On the record

Second Edition

Someday, when I’m sitting in the nursing home talking about my life, I know there will be sad nods and eyes full of pity. They will attribute my warblings to age and a shriveling brain. So, time to get some of the less believable events in my life on the record before they can be dismissed as the  ramblings of a confused elder. Unless it’s too late . .

 

Hill Street in Ann Arbor is known as sorority and fraternity row. It’s a wide, meandering street lined with landscaped lawns, plantation-like Greek houses, and towering trees that have overseen the Greekly students since the inception of the University of Michigan in 1837. But, on the corner of Hill and Olivia Streets sits Henderson House. Henderson House is a lovely, large brick home, a co-op dorm that houses young women who need a financial break. In return, they do the cooking and cleaning. We, the riff raff, lived among the wealthiest students in the world.

One year, I was the social chairman (there weren’t chairwomen or chairs back then.) I received the calls for babysitters, window washers, dates for sailors on leave, and such. Just before final exams my sophomore year, a woman called and said she needed four women to be servers for her husband’s surprise birthday party. She lived four blocks down Olivia and would pay us $50 each for the evening. Tuition was $90 a semester, and I made $1.35 an hour as a hospital clerk, so I was doing a happy dance in the phone booth at the end of the hall. The woman said she would furnish our uniforms and pay to have our hair and nails done. It took about five minutes to get 3 other volunteers.

The afternoon of the party, we were all parading around the living room with newly painted nails and upswept hairdos when the woman dropped off four boxes with our uniforms. “See ya at 5:00,” she warbled over her shoulder. We tore open the boxes to find Playboy Bunny outfits. They were sparkly and feathery and very small. When we were able to speak again, we discussed the validity of verbal contracts and such, but it was 4:00 p.m., and we were due at the party in an hour. We went upstairs to don the “uniforms.” 

First, there were the black, fishnet stockings. When you wear those with high heels, they grate your feet like Parmesan cheese. Then, it was time to put on the tiny pieces of satin. We looked in the mirror, peering out between our pushed-up boobs. We turned around. There they were: four large and fluffy bunny tails. Bunny ears and feathery wristlets were the final touches.

Five o’clock, full sunlight on Hill Street. The front door opened, and out poured four Bunnies into normal pedestrian traffic. We had no car, so we had to parade down Olivia Street. No one gives Bunnies credit for walking in those steel-wool net stockings and high heels. We wobbled along, disrupting post-game traffic all along our route.

Our first task was to set up hors d’oeuvres. Here we were, all bunnied up, in the back room being scullery maids. During the party, we carried trays and drinks to faculty members whom we hoped never to see again. We were told that the birthday boy had composed Frosty the Snowman, though I’ve never been able to corroborate that. He did have a gorgeous grand piano. The evening ended at 11:00 p.m.with the glam squad doing dishes, collecting our fifty bucks, and limping barefoot back to Henderson House and our beds. One can only be grateful that there were no cell phones back then. Happy Birthday, Frosty.

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