That post brought back memories. You see, one of my good friends in college was a mannequin named Shirlaine Crowley. Here's the story, told by Shirlaine, herself:
I came to be in the summer of 1972. Of course I existed for years before, but I didn't live until that fateful summer. A casual conversation brought me to life and sent me on a three-year thrill ride.
Who knows when it began? Probably in the 1950's. I was barely conscious when I left the factory, on my way to be a fancy clothes hanger in a North Jersey shop window. I spent years in a sort of twilight, barely noticing when my clothes were changed or my arms were repositioned. All that changed when, in 1972, the store was sold. The new owners decided to replace me. A store employee mentioned to her college age daughter that I and my sister mannequins were headed for the trash heap. Mother and daughter hatched a plan to save me. I would come home with them for the summer and go to college in the fall.
The ride to Douglass College was dark and bumpy. I lay in pieces in a small U-Haul trailer that was packed with clothing, books, and a dorm sized refrigerator. People stared as I was toted into the building and stuffed into a dumbwaiter for a ride to the second floor. Next it was down a long hall to Room Number 218. My new boss put me together and left me standing naked for hours. People passed in the hall, and they stared at me. These weren't the interested, polite looks of the people, who peered into the shop window. These were disbelieving double takes, usually followed by big grins. The boss introduced me to her roommate, and then to the girls next door. The plan was that I would be some sort of cross between doll and mascot. Then thank God, they dressed me.
College life was fun. Dozens of people stopped by the room to meet me. I was the ice breaker that helped the four friends meet the girls on their floor. My clothes changed more frequently than they ever did at the store. I even had a Halloween costume. The girls polished my nails, styled my hair, and would have repaired my chipped plaster, if they only knew how. Best of all, I got a name. They christened me Shirlaine Crowley. The store, my old home, was originally called Shirlaine's, then Crowley's after the sale that almost sent me to the land fill.
This was my owner's sophomore year at college, and you know what they say about sophomores. That girl and her friends could be goofy. Their dormitory had a front desk with a paging system. All visitors stopped to sign in during the hours the doors were unlocked. On several occasions, I was posted behind the desk while one of the quartet crouched under the counter and spoke on my behalf. One of the girls met a very interesting fellow, who didn't believe in talking mannequins. He jumped over the desk and pulled the prankster from her hiding place. This lead to a few interesting dates for her.
Sophomore year ended, and I went home for the summer. I eagerly anticipated junior year. Instead of a big, modern dormitory, I was going to live in a small house. I had an important roll during the house Christmas party. I stood on the front porch wearing a bikini and holding a sign that proclaimed, "Party Tonight." Around midnight, there was a scuffle on the porch. By the time party goers got outside, I was gone.
I found out they saw a car speed away, and they got a partial license plate number. They didn't know what to do. It seemed silly to call the campus police to report a stolen dummy. The girls decided to write a letter to the campus newspaper. They chastised the thieves and pretended they had the full plate number. They promised that no one would be hurt if I was returned unharmed. Then they waited.
In May, just before finals, the phone rang. A male voice asked if they were the girls who had lost their mannequin. He invited them to come to the Rutgers side of town to pick me up. The girls didn't know it then, but would soon find out that I had been introduced to some pretty kinky stuff in the Rutgers dorm, and I hadn't minded it a bit. The letter sent to the campus newspaper was taped to my midriff. I was painted green. My bathing suit was fine, and that pleased my owner, who breathed a sign of relief that she didn't have to buy a new suit for the upcoming summer season. The kidnappers presented beer, sodas, and snacks. After a pleasant visit, they drove the four friends and me back to the Douglass campus.
I returned for senior year just as green as I left junior year. Nothing could compare to my Christmas kidnapping adventure, so the year passed uneventfully. The friends couldn't get housing in the same building, so I didn't spend as much time with two of them. With the four of them deciding about jobs and graduate school, I was put in the background. Mostly, I was a good memory and a funny story to tell new aquaintances. My last hurrah came the week before graduation.
Seniors left their many dorms and gathered under the roof of the largest dormitory. The week was one big pajama party. What would become of me? My owner decided I should go out in a blaze of glory. It seemed fitting that there should be no life for me after college. One of the most dramatic spots on campus was a ravine over which hung a suspension bridge. The girls went out late at night, each one carrying parts of me. They stood on the bridge, said their good-byes, and threw me over. Eventually, the maintenance people, who must have thought I was some sort of avant-garde art project, found me and took me to my final resting place.
Douglass graduates come back for class reunions every five years. Along with my partners in crime, I return to the bridge over the ravine to remember Shirlaine. Geez, we were goofy.
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