Last week I was talking with a woman I know at Rowan. Fran is an
administrative worker for the bureaucracy. She's in her fifties and
lives alone in a house in Franklinville. Once divorced, she has a son
and daughter both in their thirties, out on their own. One day,
recently, she came home from work and found a fat boxy envelope in her
mailbox. She opened the envelope and read a block printed letter:

"Dear Resident:

Please refrain from hanging undergarments on your clothesline. Most
women your age should have more commonsense. You could be a bad
influence to children in the neighborhood who are too young for such a
display.

No signature"

Fran made a copy of the letter and showed it to a town cop. He kept it
and simply told her, "There are sick people in this world." The mailman
also knows of the letter.

I asked her if she still hangs her underwear on the clothesline.

"Damn straight," she said and finished with "They don't know who they're
fucking with."

"Do you have any idea who sent you the letter?"

"Yeah. New people moved in next door--a husband, wife and two boys.
White. Early thirties."

"Who do you think wrote it?"

"It could be the father and I don't want to even think about his sick
motives. It could be the mother. I'm a single person who owns a little
house in Franklinville. I mean, I painted my house white, primer, two
coats, up and down the ladder. It was just little ole me on my spare
time."

"Do you think these people are born-again Christians?"

"No. He's a biker and has his friends over. They drink beer and I have
to listen to their shit on Fridays and Saturdays. And I don't see any
action Sunday mornings." Tony it's not like I'm hanging Victoria Secret
lingerie on the clothesline. I'm talkin cotton underwear! Bras!
Slips! I'm a licensed owner of a Colt .25." She paused five seconds.
"I swear to God! . . ."