Like Warm Sun on Nekkid Bottoms (34 page)

“If I see them, I’ll let them know they can’t be buried here. Do you have
any
car repair places?”

“No,” she said and paused, fighting a grin. “We have a bike shop.”

She smiled slightly, in spite of herself. She was warming to me again, and I had to keep the thaw going. But that required charm, and I wasn’t sure I had any.

“A bike shop? Do they repair
cars
?” I asked, returning her grin. Her personality was just so damned infectious.

“Just the kind you pedal. For kids.”

“If I buy a Flintstone-mobile, I’ll keep that in mind. How about cars that run on
gasoline
?”

“Not for kids. What are you thinking?”

“Who said I was thinking? How about gasoline cars for grownups?”

“Do you know any grownups?” she asked, twinkling.

“Only the Duesenberg brothers.”

“And I hear they’re dead.”

“So there’s no Duesenberg repair shop at
this
address?”

“
This
address?” She was genuinely surprised. “No. What crazy person told you that?”

“As a matter of fact, my crazy Aunt…”

“Your Aunt Helena told you there was a Duesenberg repair place
here
? At
this
address?”

“Wrote it down and everything.”

“Why would she do that?”

“She
really
wanted me to come here.”

For a moment, Ms. Nuckeby seemed touched. Deeply. “Why?” she asked.

“Only one reason I can think of.”

She fixed me with a stare. I could feel her thaw spreading, and I sensed, for a moment, that we were back in the closet. But only for a moment.

“Well, I can’t think of any,” Ms. Nuckeby said, recovering quickly and closing that emotional door in my emotional face with an emotional slam. “This is not now—nor has it ever been—a Duesenberg repair shop. We’ve been here since the town began. Nothing but food.” She stopped and looked at a menu, then grinned again. Clearly, she couldn’t deny her own nature. “We do sell sauerkraut though.”

“That’s not a food?”

“Not in my opinion.”

“Is it a foreign car?”

“No. It’s rotten cabbage. But it
is
German. We put it on hot dogs.”

“But not on Duesenbergs.”

She giggled, then caught herself. She shook her head. The closet door beckoned, and it was becoming harder for her to fight coming back inside with me. Apparently I
did
have charm.

“No,” she said. “We don’t put it on Duesenbergs. A guy asked for it ‘to go’, once though. Maybe
he
put it on a Duesenberg.”

This time I laughed. I felt lighter and happier than I’d felt in a very long time. I could have continued this pointless conversation for hours. But Sheriff Mindie of the double D ranch cleared her throat and reminded me that my life could not be fun. Ever.

“Are you two planning on getting to
any
kind of a point,
any
time soon?” she asked.

“Not really,” I said, as Ms. Nuckeby giggled and tried to stifle it. Mindie glared at me. “Why are you talking to this woman?” “Because…”

“How about car
rental
places?” Mindie cut me off, asking Ms. Nuckeby directly. “Anything like
that
around here?”

“No rental cars anywhere in town,” said Ms. Nuckeby, not looking at Mindie, her grin slowly expanding. “But the pedal cars are cheap.”

Mindie sniffed. Ms. Waboombas snorted a laugh. Or possibly a burp. Ms. Nuckeby continued smiling and shuffling menus.

“Well,” I said, turning to the others. “It seems we’re stuck here until Aunt Helena arrives.”

There were moans and groans from everyone except Ms. Waboombas. Ms. Nuckeby looked intrigued, so I wasn’t at all sorry for that particular news.

“I’m sorry,” I said to them. “I don’t see that we have any options.”

Everyone looked at one another, hoping
someone
had an answer to this horrifying dilemma. Thankfully, no one did.

“And if Helena doesn’t come for some reason?” Mindie asked, seeming genuinely frightened.

“There’s a nice hotel just down the street,” Ms. Nuckeby offered. “You could even stay for the Festival.” She glanced up at me—was that hope I saw in her expression?

Mindie sneered at her and sniffed derisively, then turned to the pastor to ask him if he knew anyone at the chapel who could come get us; as they discussed the idea, Ms. Nuckeby leaned closer to me and spoke softly—so Mindie couldn’t hear.

“Your
aunt
is coming?” Her low tones forced me to get very close to her. Close enough to smell her alluring scent, which excited me and made me, once again, glad I was wearing pants.

“Part of her plan,” I said, turning away from the others and lowering my own voice.

“What plan?”

“To bring us together.”

Her breathing deepened. We were back in the closet, door closed, lights dimming.

“Because she knows you’re not a fan of…” She paused, stifling a laugh, “…overabundant milk?”

“Nor the containers it comes in,” I said.

“By ‘bring
us
together
’
you mean
you and me
, right? Getting you and me together? As opposed to you and your aunt? Or you and ‘Mindie’.” She said ‘Mindie’ like the word was something hairy trying to crawl up her nose.

“You and me. Yes. Not Mindie. Not anyone else. That’s what I meant.”

A smile slowly spread across her entire face. The look had returned. The one that said, ‘You threw yourself down a hill, and onto a pile of stinging ants—for
me
?’

“Then why does Mindie think she’s getting married to you?”

“Long, weird story. But trust me. You’re the one I’m here for.”

“Is it possible?” she asked, profound hope in her voice. “I mean, us? Now that you know?” She glanced around at the restaurant and all the naked people contained therein.

“Corky!”
Mindie interrupted.
“Why do you keep
talking
to her?”

I became angry. Surprise, surprise. “Because…”

“We were just discussing whether you would like something to eat while you wait,” Ms. Nuckeby said, diving in to defuse my irritation, gathering menus and becoming Super-Cordial Woman. “Would you?”

Everyone hesitated, clearly hungry but not wanting to dine in the midst of so many nudists. What if they accidentally touched one? And stuck?

“We need to eat,” I pointed out.

And I needed more time with Wisper. I longed for her in a way that surprised me. Oh, Orsino, thou wise and knowing fictional character.

Trust your feelings, Aunt Helena had said, Obi Wan Kenobi-like. Well, Wisper knew I came here for her, yet had dropped me onto an anthill out of jealousy. A gold-digger would have lifted me up and fought Mindie for the money. Here—in spite of herself—Wisper had been as warm and funny to me as she had been in my closet. Perhaps she was genuine. Just a charming, small-town girl who liked being naked. And really, I thought, staring at her breasts, what was wrong with that?

Clearly, my reptilian brain was now in complete control. Maybe I should…

‘Trust your feelings, Luke.’ A ghostly voice called to me from the beyond, startling me. I looked around nervously, a little scared, and saw a naked kid watching Star Wars on a video iPod. I shoved him away from me.

Returning my attentions to Ms. Nuckeby I warmed with hope.

“Isn’t there somewhere
else
to eat?” Mindie asked. “Where people have the decency to wear
clothes
?”

“Not in
this
town,” Ms. Nuckeby shot back, unintimidated, and motioned to the exit. “Feel free to look.”

“We really should eat,” I said, pressing the issue.

“I’d rather starve,” Mindie said.

“Well,
I’m
eating here,” I said. “I like the help,” I whispered, so no one else could hear. Ms. Nuckeby smiled at me shyly. “Anyone else?” I asked.

Slowly, reluctantly, the others agreed to sit down to a meal and moved around Mindie—the rock, and the hard place. I heard her stomach growl, and she flinched, apparently annoyed that people might know she required food like normal human beings.

“Sure you won’t join us?” the pastor asked, seemingly more comfortable in Mindie’s company than ours. There was no accounting for taste.

“Oh,” Ms. Nuckeby said, “don’t force her if she doesn’t want to.”

“No,” Waboombas said. “
Please
don’t force her if she doesn’t want to.

“I
don’t
want to.” Mindie snipped.

There you go.

“Who knows how long it will be before we can get to another restaurant?” the pastor encouraged her, not really helping at all.

Mindie sulked silently for a moment. Then her stomach roared again. The beast demanded to be fed and would not be denied.

“All right,” she said, defeated, and stepped forward. But Ms. Nuckeby would not be so easily trumped. She held up a hand, pointing to the sign.

“I’m sorry,” she said, “nudity—
is
—required.”

Mindie was momentarily caught off-guard.

“What?” she said, finally. “But…but that’s
outrageous!
You’re letting
them
in with clothes.”

“
They
weren’t rude to me.”

Everyone looked at Mindie. For a moment, she was cowed. It couldn’t last, I knew, my life couldn’t be that easy. But for now, at least momentarily stunned and revolted by the very thought of naked strangers looking at
her
naked body, she appeared to feel even more exposed in her underwear and buttonless shirt-dress than if she were actually in the all-together. She clamped the shirt fronts so tightly over herself that her breasts rose fully under her chin, making her head look as though it were sticking out of an ass.

Eventually the fear receded, as I knew it must, and her face darkened with a scowl that took on an almost demonic deepness. Her godfather, Satan, would be very proud.

“I would sooner
die.”

“Okay,” Ms. Nuckeby said. “But die outside. Otherwise it’s a health violation.”

Mindie huffed furiously. She stiffened—defiant—her head turning several shades of red (many not on any color charts I’d ever seen) until finally she turned and threw open the restaurant’s entry door expecting to exit dramatically. But her stomach growled again— like a pride of wild male lions on the veldt insisting that their women bring down a gazelle or two, and do it now, bitch. Like Mindie’s stomach, lions are sexist and mean when they’re hungry. Visibly embarrassed, she turned one last time to scowl at the rest of us before striding ferociously out of the building.

Ms. Nuckeby smiled, the proud and satisfied victor.

Grabbing the stack of menus and several towels from a bin— presumably for anyone who might be hungry for ribs—she turned, inviting us into the dining room and toward a booth. It took serious effort on the part of all us males
not
to stare at her lovely bare behind. The pastor averted his eyes so far upward he seemed to be looking directly to the source, saying prayers that were obviously going unanswered.

I, on the other hand, took in our surroundings—which, upon second glance, were not as tacky as I had earlier assessed. Except maybe the rotting old moose-head that appeared to be a prime centerpiece. It hung over the center of the room, threatening at any moment to fall upon the naked herd of humans grazing at the salad bar beneath it. Other than that, however, the place was rustically charming. Obviously a ‘Nuckeby’ family trait.

As I absorbed the ambience, I noticed Morgan succumbing to his baser nature—okay, his
only
nature—by blatantly ogling Ms. Nuckeby’s backside. I shoved him, wagging a finger at his rudeness. He glared at me and went right back to ogling, so I had to move in front of him to block his view. He leaned around me to see, and I jumped back again to screen him. It was a weird dance we did all the way to the table, and it made me wonder how this kind of lifestyle could possibly work.

How did people avoid endless ogling and constant arousal? What was proper etiquette in this world? Would a woman be offended at a man’s sudden erection upon seeing her exposed bits? Would she be
more
offended by his
lack
of arousal? I already didn’t like the idea of other men becoming stimulated by Ms. Nuckeby. How did feuds and death-matches not spring up constantly all around us? Had people just gotten used to the random excitement of others and the drooling over one’s mate in this world? It was hard to imagine, and yet…I supposed this is what Ms. Nuckeby might have
really
meant when she talked last night in the closet about our different worlds.

Whether ogling
was
acceptable or not, I was insistent with Morgan, refusing to let him take visual advantage of something that I was coming to think of as mine. I was obviously, as they say, smitten. Which is really a funny word when you say it out loud.

As all this progressed around her, Ms. Waboombas, seemingly oblivious—as naked as anyone there, save for her ‘come-fuck-mehard’ stilettos—sashayed through the restaurant like a runway model,
wanting
attention, looking around with expectation and hopefulness, and waiting for
someone
to ogle her. Oddly, no one did. A few people stared intently at the pastor and Morgan, but the towering, ebonskinned, bare-assed stripper drew barely a glance.

I, clearly, just didn’t understand this place. Perhaps all the folks here were naked because they were actually blind, and didn’t care how other people dressed. Or were we ‘sighted’ outsiders simply the only ones
rude
enough to stare shamelessly? I was lost. I could only hope our menus came with some kind of instruction booklet.

Our hostess reached our booth—far in the back, away from any windows—and ushered us in, handing out menus. To Ms. Waboombas she also offered a towel.

“What’s this for?” Waboombas asked.

“To sit on,” Ms. Nuckeby answered. “You know, for hygiene.”