Like Warm Sun on Nekkid Bottoms (58 page)

The town square glowed, warmly, in the waning minutes of evening sun and igniting streetlamps. A platform had been set up around Homer, decorated with festive oranges and browns, and lots of happy, flaming pilgrims everywhere. It must have been a joyous death they’d suffered, God’s angry will making them ecstatically happy in their final moments no doubt.

To one side, a giant, cheery, three-dimensional pilgrim had been set atop a pile of sticks, logs, and paper, presumably so he could be merrily ignited somewhere near the end of the festival weekend. A burning man, kind of thing. Or burning Duck, if you’re a Jimmy Neutron fan. And if you’re a kid, or just very much like one, who isn’t a Jimmy Neutron fan?

A crowd had gathered around the stage, and I could see several people getting ready for both buying and selling. Near the front, unaware that I was anywhere even close, stood River, proud, defiant, and hung (okay, I have issues), looking as though he would be one of the first put up for auction.

My original plan had hinged on this, figuring that Wisper, as one of the organizers, and possible emcee, would likely go last, particularly if she were intended to be a main attraction of the show. This would leave River available to be bought up early, and with Ms. Waboombas doing the buying, she could keep him out of my hair while I tried to work my magic on Ms. Nuckeby.

Now, of course, I had to find Ms. Waboombas and stop her before she began spending money I didn’t have. Whatever River might cost—and I presumed that damned penis of his would go for a bundle—I could no longer afford to pay it, and neither could my comrade in arms, Wendy.

She, unfortunately, was nowhere to be seen, and neither—I noted offhandedly— was Ms. Nuckeby.

As I continued to desperately scour the crowd, I eventually came across Reverend Winterly. It was the first time I’d seen him in hours, and I was amazed to note that he looked somehow more—I don’t know—comfortable in his surroundings. Not that he was nude and dancing or anything, but he was also not on the verge of heart failure either, or hiding in his Bible. In fact, he was moving quickly and apparently excitedly my way, and smiling as though I were a longlost friend.

“Hello,” he said, waving.

I tentatively waved back, but something seemed off. Eventually I realized he was looking just to the left of me, where stood a mostly nude, older, blonde woman in ministerial collar and simple black shoes. She scowled at the smiling Winterly and lifted a paper cup to her lips, so she could avoid greeting him.

“The first thing I wanted to say,” Pastor Winterly told her, “is, I’m sorry.”

She stared at him intently, measuring his honesty. Slowly, gradually, the scales tipped his way, the blonde woman softened, she lowered her eyes briefly, and when she brought them up again, they were shining with unexpected brightness.

“It’s all right,” she said, smiling. “I’m a bit sorry myself.”

“I did as you suggested, and I fear I came up short on anything in
my
Bible,” my erstwhile traveling companion said.

“Of course you did,” she told him.

“I must admit,” Winterly admitted. “I was amazed.”

“I knew you would be.”

“So—you truly think God is a nudist?”

My eyes went wide. Sometime later I was going to have to get the full, unabridged story on this from the pastor. And as you can likely tell from my earlier description of the scene, I did. Isn’t time a wonderfully unique and fluid thing in a novel? Perhaps that’s why it’s called—a
‘novel’
. Because it is. Novel. One of the reasons anyway, and...yes, I know. I digress.
Yet again
.

“I
like
to think He’s a nudist,” the woman in the collar said. “But—really—honestly—we both know the story of Adam and Eve is simply a parable. A metaphor of sorts.”

“For what?” the pastor asked. The male. The one in clothes. Apparently
not
‘knowing’ anything of the kind.

“For teenagers leaving the home,” the pastor without clothes said.

“What?”

“It’s a story to illustrate the inevitability of growing, maturing, and finding your own way. Didn’t you know?”

Of course, he didn’t. Wasn’t that clear by now? It certainly was to me.

“It’s a fable,” the collared woman continued, “constructed to show how, at some point in our lives, we must challenge the wisdom of the all-knowing parent and eventually leave, by choice or by force, the perceived utopia of our home where all our needs are met and all our cares are simple. Girls become fertile women, men become hunter-gatherers, and they must make their way in a harsh, unforgiving, and often seemingly barren world.”

She studied his flabbergasted face and chuckled a bit, surprised. “You really didn’t know that?” she asked again.

“No, but…” He paused, and briefly thought about it. He seemed, for a moment, about to say something else, then instead he said: “What a…
useful
story.”

“Indeed,” she agreed. “If you read it the right way, the Bible’s full of great stuff like that.”

The two continued talking, smiling and laughing, lost in one another in a way that seemed more than just two professionals sharing common wisdom. I would have been fascinated to stay and learn more about this turn of events in my pastor’s life, particularly if it meant they might have sex in public, but there was an urgent mission at hand.

“Morgan,” I said, finally remembering he was there. You forgot too, didn’t you? “We have to find Wendy.”

“Sure,” he said, seemingly incapable of tearing his eyes away from the female minister’s ample bosom. “Why?”

“Morgan!” someone called, interrupting his focus and mine, and we each scanned around looking for the source of the voice.

It was Sophie, our bouncy hotel receptionist, and she was obviously delighted to see both Morgan and myself. Perhaps we
should
go on a crime spree together. After skipping from The Headless Horseman with the intent of not paying, we were sort of on our way to that promising new career anyway.

Sophie bounced up to us and took Morgan’s hand. He was as surprised as I was.

“I didn’t miss it, did I?” she asked. “I got here as soon as I could.”

“I don’t think it’s even started yet,” I said.

“Oh,
grand!”
she squealed. People use the word ‘grand’? “Then let’s get something to eat. I’m starved!”

Morgan hesitated, and she pulled him along with some force. Apparently ‘let’s’, which is the contraction for ‘let us’, didn’t include the singular ‘me’.

“Come on,” Sophie demanded of Morgan, bouncily. “I’ll pay. I know you’re broke.”

A smile spread rapidly across Morgan’s face. A girl who was touching him
and
intending to pay. He was in heaven. This could work out after all.

“You two go ahead,” I told them unnecessarily. “I need to find Wendy.”

“Is she going to bid on River?” Sophie asked.

“Er…yes,” I said, nervous that she was apparently better versed in the plan than Morgan was.

“Try check-in,” she offered. “Everyone who bids is supposed to register first.”

Morgan wandered off at the giddy urging of Sophie, she clearly delighted to have the interest of a boy—any boy—even if it was only Morgan, and he clearly delighted at the faintest glimmer of getting laid.

Meanwhile, I headed the other way. I saw Petal working a small sign-up table near the stage and Play-Doh’ed myself through the crowd toward her.

“Hi, Petal,” I said pleasantly. “Is your sister around?”

Petal looked up at me with an expression that told me I had stepped in dog shit, and would I please go somewhere far away and wipe it off. With my tongue.

“She doesn’t want to see you,” Petal said. “And I can understand why. A lot of guys would kill for a girl like her, and here you come along and treat her like you could find three more better than she is next week, which you could
not
, so don’t sashay over to me with all that mister charming, rich guy, isn’t my penis cute, malarkey, and try to cozy up to me like I should still think you’d make a fun brother-inlaw or something, because you wouldn’t…”

“I know I could never find another like her, Petal,” I said, cutting in. “That’s why I came here. To bid on her, so she has to listen to me. Unfortunately…”

“Don’t,” a voice said from somewhere over my shoulder.

I turned and saw Wisper standing halfway up the stairs to the stage, glaring at me with more-or-less the same expression Petal had. Though with Wisper, I could practically taste the dog shit.

“Don’t even think about bidding on me,” she said. “I wouldn’t come with you, even if you won.”

She continued up the stairs without another word, or a second look.

“I thought this was for charity!” I called out to her magnificent bare back. “I think you should be more open to making money for a worthy cause!”

“So write a check and donate,” she said without turning around. “Then go home.”

I felt like I’d been stabbed in the hart. Or deer.

Pretty women dismiss men all the time. But there’s something profoundly devastating about having someone so incredible show she cares for you first, then rip that interest away. It makes you want to fight for it. To do anything within your power to reverse the situation and put it back like it was. Like it should be, and I started to tell her that.

“Do what she says,” an unusually high-pitched voice said from behind me, stopping me before I could speak again. It was a voice that sounded eerily familiar, like I’d heard it somewhere before.

I turned around and found myself staring directly into the eyes of ‘pants-hater’ from Nuckeby’s Bar and Grill. The voice that had told ‘Vincent’ to ‘drop’ me. The man who had kicked me in the temple when I was down.

Washburne. It had to be.

“Why?” I asked. “Afraid you might lose?”

“To you?” He almost laughed. “You’re too afraid to even take your pants off. I can’t imagine you’d have the guts to stick it out in a bidding war against me.”

“Don’t be so sure,” I said, more confidently than I felt.

He stared at me for a long moment, then appeared to reach some sort of conclusion that might be very painful for me indeed.

“Fine,” he said, still stifling a laugh. “Feel free to waste your time. It’s only money.” He began to walk away. “And you’ve already lost, no matter how courageously you bid.”

I glared at the back of his head and tried to explode his brain, but I didn’t have any superpowers. After a moment of desperately trying to ignite his hairline, I turned to Petal, hoping for support. She offered none. Not for me anyway.

“Never thought I’d see the day that I was rooting for Washburne Boone,” she said harshly.

“What do I have to do to bid?” I asked.

“Register,” Petal said dismissively. “Then call out amounts when the time comes. You never done an auction before?”

I had, but I said nothing and reached for the form in front of her. She abruptly got up from the table.

“Miss Kent will help you,” Petal said, indicating the pretty blonde beside her as she walked away. “I’m taking a break.”

The lovely Miss Kent, her face beautifully framed under an explosion of wild, wavy, golden hair, smiled at me sweetly and slid over a pen. “You can call me Prudence,” Prudence said.

“
Call her Miss Kent!
” Petal said angrily, as she stormed away.

We both looked at the Nuckeby sister, surprised, then turned back to one another and shrugged. Without another word, I began filling in the blanks on the sheet of paper.

The first question after name, address, and phone number?

Excellent question. Glad you asked.

“You’re about to sign a binding contract,” someone said behind me.

I turned and found myself looking directly into the face of a doughy, older man with an explosive shock of white hair that radiated out from his centrally located bald spot like an electrically charged feather-duster. He was smiling broadly, charmingly, and his voice whistled as he spoke through a distinct gap in his front teeth.

“I hope you’re aware of that,” he said, completing his thought, then held out a hand like a marshmallow with fingers. “Pizeley M. Boone,” he told me. “The ‘M’ stands for Mayor.”

He chuckled heartily at his little joke, and I smiled along with him.

“Of course I’m aware it’s a binding contract,” I said, not having been aware of anything, nor given it a moment’s thought. I wondered idly why the town’s mayor might feel the need to warn me personally, when I noticed Washburne standing off to one side, listening intently to our conversation.

Ah. So that’s how it was.

Washburne Boone. Pizeley M. Boone. The Boone stood for jerk apparently.

I thanked the mayor for his kind reminder and moved away to get a good spot near the front of the stage.

But suddenly I became a bit more concerned that I was now intending to bid freely, and madly, with money I didn’t have. I felt somehow naked, and ironically I was the only one for miles wearing pants.

The number of people auctioning themselves off seemed endless, which only gave me more time to vacillate about what I should do. Bid. Not bid. I had no money, so the answer should seem rather obvious, but your mind clearly functions at a higher level than mine.