panties?”
    Luckily, I had just concluded my silent carol, enabling me to offer up an astute observation. “Um, that there are a lot of them, I guess.”
    â€œYou’re damn right there are,” ol’ Tietam gushed, but then quickly became serious. “What else, son?”
    I shrugged my shoulders, unable to absorb the deeper meaning of the panties. My mind was starting to wander away from the collection, as magnificent as it may have been, and I found myself thinking about the book in the corner, wondering what it was. The increasing urgency in my father’s tone brought me back.
    â€œThere is quality in almost every pair. This stuff isn’t cheap. Hardly any cotton in the lot.”
    I nodded my head, but Tietam knew appeasement when he saw it, and it made him cry out in frustration.
    â€œOhhhh! Don’t you get it? These aren’t a bunch of strippers I’m banging here, these are high-class women. They’re not sluts until I get them here, and then I turn them into . . .” His thought tailed off into the air, as if he saw that his cause was lost. Then a big smile filled his face and he shot a finger in the air.
    â€œNever mind, come upstairs with me. I’ve got a better idea.”
    He turned off the light, closed the door, and took the basement steps two at a time. I followed him, a good deal slower, thinking about the book, and the door no one locked.
    Tietam ushered me into the living room and told me to sit down. “I’ll be right back,” he announced, and he took off out the door. He sped off in the Fairmont to