Like Warm Sun on Nekkid Bottoms - Charles Austen [83]
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