The Reluctant Nudist

The Reluctant Nudist


Entrenched in the synthetic Hawaii of a downtown Harrisburg theme bar, in the shade of plastic palm trees and Styrofoam coconuts I drank my Thanksgiving dinner through a straw. My meal consisted of a concoction called a Thanksgiving Cocktail which is a mixture of apple brandy, Wild Turkey, cranberry juice, and lime juice, and is served over ice in a Collins glass with a lime wedge. If anyone asked me what I had for Thanksgiving dinner I wanted to be able to tell them turkey, which was more or less the truth although this turkey came straight from the bottle.

The night’s entertainment was a blues band that featured a baritone so old I figured he might have died 100 years ago and been recently pried from a cypress coffin deep in the belly of a Louisiana swamp and reanimated by a voodoo priestess. He wore the aging hipster get up of an early seventies game show host and enough gold chains to fund a small left wing coup in a third world country. “Since we’ve been together,” he sang.

“I’m going to hit the dance floor,” my friend D.B. said, setting his glass of Miller Lite on the bar.

“Do you think that’s wise?” I asked, nervously pulling at my collar. “What if someone from the hospital sees you? You have your career to consider.”

“If I was worried about my career I wouldn’t hang out with you,” he said.

“Right, you have a point there,” I said.

D.B. hitched his fists behind his hips, puffed out his chest, and craned his neck as he strutted across the dance floor imitating Mic Jagger’s chicken dance. It wasn’t the most aesthetically pleasing dance I’d ever seen but it would do. I myself have never been one to cut loose in such a manner unless I was drunk beyond reason because I think it only magnifies one’s physical flaws, of which I have many.

The women on the dance floor flocked to D.B., who was shamelessly gyrating his hips and shaking his rump. I was instantly jealous, which of course is my nature but I wasn’t envious of the throng of hoofing harlots that clung to him like a burr on the Velcro strap of an orthopedic sneaker. No, the jealousy I garnered was for one young lady in particular, a five foot eight blond blueprint of perfection with curves that seemed to defy my limited knowledge of physics.

I had made her acquaintance earlier in the evening when I spilled my first Thanksgiving Cocktail on her suede jacket. She was furious but her anger soon gave way to my considerable charms and I was able to persuade her to have a drink with me. She chose a bloody mary but didn’t drink it in the conventional manner. She dipped the celery garnish in the glass and licked the sticky mixture from it, an unusual method which intrigued me. I was further taken by her political view points which were similar to my own, but of course not as radical. I was thankful that before I had a chance to screw things up she abandoned me for the dance floor at the urging of her friends, promising to be back in a few minutes.

Now she was running her fingers through D.B.’s spiked hair as he held her by the waist. I rose, ready to Mic Jagger chicken dance my way out to her.

“What the Hell are you doing?” my friend the Weasel said, pulling me back down into my seat. “You weren’t going to dance were you?”

“So what if I was?” I said.

“You haven’t danced since that incident in Acapulco. I thought you said never again.”

“I’ve said never again many times but in that particular case what I said was off the cuff, therefore it doesn’t count.”

“You didn’t say you wouldn’t dance again in Acapulco off the cuff. You woke up in a cul-de-sac with a rattlesnake wrapped around your ankle for God’s sake,” the Weasel said.

“Right, maybe dancing isn’t a good idea.”

I sat back down and tuned into the conversation taking place out our table, keeping one eye on the blond on the dance floor. Our table was embroiled in another political debate.

“Why can’t we just go out like normal people and talk about baseball and sexual conquests?” I said.

Luch drained his glass of Coors light and his droopy left eye, the one injured in a fight, flickered to life. I was reminded of the moment the Frankenstein monster breathed his first breath. This worried me on several levels for I knew that he was now intoxicated and that this is when he passed the threshold of reason. There would be no compromise.

“Screw you and your fact based reality. We conservatives are the reality,” Luch said. He drew on his cigarette, concentrating on the cherry as if in it’s fiery middle there was held some infinite truth. I reasoned that perhaps the cure to baldness was what he was searching for.

“You’re a member of the Pennsylvania/Ohio Bigfoot research team for God’s sake,” Jody, a tall, dirty blond, said, “You’re not grounded in reality.”

“What about the footage from Roger Patterson’s Bigfoot film? He shot that at Bluff Creek in Northern California on October 20th 1967 and it shows clear irrefutable evidence of Bigfoot? You’re telling me that’s not reality?” Luch said.

“That was a redneck in a five and dime monkey suit. George Bush is a monkey in a five and dime redneck suit. What you never want to forget is what truths lay beneath these facades,” I said.

“That’s right,” the Weasel said.

I lit up a cigar, a Cuban Montecristo 'C' Edición Limitada 2003 my friend “Igor” had sent me from his humidor in New Orleans. “Igor” let me know that the box of 25 cigars he sent me set him back $537. That bastard has been very generous with his smokes and likes to calculate the cost of the gifts he’s given me and holds this number over my head. I don’t know what his end game is and think he might ask me to smuggle a boat load of Cuban cigars into the United States one day but I will worry about that when the time comes.

“Do you have to smoke that?” Jody asked.

“Yes, yes, I do,” I said.

I looked out on the dance floor and D.B. was really getting down, he slid the blond between his legs, pulled her back and hoisted her over his head. I had a horrible flash back to the dancing incident in Acapulco and nearly fell out of my bar stool but quickly recovered and downed the rest of my Thanksgiving cocktail.

“That’s it, I’m going out on the dance floor,” I said.

The Weasel grabbed my arm. “Don’t you have to be somewhere at one,” he asked.

“That’s right,” I said, looking at my watch and noticing the time had crept perilously close to one o’clock, the time I had planned to meet a source I was to interview for a news piece. I’d been tipped off by a friend at the Capital that someone was jimmying the snack machines open late at night and robbing them of their Snickers bars. I suspected a rather obese Republican representative and had gotten a hold of a secretary that worked in his office who had agreed to sit down and talk to me. I code named her Mrs. Snickers. I figured a story like this could be the big break that I’d been looking for.

“Do you want to get something to eat when your done?” Luch asked.

“I can’t. Late night eating causes me to bloat up like one of those groundhogs you see dead on the side of the road. Besides I have to get home after this interview and get some shut eye. I have to meet with my agent tomorrow,” I said.

I took one last look back on the dance floor where D.B. was riding my dream girl like she was some sort of amusement park ride. I’d have to talk with him later. I couldn’t have him exploiting my fantasy girl even if ultimately I would fuck up any sort of relationship I might have with her. I’d ruined her suede jacket before she was even a twinkle in his eye and therefore had dibs on dating options as is written out in the unwritten men’s guide to dating and friendship.

* * *

As predetermined by a phone call I met Mrs. Snickers at her apartment building, a refurbished brick schoolhouse located several miles from the Hawaiian theme bar. When she answered the door I was pleasantly surprised to find her as attractive as her voice had indicated in our phone cpnversations. She was dressed in a black silk robe and smelled like she’d been rolling in a rose garden.

“Here, I brought this for you,” I said, handing her a cigar. It was a one dollar Dutch Master Perfecto I’d bought at the Seven-Eleven which I’d taken the wrapper off of and replaced with one of the Cuban Montecristo wrappers.

She rolled it over in her hand. “Thank-you?”

“It’s Cuban,” I said.

“Really.”

“I didn’t have time to stop for wine, or donuts or anything.”

“I’ll put it in the refrigerator,” she said. I nodded. “Make yourself comfortable. I’ll be right back.”

I noticed several magazines on the coffee table and although she said she hadn’t wanted me to know her name I couldn’t resist and looked at the address label. “Hmm, Macy Pennington,” I said scribbling her name down in my notebook.

“What are you doing?” Mrs. Snickers asked.

“Oh, I was just copying the title of this magazine down. I was thinking of subscribing.”

“Allure?”

“Right…now, let’s get this interview started.”

Ms. Snickers set a box of wine and two glasses on the coffee table and poured.

“Do you smoke pot?” she asked.

“I dabble,” I said.

“Good, I’ll be right back.”

She returned a moment later with a joint that was as big as a paper towel roll and lit it with a Zippo. “Here,” she said, after taking a hit. I laid my cigar down on the coffee table and took a hit.

“Thanks,” I said handing the joint back, “so this Republican representative, the one who you think has been pilfering the snack machines, what makes you think it’s him?”

“Well, for one thing he’s gained about fifty pounds in the last two months, roughly when the Snickers thefts started.”

“That’s certainly compelling evidence but I’ll need more. Were there ever chocolate stains around his lips, on his lapel? Do you have any empty wrappers with his finger prints on them?”

“He always has food stains around his mouth and on his clothes. He’s a slob.”

“Damn, the chocolate evidence, even if we do find it, could be contaminated by all the other food stuffs he’s inhaled. This isn’t looking good,” I said, burying my face in my hands.

“Oh, now it can’t be that bad,” Mrs. Snickers said. I felt her slide up beside me and then her hands were on me and she was massaging my neck muscles.

“Ooh, that’s nice,” I said. “Where did you learn that?”

“Massage school.”

“You must have been an A+ student.”

I felt something hot and wet on my neck. Mrs. Snickers was kissing me. I opened my eyes and turned. She stood and took off her robe. I lunged at her and threw her in a lip lock as taught to me by a former exotic dancer in my formative years. We went at each other like two ferrets in an empty peanut butter jar.

I tried to undress her but she was wearing some sort of leather corset with so many straps and zippers and hooks that I couldn’t get at her. I bloodied my knuckles in the process of trying to undo the thing. We rolled off the coffee table and onto the floor. A strap popped open and the leather buckle caught me just below the eye drawing blood.

“Ouch,” I cried.

“Is baby hurt?” she said.

“Come here you,” I said.

I hoisted her up and she led me into the bedroom where we flopped on the bed.

“Hold on,” she said, rising and securing a roll of quarters on the night stand. “It’s a vibrating bed. I got it at auction of hotel that went out of business.”

I heard a noise that sounded like keys jingling at the front door.

“What the hell was that? I said.

Mrs. Snickers hopped up from the bed striking her head on the ceiling fan.

“It’s my boyfriend,” she said.

“Boyfriend?”

“You have to get out of here,” she said.

“No need to get that leather corset in a bunch, I'm good at talking my way out of these situations,” I said.

“He’s crazy; he’s a bodybuilder, a steroid freak.”

It dawned on me at that moment that I had never wanted this to happen anyway. I was with the wrong woman. The woman I really wanted was back at the bar dirty dancing with D.B.

“Hey, who’s in there?” I heard a rather masculine voice call from the hallway.

“Pest control,” I said.

“Quick get out on the fire escape,” she said.

“My clothes,” I said. They were scattered all over the living room. I was dressed only in my socks and Burmese jungle boots. I never take them off, even when I’m getting it on and an occasion like this is why I refuse to remove them. It is a lesson I learned in Acapulco on that fateful and extremely embarrassing dancing night many years prior.

Suddenly the front door burst open. I made for the window and out onto the fire escape. As soon as my scrotum hit the air it shrank up tighter than Ebenezer Scrooge’s change purse. This was not the type of weather to go streaking in. It couldn’t have been above 30 degrees.

I hastily made my way down the fire escape and on the way passed an elderly woman in one of the apartments below. She was doing her dishes and screamed. I waved and proceeded down.

“Hey,” the steroid abusing, Neanderthal boyfriend yelled from the top of the fire escape.

I pictured my body spread out on the pavement below with a white chalk outline surrounding it. I couldn’t let this happen in this cold weather, the chalk outline around my penis wouldn’t be accurate due to excessive shrinkage. Photos of my corpse would be shown in police photography classes for a good laugh. This more than anything this motivated me to escape.

I hurried down the rest of the fire escape ladder. My boots hit the pavement and I was off. I sprinted down the alley way and into the night. The bodybuilding boyfriend didn’t pursue me so I slowed glancing over my shoulder occasionally until the apartment building was out of sight.

I began making my way back to the Hawaiian theme bar where my car was parked by running to a source of cover like a shrub, resting, and then sprinting to another source of cover like a mailbox. However, I soon found that this tactic was at its best inefficient and at its current snails pace would get me to my car just as the sun was rising over the Susquehanna River. I needed a better plan and this is when I saw a huge Bush/Cheney reelection banner on a store front that someone hadn’t taken down yet.

“Perfect,” I thought.

I ripped the banner down and tore a hole in the center of it and then slipped my head through. Sandwiched between the two halves I cinched it around my waist with the ropes that had been holding it up. My plastic toga in place I took off.

Fifteen minutes later I was back at the Hawaiian theme bar, cold but alive and narrowly avoiding a case of frostbite on my extremities by stopping every once in a while and rubbing them to keep the blood flowing.

When I got back to the bar it was 12:45 and as I started up the steps to go inside I saw the blond I’d been smitten with coming towards me.

“Hi, there,” I said.

“What are you wearing?” she asked.

“It’s a long story,” I said.

“Is that a Bush/Cheney reelection banner?”

“Yes, yes it is. It’s a long story. ”

“I thought you were a Democrat.”

“I am.”

“But you’re wearing that banner.”

“I can explain that. It’s not what it seems.”

“Yeah, right if you were really a Democrat you wouldn’t wear that thing even if you had no clothing whatsoever,” she said.

“I was freezing-”

“You’re a Republican. You were just saying you were a liberal to get into my pants.”

“Here, I’ll take it off,” I said.

“Don’t!” she yelled. “If you take that off in front of me you pervert I’ll scream for the police.” She pulled a can of mace out of her purse and thrust it menacingly towards my face.

“Do you have a Kerry/Edwards banner? I’ll wear that. Come back,” I yelled, as she ran down the street. I didn’t follow.

I looked inside the bar and saw D.B., the Weasel and Luch all doing the Mic Jagger chicken dance in the center of the dance floor with twenty or thirty women surrounding them.

“Bastards,” I said.

“There he is,” I heard someone yell, “The one that stole my banner.”

“What? Banner?” I said turning.

An older gentleman in a suit and two police officers were hurrying down the street towards me. I knew it was time to get out of town. I took off down Second Street and a line from REM’s song Leaving New York came to me: ‘It’s easier to leave than to be left behind.’

It was then I’d realized I left my cigar at Mrs. Snicker’s apartment. It was barely smoked and I was going back for it. I would never see the blond again, love just never seemed to be in the cards for me but I would get my cigar, possibly a story and maybe be beaten up in the process but it was a chance I would have to take.