In The Bag

Hard to believe he has been gone 24 years. That is nearly half the time I had my older brother Steven in my life. He set the bar high on all kinds of things like fashion, art, activism, and personal integrity. Highly opinionated he held nothing back and apologized infrequently. Didn’t need to. He was either right or the collateral damage was best ignored.

He still has a huge impact on me.

Like yesterday morning when pulling myself together to go out into the world. Got three appointments before noon yet I throw on a pair of Capri sweats, a powwow T-shirt and sneakers. I roll the elastic bottom of the sweat pants to just under my knees for the knicker effect exposing leg scratches I got chasing the dogs through the brush over the weekend. Three long red rips of broken skin are glossed with a coat of Neosporin but there will definitely be scars.

“You got that frumpy, don’t give a shit look down,” his voice in my head tells me.

I ignore him because he is right. I don’t give a shit.

“I tried,” he sighs.

He is right again.

When I was 17 he invited me to the big city for a makeover. With all the confidence of Versace, the flair of a runway model and the determination to climb Mt. Everest (which aptly equated his task) Steven marched his hick sister up the steps at 234 Berkley Street in the Back Bay of Boston. The historic building had been the city’s original Museum of Natural History and a landmark for its architecturally astounding stone and brick features and grandiose windows. The current tenant was the upscale retailer Bonwit Teller. That meant little to me at the time but I will never forget the experience.

I skipped every other step trying desperately to keep up with Steven’s long stride. Lucky for me I was wearing my high top Pro Keds sneakers. Steven insisted I remove the jingle bell looped into the laces, a short lived fad adopted by girls at my high school meant to announce the coming of the cool chicks. It was admittedly pretty annoying and eventually dictated school policy banning the dreaded “jingle bell.”

The sneakers were blue and quite by accident matched my farmer’s style bib overalls under which I wore a brightly colored tube top, a wardrobe staple in the 1970s it was essentially a band of elastic fabric wide enough to contain our lady parts and extended generally down to mid waist level depending on our cup size. Needless to say these garments were highly prone to wardrobe malfunction.

Quite honestly it never occurred to me to feel out of place until we stood inside the great hall of Bonwit Teller. The three story skeletal dinosaur remains that once filled the space would have been far less intimidating than the chicness of the pencil thin, haughty clientele and giddy sales clerks bustling all around us like we were invisible.

I was sure neither my intellect or bank account entitled me to stand in the throng three ladies deep at the make-up counter until my brother raised one hand over his head, snapped his fingers and got the attention of a woman behind the counter who immediately recognized him.

We easily pushed through the half starved socialites and I hopped up onto a padded stool where the woman looked at me and said, “oh my.”

The two of them busied themselves with my face and hair for about half an hour until I looked like a young Lena Horne about to go muck the stalls.

Steven picked this and that, lipstick, foundation, eye shadows, and blush and paid the woman what I thought was more money than all of it was worth but for the bag. Our purchase was neatly packed in a Bonwit Teller paper bag with looped handles at the top and the trademark pink stripes that matched the awnings on the front of the building.

I learned to use the makeup, but I cherished the bag. It became a container for all sorts of things I collected over the years until it finally shredded beyond functionality.

I loved that bag.

I loved my brother.

They are both, sadly, gone.