But you ARE, Blanche

There are two things I regret leaving behind when I left Grove Street (well, three if you count my fireplace): my albums, and Blanche. My mannequin.

Now that I know you well enough, I can confess a secret. I found and made over an old mannequin someone was throwing out in New Jersey. She was standing by the curb -- a habit she found hard to break in subsequent years -- in all her cracking, beige-painted glory, tits to the wind.

She did have tits, although no nipples -- a flaw I quickly corrected with two nubs of plaster. Blanche had facial contours and the outline of lips and eyes, just waiting to be painted in, which I did painstakingly, to bring my Galatea to life. I stuck a brown, shoulder length wig on her bald head with gaffer's tape, and dressed her in a beaded, salmon-colored, vintage dress.

Oh my God, this is the GAYEST thing I have ever written. But I must purge -- release all the elements of my past, putting them here so I can move on. Purge! Purge!

She also had one wonky hand (it looked like decaying rubber, just about to drop off). I tried to correct that by covering it with plaster or fabric or putty, but it never took on the life-like quality of the other. So, I used to hide it with a lot of accessories. But which of us is without our flaws, I ask you. Don't we all have our own version of a gimpy hand? Something we try to hide? Okay, she split in half and you had to screw her extremities in, but wasn't she just like you and me?

She also had the requisite iron pole up her butt, which made her a lot heavier to transport than you'd think. I showed great devotion as I lugged the old girl to every apartment I had in New Jersey, even to my first two in New York. I'm sure the neighbors were amused. Or frightened.

She was like a pet I had adopted -- okay, from Macy's -- always there, standing silently, a boon companion. And one of the old-fashioned kind, sturdy and realistic, not like the fiberglass aliens they have now. Yes, they didn't make 'em like Blanche. When they made her, they broke the mold. Literally.

When I left 18 Grove Street, I had to stick her back on a curb and only hope some new connoisseur would give her a happy home.

"You have a much better chance now, Blanche. At least you have eyes. And nipples."

I think she understood, and as I drove away, I thought I saw her twist that wonky hand and wave goodbye.