Like Warm Sun on Nekkid Bottoms (32 page)

The sign I’d never read said:

WELCOME TO GREEN VALLEY

NIKKID BOTTOMS—1 mile

NOTTYNGON—4 miles

There was an arrow pointing off toward the coast.

“Nottyngon,” Morgan said. “Isn’t that where Robin Hood lived?”

No one saw the need to correct him.

Someone—‘wild animals’ probably—had used fluorescent paint

to turn the first ‘I’ of ‘NIKKID’ into an ‘E’ so that the sign now read— in a very juvenile attempt at humor in reference to the nude beach below no doubt—‘NEKKID BOTTOMS’, a joke no one over the age of seven could possibly find amusing.

“HA!”
Ms. Waboombas said, laughing and setting me down. “Someone changed the sign!
Nekkid Bottoms! Get it?
Like ‘
Na-ked Bottoms’.
” She shoved me hard, as if we were both in on the single greatest joke
ever
, and then collapsed in a spasm of laughter, which lasted a good several minutes. She eventually finished, wiping tears, stifling aftershocks of giggles, and breathing heavily. The rest of us simply ignored her as we returned to the Duesenberg.

I just smiled weakly, climbed behind the wheel as the others settled themselves, and quietly drove off.

We trundled along—steaming and spewing, sputtering and clunking, in the direction indicated by the defaced road sign—down what had become a one-lane dirt path toward the coast, and— hopefully—the repair shop.

As I drove the winding road, shifting about painfully, joints aching, wounds throbbing, I
still
couldn’t stop thinking of Ms. Nuckeby. Damn those cruel hounds. If I hadn’t ruined things last night, this most recent meeting had certainly driven several nails into some kind of coffin—probably mine. The worst part was: I was having a difficult time reconciling her behavior with that of a golddigger. She seemed genuinely distressed by Mindie. She had last night in the closet as well. And if all she was interested in was money, why not stay and fight it out? I had told her I was here specifically to see
her
. That should give her strength of mind to stick it through and do battle if all she wanted was cash and comfort.

Instead, she had reacted as if she were
jealous
of all things. As if she might actually be somewhat interested in me. Or entirely interested in me. Was that possible? Was the gold-digger idea a nonstarter, so to speak? And besides, how much gold would she need to dig if she never spent any on clothes? Isn’t that the primary reason women become gold-diggers in the first place? House, cash, clothes. What kind of woman
was
Ms. Nuckeby anyway?

Convinced I had likely ruined any and all hopes of ever finding out, I decided it was best to just stop agonizing about things. I turned my attention to the scenery and attempted to get lost, somewhat meditatively, in its beauty. I’d never spent much time—if any—in the country, and I was surprised to find that it was—as so many who
have
spent actual time in it have often said—potentially quite relaxing. Trees rose up majestically on all sides, songbirds did their thing, and the air was crisp, and fresh smelling—like newly cleaned floors. The area was lovely, no question. Were I a normal person, I might have actually enjoyed it.

But instead—as my fiancée and imminent wife sulked beside me, and Ms. Nuckeby’s anger at me continued to haunt—painful emotions roiling around inside me like the chest-burster from
Alien
—I began to absently wonder if wild bears, or other untamed animals, really
did
live in these woods. If so, would they be dangerous to us? Was it possible they could, at any moment, come leaping from the dense undergrowth, tear me limb from limb, and eat me viciously right here, alive, in full view of Mindie and the others.

One could only hope.

Out of nowhere, we found ourselves on a charming old stone bridge leading across to a pastoral little island, and the tiny village that had been built along its shores.

The place was a vision leading me out of the darkness of my thoughts.

The Island of Nikkid Bottoms was surrounded by beautiful blue sea. It had fields of green, and sandy yellow beaches. There were rivers and streams, and lots of trees where birds sang. There were windmills and a coalmine, and docks where visitors to the island could arrive, and there were lots and lots of railway lines. I half expected Thomas the Tank Engine to come around a bend doing something useful and reliable.

A sign read: ‘Welcome to the island of NIKKID BOTTOMS. Pop. 954.’

It was a lovely place—very Old World English in its charm, with some eclectic bits thrown in. There was a little Roman architecture, a bit of English country, and some French provincial. From the bridge on, all the roads were cobbled stone, not asphalt, and sprinkled everywhere were well-maintained public gardens. It was a very inviting little place, all wrapped around a cozy little bay. It reminded me of that town—what was it? Port Merion—where Patrick McGoohan was trapped and couldn’t escape from in ‘The Prisoner.’

Just ahead, beyond a banner that read: ‘NIKKID BOTTOMS SUMMERTIME SOIREE’ with this weekend’s dates, and a little dancing Pilgrim who seemed to be on fire, there was a small gas station that was currently empty. I couldn’t imagine it was ever anything but. At 954, the population of this place was microscopic, and there seemed to be no tourist trade to speak of—even
with
the impending ‘soiree’. It was serenely quiet and tranquil, and I found myself warming to it instantly, looking forward to our stay here, however brief.

“God, what a vile little town,” Mindie sneered. “What’s that horrible smell? Is that the sea?”

Discouraged yet again, I pulled into the service station, drove forward to the main pump and waited.

“Why are you stopping?” Mindie demanded. She was scratching an armpit with both hands. Very unladylike. Apparently her recent travails had led to her give up any effort at personal decorum.

“I don’t know how much farther we can go,” I said, “with the car like this.”

“This isn’t the repair shop.”

“No, but maybe they can tow us or give us directions.”

“Helena gave you directions.”

“But I don’t see any street signs. Could it hurt to ask?”

“You really
aren’t
much of a man, are you?” she said dismissively.

“What does that mean?” I asked, getting angry. It had been a long day, and contrary to popular belief, I
could
get angry. I just had difficulty maintaining it.

Mindie didn’t respond. She just stared at me, wide-eyed.

“What was that supposed to mean?” I asked again, folding my arms and demanding an explanation to what I felt certain was an insult to my dubious manhood.

In answer, she simply pointed, and I realized she wasn’t staring
at
me, but over my shoulder. So was everyone else. I turned to see what they were focused on and wound up looking right into the solitary ‘eye’ of a rather large and hairy penis.

I screamed. Again in a disturbingly
feminine
way.

Sadly, Mindie may be right.

The penis was attached to a man. The man was tall, muscular, greasy—and entirely naked, other than a dirty baseball cap with the service station logo on it. The cap and logo did nothing to obscure his penis, however, and owing to the fact that the gentleman had stepped up to
my
side of the car, it was still staring me right in the face.

I leaned back, trying to get out of striking distance, and almost climbed into Mindie’s lap. She, apparently, would have none of it and shoved me back, directly toward the thing, clearly not understanding that it was hungry.

“Can I help you?” tall, dark, and naked asked.

“No, but you can help
me
,” Ms. Waboombas offered, rising from her seat. The attendant was in no way ‘dinky’.

“We’re looking for the repair place,” I interjected before Ms. Waboombas could pounce.

“For a
Duesenberg
?” the naked attendant asked, looking over the car, taking in the steam, dents, and spewing coolant.

“Duh,” Mindie said, annoyed, not entirely up on the concept of etiquette to one’s perceived lessers. Of course, we were
all
perceived lessers to Mindie.

“I’m not sure
where
you could get it repaired,” he said, scratching his pubic hair and looking around. Every eye in the car was on his penis as it turned with him, flopping madly with every vigorous scratch. The pastor held up his good book like a fly swatter—just in case.

“I have an address,” I offered, pulling the slip of paper from my pocket and not losing eye contact with his pet snake.

I handed it to him, and he read it with some difficulty. His lips silently sounded out the words.

“That’s the address to the diner,” he said, pointing down an adjacent street. “I never heard of them doing repairs, but could be. I know River likes cars. You can ask. Just through town, on the right. Little place with a blue sign. Can’t miss it. It’s called ‘Nuckeby’s’.”

My heart skipped a beat, and was, once more, on the run from wild dogs.

I glanced around nervously. No one else had caught it. Likely they didn’t remember her name—not even Mindie, who had been so distraught at everything about ‘the model’ just twelve hours earlier. I felt a sudden rush again, and I was glad, at least, that I was wearing pants, as little good as they seemed to do me in obscuring things.

The attendant waited as my mouth moved silently for a bit due to my shock at the nearness of Nuckeby’s. One Nuckeby in particular.

“Anything else I can do you for?” he asked.

“Can you check my fluids?” Ms. Waboombas asked.

“Thanks!” I said, getting my voice back and cutting in. “Really appreciate it,” I said, and put the car in gear.

“Not a problem,” he said, smiling and waving as we drove off. His pet snake, Yardstick, waved too.

Ms. Waboombas stood to watch him recede in the distance continuing to smile broadly and hungrily. I pulled onto the cobblestone road and headed in the direction he had indicated, while she continued staring behind us. Eventually he walked back into the station office, and she couldn’t see him any longer. At least not with her eyes.

“Let’s stop there on the way out and get filled up,” she said, plopping down in her seat and smiling. “If we need it, we can get gas too.”

No one responded. In fact, no one said anything as I continued driving into the sunny little village. The things we were seeing interfered with all higher brain functions. I was lucky I could drive. Apparently Ms. Nuckeby and her friends on the beach should have been more of a warning than a curiosity.

First, there was the statue at the center of the town square. It was a classic, bronze, full-figured statue of the town’s long-dead patriarch, a man in a three-pointed hat circa 16 or 1700, wearing a thigh-length overcoat, knee-high stockings, buckle shoes, and holding out one hand in a welcoming gesture—like so many similar statues you’ve likely seen of Benjamin Franklin or George Washington in their youth.

Except that Homer wasn’t wearing any pants.

The sculpture had been exquisitely tooled by a master artisan, and, in fact, Homer’s bronze member was truly a thing to behold. Richly detailed, it hung far below his knees and was as thick as a redwood. If the real Homer’s was anywhere near that size, it must have taken him only one or two seconds to relieve a full-bladder. After downing a few beers, he would have become a one-man volunteer fire department.

Throughout the square, people of equal, or greater pantslessness had converged to take in the sun, visit with friends, and do some afternoon shopping. We cruised past an older couple on a street corner—both naked save for sandals. Farther on, we saw a man on a bicycle, wearing nothing but a hat. Just past him, a mother and children crossing the street, all wearing shoes.

A pair of naked old men played checkers in front of a barbershop.

A nude man painted a sign. A naked family tossed a football around. A group of teenagers talked about something hormone-related. A couple carried groceries. A farmer rode a tractor. A man walked his dog. Someone near a pay phone talked on her cell.

All
naked
.

The town was
filled
with naked people. As we steamed through, it became nakedly obvious that this place was some sort of nudist resort where people wore no clothes. Which is, one supposes, the very definition of a ‘nudist resort’, now that I think about it. ‘Nekkid Bottoms’ indeed. Other than footwear and occasional hats, there was not a stitch of clothing to be found anywhere within the city limits— neither on people, nor animals, nor on pictures of people and animals. Not even a clothing
store
that I could see.

I noted there
was
a couple of shoe stores though.

“Clothes For The Naked,” Morgan said.

We all looked that way, and I saw that I was apparently wrong. There was
one
clothing store, although their ‘clothes’ looked more like our lingerie.

Each of us stared goggle-eyed at the sea of nudity surrounding us, disturbed and amazed.

Everyone except Ms. Waboombas.

“What a great place,” she said.