Here is the first in a series of narratives taken straight out of my life. The names of the characters have been changed. Enjoy.
-Jonny
June 2000: Fort Lauderdale, FL
It’s a thick summer night in south Florida and I’m alone on a dark beach. Luckily the ocean breeze comes through like a knife and cuts holes in the humidity so folks can breathe. Truth be told, it’s only sort of dark. It’s well lit enough. Some of the hotels along the water have floodlights that stretch all the way to the water and the moon is out in full force. This is unfortunate.
The three things you need to know about this evening are as follows.
1. I’m standing here like some sort of stupid animal, lost for options and wondering where to go next or what to do. As I stand I figure there are two main traits that separate humans from the animals. One is reason, abstract thought and all that that entails. Our ability to love, complex emotions, rationality, etc. The second, much simpler trait, is clothes.
2. I, like the animals, am naked.
3. This story is completely true.
So here I am, naked as a chicken bone and near as thin on a public beach in southern Florida. How can a person whose ability to reason is (allegedly) intact find himself in such a situation? To find out, we have to go back an hour or so.
My friends Darren, Trent and I are sitting in our hotel room. It’s getting on in the week and we’ve seen a lot of what Fort Lauderdale has to offer. Tonight we’re in the mood for trouble. Not the real sort of trouble that leaves people in ditches with addictions or with bounties on their heads. This is the kind of trouble that parents can laugh about five, maybe even two, years down the road. Fun trouble: the mistress and scourge of the slightly untamed youth.
“Let’s go streaking,” Darren says.
He says it just like that, as if he were suggesting a trip to Dunkin Donuts.
“Streaking?” says Trent.
“Yes. Streaking. We’ll go streak on the beach.”
“I don’t know,” I say.
“Why not? Why am I always the one that has to do the crazy stuff?”
“Darren, you don’t have to do anything.”
“Yeah, but I do, and you guys always laugh.”
“That’s true." Sigh. "All right,” I say. “Let’s go streaking.”
I know what you’re all thinking. You’re thinking, Why? (Well, maybe you’re actually thinking what a poor negotiator I am. That’s fair. But that’s not the point.) If you’re wondering Why, please understand that there
is no Why. Hijinks such as these are low grade anarchy. One takes part just to see what will happen.
“Wait,” I say, “We should probably at least wear our bathing suits on the way so we can get across the street to the beach without getting arrested or something.” See? Reason still in tact. Not firing on all six cylinders, perhaps, but running nonetheless.
“All right, we’ll do that.”
So it’s settled. We’re already in our trunks because we’ve been lounging around our hotel pool and hot tub all evening.
We head through our slightly dingy, coral tinted “lagoon style” pool area, out a squeaky metal gate that slams behind us, and into the street. We wait out a stream of traffic and cross the well lit road.
The beach seems dark at first, our irises still shy from the fake orange light of civilization merely ten yards behind us. The ocean’s waves hit the beach softly, playfully even, deceptive messengers of the unbridled chaos hidden within her depths.
“Seems pretty empty.” Darren’s analysis is simple.
“Yeah, shouldn’t be too bad,” says Trent.
“Let’s do this thing before I lose my nerve,” I say.
“All right, ready, and GO!”
The last vestiges of Sanity floating somewhere around my left cerebellum give one last protest, but I turn them a deaf ear, so they abandon ship. I’ll hear nothing of Sanity now. It’s naked time. I yank my shorts down and in one flash of mad glory there’s nothing left between me and Africa but the Atlantic ocean.
The effect is startling. “This is it,” is all I can think. “You’re really naked in public. You’ve done it. Congratulations.” (Remember, Sanity gone.)
My sudden awareness of the breeze kicks in. I’d be lying if I said it was unpleasant, but the ultimate effect isn’t flattering, so I burst into a run. That’s all I can think to do. I run the way God intended. I run naked down that beach.
As my legs pump harder and the Adrenaline-Instinct section of my brain kicks in (which, by the way, seems to be enjoying his run of the place with Sanity having gone ahead and pissed off out the door), I realize first that I’m alone. That is to say, Darren and Trent, having also plucked up the courage to go full glory, have both run off in separate directions. Next, I realize that the beach isn’t as empty as we had thought. Adjustment to the light reveals a smattering of walkers and late night loungers. I start to feel slightly self-conscious.
“But wait.” It’s Brain again. “Adrenaline’s telling me we ought to do something crazy. It’s now or never. No fear. Look, just ahead. A whole group of adults.”
Brain’s right. There’s a group of fifty-somethings ahead, maybe six or seven of them sitting in beach chairs, relaxing, talking and drinking beers. “All right, Brain,” I think, “You’re on.”
I set them in my sights and charge at full tilt. I’m right on them now. They all see me. They see all of me. And I don’t care. I am Bacchus, naked god of wine and sensual pleasures as I skip about their circle, relishing every wide eye and shocked look. I am free at last, unencumbered by the shame of knowledge. I am a floating spirit on the winds of the ocean. I am…stuck in their fishing lines.
In the darkness I have failed to see their five giant fishing poles stuck upright in the sand, lines taut in constant struggle with the surf. And now they have me. I begin floundering about in a mad bid for freedom, a wild animal caught in an unintended trap.
Roars of laughter.
In a matter of seconds I’ve gone from uninhibited child of the earth to captive idiot, the unwitting entertainment for a rabble of strangers. I lift my leg and pull down, I turn, I finagle, I twist and wrench, and suddenly, I’m free. I dart off like a deer, the sound of raucous laughter following me all the way down the beach.
I’m winded and disoriented when I stop. I've looped and run back toward where we began, but I can’t seem to find the spot where we left our swimming trunks lying in the sand. I don’t worry too much about it because, if history is any indicator, my sense of direction has most likely led me to the wrong spot and our trunks will be lying safe and sound where we left them, wherever that is. After a few seconds Darren and Trent come back laughing. They see me and I tell them about the fifty-somethings and the fishing lines.
“Where are our shorts?” I ask the group at large.
“Right here, where we left…” Darren trails off.
“So this is the spot where we left them?”
“Yes, right here next to the first bench before the pier. I made a note of it.”
“Shit,” Trent says.
“What do we do now?” I ask.
“We’ve got to find them,” Darren says. “It’s possible someone hid them as a joke. It’s our only hope.”
He’s right. the only other option is going back across that busy street naked. So we begin a comb of the surrounding area. We check trash cans, underneath benches, underneath the pier. Nothing.
In desperation, we begin asking people. It’s dark enough, in this section of the beach particularly, that people can’t tell that we’re naked until we’re right up on them. First, a young couple. We approach, hands in place, concealing as much as we possibly can. It’s a bizarre, new experience, to be sure. No longer running at full speed in adrenaline-addled fury, we’re approaching complete strangers absolutely naked. It’s like a nightmare come true. “Hi, um, have you guys by any chance seen three pairs of shorts lying around anywhere?”
The girl gasps and turns her head into her boyfriend’s shoulder, quaking with laughter. The guy, barely concealing a sympathetic smirk, informs us that he has not. We try again, an older gentleman, another young couple, a group of guys our age. No luck. After a while, we don’t even bother with the hand coverage. It’s amazing how the mind can adapt. It knows we’re out of options. It’s gone on to a new, nothing-to-lose level. Closer to the animals. I’m amazed how quickly shame is lost in times of desperation.
We decide to split up, finally, and see if by some miracle we can locate the shorts further down the beach. It’s a hopeless errand, really, but there’s no other choice. We are effectively stranded on this beach, an untraversable river of light and civilization (and possible law enforcement) between us and the nearest article of clothing.
So, here I am, naked and alone. I have no idea which way to go, where to look. There’s no point anyway. By now, I barely even register the snickers or shocked laughter from the occasional passerby. Naked is who I am. It’s a part of me.
“So, looks like you need me back after all, huh?”
Sanity. I’m reticent to let him back in, because Shame may follow close on his heels.
“Well tough luck. Why don’t you get your old friend Adrenaline to get you out of this one? Oh, wait! Adrenaline’s gone, and right when you needed him most!”
“You know, Sanity, it seems the bigger thing to do would be not to rub it in my face.”
“You’d think that, wouldn’t you? Oh well. Cheerio! Ahahahahahahaha!”
And with that he’s gone. Who would have thought Sanity would be so vindictive? I give up. I slink, shoulders slumped and ass cheeks bared back to our original spot. I plop down on the nearby park bench. Soon, Darren and Trent both return looking defeated as well. We sit in silence. No one knows what to say. What
can be said? We know it’s only a matter of time until someone is going to have to make a run for it across the street. But now, we’ll just wallow in defeat.
And then a beam of light hits us. I look to the right. Someone is approaching with a flashlight.
“Dudes, you gotta put on some clothes,” comes a commanding voice. It’s a cop. Now this is a familiar feeling. Immediately, my brain goes to work. What are we going to tell this guy? How are we going to get out of this? Unsurprisingly, I can’t come up with any solutions.
“We can’t. Someone stole them,” is my simple reply.
There’s a moment of silence. This is it, we’re sunk now. Going downtown for public indecency. My whole future flashes before my eyes: I’ll be labeled a danger to society, a pervert, a sex offender. All I wanted to do was run naked in the moonlight.
And then we hear…laughter. The cop is laughing at us. I’ve never been more delighted at my own ridicule. If Hollywood’s taught us anything, cops don’t arrest people they think are funny, right?
“Someone stole them? Like, someone took them from you?”
“Well, they took them from the spot where we, er…left them.”
He gets his radio and pushes the button to talk, still laughing. “Hey, yeah, I’m down at the end of Anglin’s fishing pier. Yeah. You gotta come see this.” He clicks his radio off, smiling. “Ok guys, just hold on a minute.”
Not even a minute later his partner shows up, thankfully carrying what appears to be a large yellow jacket. The first cop walks over to greet him, points at us, and yet another roar of laughter rises up at our expense.
“Ok,” he says, coming over. “You.” He points at me. “Put this fire jacket on and go wherever it is you’re staying and get some clothes.”
“Yeah, ok, we’re right across the street.”
When I return, clothed, with two other pairs of shorts, Darren, Trent and the cops are having an animated and frankly casual conversation. Darren is describing the whole event, including my entanglement with the fishing wires. The cops are lapping it up, genuinely laughing at every gag and instance of buffoonery.
So we make it out unscathed, and in the end all it costs us is a pair of shorts each. The cops tell us to try and quit streaking. We thank them and promise we will, and head back across the street for a well earned night’s rest.
“Well, I hope you learned a valuable lesson. Are you ready for me to move back in?”
“Sanity!” I think. “Yes, I’m ready. Let’s never fight again.”
The End?
