Pike's Folly (14 page)

2

For days, Marlene wouldn't step out of the house. She'd lost her job, so there was no need to get up at any particular time. No need to do anything, really. She would've killed herself if there'd been a point to it, which there wasn't. She ate only one meal— a can of Campbell's Chunky Soup—and that was it for the day. At first she'd stopped drinking, then went back to it with a vengeance. Her own body disgusted her. She was paranoid and frightened of the telephone. Her parents had called several times, but she was too embarrassed to talk to them. Stuart couldn't get through to her either, and she feared he'd stopped trying. They still slept together but hadn't once had sex since her arrest.

The police, as it turned out, had been exceptionally nice to her. She'd already made her court appearance, where she'd pleaded guilty to one count of public indecency. She'd offered no excuse, just looked at the courtroom floor and let the tears fall as Judge Caprio sentenced her to a small fine and sixty hours of community service. The judge was not a cruel man; he knew a broken woman when he saw one. Imposing his punishment, he ordered her to report back in the morning for her work assignment. The task was fairly easy and involved canvassing for voter registration, which both parties in the statehouse had made an election-year priority. Her spiel was written out on an index card, along with half a dozen follow-up questions, so there was no way to screw it up. The job appealed to her, and even after the sixty hours were up, she continued to solicit people from her phone at home. She herself had no opinions about political issues; she'd never voted in her life and didn't consider herself qualified to make such important decisions.

As to her previous habits, she'd stopped—simple as that. She stopped lounging naked around the house and even slept in her clothes, undressing only to take a bath or a shower. She hated her body. It hurt that people thought of her as a sexual deviant.

Almost as a penance, she went up to Stuart's office one day and logged onto the Internet. Surely she wasn't the only person who'd gone down this same confused path. Public nudity wasn't the worst crime in the world; there was rape, and bestiality, and premeditated murder. Googling “public lewdness” had brought up a fairly uninspiring list of legal briefs and court cases, nothing that she could really sink her teeth into. She wanted testimonials, firsthand accounts from people just like her.

By chance, she stumbled upon a page called
secret-exhibitionist.org
, a very popular site, judging by the number of hits on its counter. The main page originated in Britain, with postings from all over the world, some dating back more than three years. A full three-quarters of these were from men, but the ladies chimed in as well, just as shamelessly and aggressively. One wrote: “I discovered this website today, and I can't tell you how delighted I am. I used to think that I was the only person who liked to go au naturel in public, but I can tell that there's a lot of us out there. Thank you! Thank you!”

Other friendly, supportive contributors forwarded their responses to the woman's story:

“Welcome!!! Sounds like you had one hell of a night. Keep it up, and let us know the next time you do something crazy.”

“I had a similar experience when I was in La Junta, Colorado. One word of advice: you should always keep an extra change of clothes hidden if you plan on going out for more than a few miles. It can take a little preparation, but it'll save you a lot of trouble in the end. Other than that, good work. BTW: Anyone want to trade pix of PN in urban settings? I have construction sites, abandoned factories, highway overpasses. Daytime only, please. No shoes.”

“SandyS, you are a madwoman. I'd love to live in your building. Good for you. Don't let anyone tell you otherwise. Have you ever considered doing a 48-hour nude? It can get boring but it's a fun way to spend the weekend.”

For several minutes, all Marlene could do was stare at the screen. The sheer quantity of the postings was impressive. Public nudity was everywhere, in stores, parking lots, every conceivable mode of mass transit. The idea bothered her. She felt as though something tiny and fragile had been taken from her and stretched out of shape, made grotesque. According to these people, public nudity was like a sporting event, with its own lingo and code of ethics. “Secret exhibitionism”—a term Marlene had never heard before—was defined as “the display of the unclothed human body in places and situations where nudity is not permitted by law or social custom.” Fair enough. But why sound so clinical about it? This was a
compulsion,
not a sport. No equipment, no qualifying rounds, no tips from the experts. Just nightmares, and anxiety, and self-doubts. One or two brief glorious moments, but that was it.

While Marlene began spending all her time on the Net, Stuart had worries of his own. He still owed his publisher what his contract referred to as “The Work,” for which he'd been paid more than half of the money promised him as an advance against royalties. Weeks ago, his agent had given him a new deadline for the book. Write an outline, he'd suggested, something to get the ol' wheels spinning. Problem was, Stuart didn't know where to begin. An outline? Whatever for? Why not outline the stages of his emotional breakdown instead? His mounting depression, the chapter-by-chapter dissolution of his marriage. That'd thrill everyone. Stu, his agent would say, whaddaya doin' to me here? You're giving me garbage. I've got cookbooks to sell, self-help guides, stop smoking, stop eating, stop jerking off ten times a day. You're too depressing, man. Too wrapped up in your own head. There's gotta be some sizzle, an element of fun. Don't judge people just because they don't want to read about your miserable life.
I
don't want to read about your miserable life either, about your wife's kinky sex hang-ups or the fact you can't keep your clothes on for more than five minutes. That's icky, man. Gross. Too much fuckin' information. Write a book about George Washington. Write about the history of prostitution. Gene splicing, Jacques Cousteau. Something specific. When people read a book, they want to feel like they're learning something. What are they learning from you? They're learning dick, they're learning cock, they're learning ass, they're learning fucking on the front lawn. This is advice from a friend, Stu. You did the self-indulgent thing once. You can't do it again. Write about big-band music. Sophocles. Sophocles' sister. Write about art!

These days, Stuart didn't want to write about anything. When it came right down to it, even he could see through his own act. He knew he wasn't the “sharp, smart voice of his generation,” as his publicist had once described him. He wasn't smart or sharp or any of that. He was an airhead. A dodo, a moron. Whatever those other geniuses had, he didn't have it. It was an easy enough matter to get the publicity blurbs together and make everything look peachy from a distance, but up close, there wasn't much there. He was lucky, that was all. His book was a souvenir. His career, a joke.

Still, he did his best. He tried writing an outline, just as his agent had suggested. After a few days, he gave it a title, changed Characters A, B and C to real names and got started on a draft. Marlene was so out of it that he could easily imagine she wasn't even there, and his mind returned to when he was writing
My
Private Apocalypse,
living as a single man in his single-room apartment. Then as now, writing helped to ground and protect him; if not for his work, he would've succumbed to worse habits.

One spring morning, he set his notebook aside and walked to the Citizens Bank on Brook Street. Marlene had been dismissed six weeks ago, but neither of them had worked up the courage to pick up her belongings. She certainly wasn't going to do it, so that left him with the job. The walk was peaceful and pleasant; now that the college kids had all gone home, the locals could reclaim the area around Brook and Thayer. He smiled as he walked past a sushi restaurant near campus. His stomach was growling, and he weighed the happy idea of treating himself to a nice lunch.

Carla Marshall was working at the bank that morning and waved when he entered the building. The other tellers and financial consultants looked up from their desks and stared. He could feel his face turn red, so he made a direct diagonal across the banking floor to Marlene's old office. Someone had put her things in an open cardboard box that sat in the middle of the otherwise bare desk. The cubicle walls afforded him some privacy, so he sat down and looked through the box: a calendar; a coffee mug with a brown halo-stain in the bottom; pictures of Stuart, her parents, someone's baby—probably a coworker's; pens, paperweights and an unopened pack of chewing gum.

A voice interrupted him. “We thought we'd never see you again.”

Carla was standing inside the cubicle. He blushed, wondering how long she'd been watching him. She'd always struck him as an exceptionally sexy woman, in a trashy, ex-stripper sort of way. She and her husband, Bill, were both huge stoners, and generally good for some high-quality hash whenever Stuart and Marlene came over for drinks.

“How's Marlene?” she asked.

Stuart gazed down and saw she was pumping her right foot in and out of her shoe. No point in pretending; he stared at it, then back up at her face. “Not too good,” he said. “We hardly talk anymore, and when we do, she's out to lunch.”

She tsked sympathetically. “Poor kid. Marlene always takes it on the chin. And what about you?”

He shrugged. “I'm all right. We're just trying to get through this together.”

Stepping back into her shoe, she sat in the empty chair across from Marlene's desk. “To be honest with you, Stuart, I tried convincing our regional managers not to let her go but no dice. You know how conservative bankers are.”

It'd been so long since he'd spoken to a woman other than Marlene that he felt like flirting with her. “You're not conservative,” he said.

She laughed. “No, I'm not. I think what Marlene did was really cool. I could never do that. I'm so self-conscious about my body.”

Sure you are,
he thought.

“By the way,” she said, “my offer about Martha's Vineyard still stands. We're going up this weekend.”

He hesitated. “I don't know, Carla. I don't know if she's ready for that yet.”

“Ask her. She needs to get out of the house. You both do.” Carla's bright, super alert blue eyes held his own for a moment, then blinked away. “I don't see what the big deal is. In Europe, people walk around naked all the time. One of Bill's friends is a photographer from Paris. He's got a whole Web site filled with pictures of girls wandering around Europe without any clothes on. City streets, parks, everything. It sounds like fun to me.”

Stuart smiled. “Well, maybe we'll move to Europe someday.”

Carla's laughter sounded forced, as if she hadn't actually heard him. “Look at it like this—at least it'll give you something to write about.”

Ah, yes: good advice. Even a passing conversation with Carla wasn't possible without his writing coming up. Because she'd once seen a profile of John Grisham on
60 Minutes,
she believed that all writers were the near-equivalent of movie stars, if slightly less recognizable on the street. He'd tried explaining that, unlike John Grisham, he wasn't swimming in royalty checks, and that only a handful of people had actually read his book from beginning to end. She didn't buy it and felt he was being falsely modest. Why argue with her? he wondered. Let her think what she wants. At least someone's impressed.

Carla's habit of slipping her shoe on and off was making him horny, so he said goodbye and hurried home to his wife. Marlene was in the kitchen when he returned, frying an egg on the stove. He crept up behind her, then reached out and turned off the burner.

“Hon, don't do that,” she said. “It's not finished cooking.”

“I don't care.” His kisses were everywhere: her mouth, her chin, the side of her neck. “I need you. Right now. Please, hon, I'm going crazy.”

“Cut it out, Stuart. Now I'm going to have to start all over.”

“Who cares? Let's go upstairs. I want to see you naked.”

“It's too soon.” Squirming away, she carried the frying pan over to the sink and dumped the egg down the drain. “I've been through a lot, Stuart. Don't blame me for being upset.”

“I
don't,
Jesus, but come on—you weren't raped, Marlene. You were arrested. It happens.” He followed her to the kitchen counter. “I'm sorry, this is just driving me insane. I've got cabin fever. It's just you and me in this little apartment, and . . . you won't let me touch you. You won't talk to me, you won't even look at me. You're not looking at me right now.” She glanced up at him, then down again. “Let's go away for awhile. We need a change of pace.
I
do.”

“You can go without me,” she muttered.

“I don't want to. Look.” He took both of her hands in his. “Let's go to Martha's Vineyard. This weekend. I ran into Carla Marshall at the bank. She wants us to come, both her and Bill. You can bring a book and lie on the beach. Whatever you want to do. Please, Marlene.”

“Go by yourself.”

“Why do you keep saying that?”

“Because no one likes me.”

“Carla does. She told me just today. She even said that she tried to get your job back, but her bosses wouldn't listen.” This ought to have made her feel better, but it didn't seem to. “What can it hurt? We'll go for a few days—a week, if you want. Come on, you've been talking about this for months.”

Her eyes avoided his. “It's just too much right now. I'm sorry, Stuart.” She knew she was disappointing him but couldn't help it. “I don't deserve you. You should be with someone else. Someone who's beautiful and intelligent, who doesn't complain all the time and isn't a big drunk.”