Like Warm Sun on Nekkid Bottoms - Charles Austen [97]
Beside him sat a younger man, perhaps my age or a bit older. A tad doughier than me, with a less noticeable penis—dinky, in Waboombas-speak—and anger in his face that made me physically flinch. For some reason, there was an almost pure kind of hatred in his eyes for me, yet I was positive I’d never seen him anywhere before now. What had I done to him? Was it just naked loathing for a clothed outsider? Did he have something personal against pants?
Between all the unexpected attention, and the human roadblock, I was thoroughly confused.
“Did I miss something?” I asked Tarzan. “I’m not planning to steal anything. I just need to get into that room so I can see…”
“My sister,” Tarzan said.
Oh.
Which made Ms. Nuckeby—what—Sheena? Weird.
“I know,” he continued. “I heard you at the front, and I heard you at your table. Let me repeat myself again for the hearing impaired. Not…gonna…happen.”
Her brother. Things made a little more sense now.
I noticed others near us had—like the gray-haired old doorstop, and angry ‘hates pants’ man—had stopped talking and begun paying very close attention to our conversation. This was a very small town. But was it possible Ms. Nuckeby’s business would be town business? Suddenly I remembered Wisper’s brother—or parts of him—as well as one or two of the others here from the bottom of the hill near the beach. They were the other naked people who had been standing behind my favorite waitress.
Then it struck me that they must have all been heading here. Of course Wisper’s business was their business. I was standing in Nuckeby’s.
Duh.
“I know why you’re here,” Tarzan said.
“You do?” I asked, surprised. Because I didn’t.
“You extremist out-of-towners are always coming into Green Valley—horny and pushy—thinking the local girls are an easy mark just because they’re not repressed like you and wearing clothes.”
Wait. I was the extremist?
“Prudes like you think nudity means we’re all free and loose, and will just do it in a storage closet with anybody who comes along.”
“No. You misunderstand. That’s not why I’m here. I’m here to…”
What was I here for?
I looked around and considered things. This answered some questions really. If this was her home—how she had grown up—it explained a lot about her behavior, and her comfort with being naked. But it also meant any relationship between us was utterly impossible. This was not my lifestyle, and I couldn’t imagine learning to be comfortable with someone for whom it was. I manufactured clothes for God’s sake. How could we reconcile such a chasm of difference? How would we raise the children? Where would we spend Christmas? Who would provide the towels?
Was I just looking for some quick sex in a storage closet with his sister? If he thought I was, I guess I could understand his hostility— although I still resented him for it.
“I’m just here to…“ I said, still trying to figure it out, “…apologize to her.”
“In a storage closet.”
“It was her idea. I thought you listened to our conversation.”
“Why do you need to apologize? What did you do to her?”
“So many things. But mostly…” I hesitated, fearing their reaction, “…it’s my fault she lost her job.”
There were a couple of gasps around the room, and—oddly— pants-hater smiled.
Smiled?
I turned back to Tarzan. Whatever pleasantness may have been lingering around in him fell out of his face, and he glared at me more intently.
“You Wopplesdown?”
His anger carried, and two more men sitting at a nearby table stopped talking and listened in.
“I’m a Wopplesdown.”
“What does that mean?”
“There are several of us. I’m Corky.”
He considered that for another moment. The two men listened more intently, the older one turning our way a bit and leaning out of his chair. Pants-hater really began to seethe.
“You the one called her agency?” the older man with the doorstop asked.
“No.”
“Then how did you make her lose her job?” wondered Tarzan. I looked him up and down, drawing out all my reserves of manhood. It was a quick draw.