Like Warm Sun on Nekkid Bottoms - Charles Austen [84]
“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.
The inscription on the golden plate attached to the plinth the statue rested on, read:
HOMER NIKKID
FOUNDER
BE HONEST * BE MORAL * BE COMFORTABLE
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.
Just shoes.
A pair of naked old men played checkers in front of