On Saturday I got a little bug in my ear to check out the skanky underpants store around the corner from my house. It's on 14th Street, between 2nd and 3rd, a few doors down from the KFC. I'd passed by it a dozen times at least, and had always wondered what was going on in there. The trim of the store is bright yellow, and painted words declaring bargain prices for panties decorate the windows. A strand of Christmas lights dangles from the ceiling. I'm suprised it took me this long to visit.

Inside I found no panties in the front, but a wealth of cheap knock-offs of club wear, from techno vests to stretchy leopard-print mini-skirts. I could almost smell the trip from Jersey, over the bridge or through the tunnel, depending on which route is most convenient. There were also boxes of mittens and scarves, and a stand displaying incense. Nothing cost more than $5. I was in heaven.

The walls were bereft of wallpaper; there were even jagged holes in some spots. I noticed some purple, shiny, shredded paper hanging near the Christmas lights. I couldn't put my finger exactly on the design conceit. I imagined New Year's Day, the morning after an insane party at an industrial loft space, perhaps the home of a ragged and adventurous band of squatters who are just trying to start a band, or make art, man, so why don't you just leave them the fuck alone?

I made my way to the back of the store, where panties hung neatly in an organized fashion on equally ripped-up walls. They were definitely trashy little pieces of fabric, the kind you might see on girls posing in the backs of little-known porn mags, their Polaroids snapped by proud trucker husbands. Not all of the panties were awful.

Not all, but most.

I was approached by the store owner almost immediately; I was charmed by the store owner almost immediately. He had his patter down, this fireball. He was short, probably Italian, and definitely from Brooklyn. I judged him to be in his late twenties or early thirties. He welcomed me to, "The 14th Street Wreck."

"Oh that's what this is called?" I said.

"Yea. What do you think of the name?"

"I kept calling it the skanky underpants store in my head."

We both laughed. He then explained to me that he had opened the store in September, and had decorated it in a glamorous fashion, with ornate wall paper and soothing lighting. The prices were the same on the panties, but he had no business.

"I guess people were intimidated. They thought it might be expensive." he said.

In fact, I hadn't noticed it in September. I had probably only noticed it in the past month.

"So I tore it up," he continued. "I ripped off the wallpaper. Messed with the floors. Made this place look like...a wreck. And now people come in all the time."

"Unbelievable." I said. "It's genius."

"We get a lot of kids. I'm looking for a younger crowd."

He began to select underpants for me. I nodded and looked around.

"Come on," he said. "Two dollars a pair. Five for ten."

"You can do all that math in your head, huh?"

"Yea, I used to be an accountant."

I giggled.

"No really," he said. "I used to be an accountant. I worked at Deloitte and Touche." He railed a bit against corporate America, something I always enjoy.

We chatted some more about his retail strategy. He was clearly well-educated, and had a lively sense of humor, so I was enjoying our conversation. He wanted to rent the front of the store, he told me, to either an artist or a fashion designer.

"People don't really seem to buy anything in the front. They always go straight for the back."

"Well maybe people don't enjoy buying their panties in full view of 14th Street."

"No, I think they like to go to the back because it has a VIP feel to it." His grin was wide.

I'm certain I've seen him in a club somewhere, or a bar, or something. He's the kind of guy you see around.

I suggested that someone might want to use his space to film a movie. He agreed excitedly. It turns out his uncle owns a store titled "The Big Discount Store" on 6th, complete with velvet Elvis paintings on the wall. More than ten films have used the location for scenery. He has a family tradition to uphold.

I walked out of the store with a pair of panties (a black, lacy thong which he proclaimed a, "genuine 100% Giorgio Armani knockoff"), only because I've never had a man pick out panties for me before. I also bought two boxes of incense and a pair of mittens. I spent nine dollars. He put the cash into a small bag he wore around his waist. (I sensed his committment to abiding state and federal tax laws might be limited.) The fifteen minutes I spent in there was more entertaining than most movies you can see in the theatres these days. I gladly shilled out the cash.

I was reminded of him the next day when I went to the Sol LeWitt show in the Whitney. LeWitt is one of the grandaddies of conceptual art. He sits and thinks and plots and maps, much as the store owner of the 14th Street Wreck does. You can look at LeWitt's numerous wall-sized installations and enjoy it for its aesthetic value on a such a grand, grand scale. Or you can enjoy it for the thought that goes into it: the math, the logic, the passion for spatial control. At the end of his shows, most of his installations are torn down.

Destroyed, as it were.

And at the end of the day yesterday, as I pulled my new panties from the dryer, having laundered them so that I could wear them this week, I noticed that the elastic was already loose and a long strand of black thread had unwound from the bottom. The thread had tangled in with much of my laundry. I unravelled the thread; I fought with it. The static made it stick to my hand. It took me a few minutes to clear it from my laundry and shake it free from my finger tips. I'm not sure if I'll be able to wear the underwear even once. I felt comfortable with it, though. I had only bought it for the aesthetics.

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