Nude Men Page 9

  One day (I don’t know what possessed me) I remarked, “If you didn’t always frown, you wouldn’t look so much like a man.” Although I didn’t believe a word of this, I picked on her complex to eliminate the frown more efficiently. Well, she seemed so hurt, and was in such a bad mood for days afterward, that I never said anything of the sort again.

  My mother’s behavior with the porter surprised me. I’d never seen her act that way before, and I wondered what brought it on. I did not want to ask her about it when Sara was with us, because my mother might have felt too inhibited to answer me sincerely. But now is the perfect time. We are alone, standing in line for Journey into Imagination, which the guidebook describes as “an imaginative ride through the creative process.” Sara has left us to go to the bathroom and buy a snack.

  I know I must formulate my question in the shape of a compliment. It would be a mistake to simply ask, “Why did you treat the porter that way?” My mother would automatically take it as a criticism, get angry, and scream at me.

  “That was wonderful, the way you treated the porter,” I remark. Anyway, I did think it was wonderful.

  “Thank you,” she says, and does not say more, even though I give her a good full minute to do so.

  “Sometimes you surprise me by doing the most wonderful things,” I tell her.

  “Well, I would hope that my wonderful things don’t come as such a great surprise. They’re not that rare, after all. Why do you have to be so surprised?”

  I sense that this will be one of our convoluted conversations. In the past, I’ve tried every method imaginable to get out of them, but nothing ever works. My best bet is patience. I look at the people standing in line near us, hoping they all have many distractions and won’t be tempted to listen in on us. They would think we belong in a mental institution. In front of us is a mother talking loudly to her three children, who are playing loudly together. Good. I glance behind us. There are two men, about my age, thirtyish. They look rather sophisticated for Disney World. Tall. Educated. One of them has longish brown hair. They are both wearing shorts. They are tan. The other one is blond. They are the types of men women would prefer to me. I could not imagine living creatures more out of place at Disney World than these two men, especially their combination. They are talking to each other. Anyway, they look discreet, as if they wouldn’t stoop to eavesdropping.

  “I’m sorry,” I tell my mother. “I didn’t express myself clearly. I simply meant that such wonderful behavior is rare in anyone. I know very few people who would have had the courage or the wit to even attempt to treat the porter that way, not to mention the mastery with which you carried out the operation.”

  “Oh, spare me, Jeremy.”

  “I mean it.”

  “So do I.”

  When she talks, my mother is sure of herself. She articulates well- Her tone is clear, confident, authoritative, and powerful. It makes anything she says sound intelligent. I did not inherit her talent, but sometimes when I speak to her, I feel I’m able to imitate it.

  “I’m sorry,” I say. “What interests me is this: I’ve never seen you treat a man the way you treated the porter, in that clever way. I’d like to know if there was a specific reason.”

  “Yes. It’s because I never really knew men before.”

  “What an intriguing thought. You’ve piqued my curiosity.”

  “It was already piqued.”

  “Right again.”

  “I was not right before. How can I be right again?”

  I look around in embarrassment. The two men are still talking. “Because you are always right,” I tell my mother.

  “But not in a specific way in this conversation.”

  “Right again.”

  “This time it fits, because I was right before,” she says. “What did you mean when you said you never really knew men before?”

  “Okay, you want to get back to the subject. Giving some sort of warning is more polite than just barging rudely back in.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “I don’t care if you are. That’s not the logical thing to say at this point. I’m merely teaching you something that you should already know.”

  “Would you like to get back to our conversation?”

  “It’s that sort of warning I mean, but you do it so clumsily. A better way is to say, ‘As we were saying...’ Or, even better, ‘I don’t mean to interrupt you, but our conversation was so agreeable that I would love to continue it from where we left off, if you would like to.’ ”

  I glance back. They’re still talking.

  “As we were saying,” I say, “what did you mean when you said you never really knew men before?”

  “You chose the less good way. I can’t believe it. Just to upset me. I told you the second way was better than the first way, and you went ahead and used the first way.”

  “I’m sorry, but the second way was too hard to remember. It was long.”

  “I marvel at your lack of shame in admitting the weakness of your mind. What is even worse than having a weak mind is not having the shame to hide the fact.”

  “I don’t mean to interrupt you, but our conversation was so agreeable that I would love to continue it from where we left off, if you would like to.”

  “You’re now using the second way, which means you lied when you said it was too long to remember. What is even ruder and more obnoxious than having a weak mind and not having the shame to hide it is to purposefully reveal the fact that you lied at an earlier point in a conversation.”

  We’re already in it so deep, I may as well just charge ahead, even if they’re listening.

  “Yes,” I say. “What did you mean when you said you never really knew men before?”

  “I meant that recently I have discovered them in a new way.”

  “Oh, really.”

  “What way,” says my mother.

  “What?”

  “What way,” she repeats.

  “What do you mean?”

  “What way.”

  “What way?”

  “Through books,” she says.

  “Through books.” I take a Kleenex out of my pocket and wipe my forehead.

  “No need to repeat what I say. You can come up with something a little more original.”

  “What aspects of men have you discovered recently through books?”

  “You don’t need to repeat ‘through books.’ We’ve already said it many times.”

  “What aspects of men?”

  “A certain aspect. A certain way that they think about women.”

  I nod encouragingly.

  “I need sound,” she says.

  “Hmm.”

  “I mean words.”

  “Go on.”

  “Men, in the books I’ve read, say and think things like: ‘That cute little cunt Cindy.’ And the narrator says, concerning the main character: ‘Intelligence in women has never much interested him.’ And then this one: the male character thinks, ‘She does know something. All cunts know something.’ ”

  “I read that book!” I exclaim. “It’s John Updike’s Rabbit Is Rich, right?” I don’t mind if they hear me now. In fact, I’m sure they’d be impressed that I was able to recognize a novel simply by hearing some of its sexist lines. I glance back to check if they’re listening. They’re not talking, but they’re not looking at us either. They’re watching people walk by.

  “So it shocked you also,” she says.

  “That’s not the word, exactly—”

  “Don’t deny my feelings.”

  “I’m not. I’m expressing mine.”

  “Well,” she says, “it was unpleasant to learn such things from those books. And the only way men will change—and I’m not talking about you; you’re not a man—is for women to talk about men in the same way. And we’ll just see how pleasant men find that.”

  The children in front of us are playing more loudly than ever, and their mother is screaming at them. Good. Hopefully, their nois
e completely muffled what my mom just said.

  “What do you mean, I’m not a man?” I ask softly, close to her face.

  “Don’t change the subject.”

  I grab her arm, a bit tightly. “What do you mean, I’m not a man?” My voice wavers. I knew she had a low opinion of me, but this beats everything.

  “Why do men find it so upsetting to be told they are not real men?” she says, disengaging her arm.

  “It has nothing to do with gender,” I tell her. “Women find it upsetting to be told they are not women. What do you mean, I’m not a man?”

  “Don’t take it so badly. I meant it as a compliment. I meant you are a person. People are individuals, first and foremost. Then they have ages. Then they have nationalities. Then they have race. Then they have religion. Then they have social class. Then they have childhood and education. And then they are females or males, but that’s far down the list. You are a person. You don’t have all the jerkiness that the majority of men have. Or do you? Do you ever act or think in any way that is degrading to women?”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “I know you don’t. That sole quality makes up a hundred times for all your other weaknesses combined.”

  “Thank you.” That’s got to be the nicest thing my mom has said to me in years.

  I glance back. To my great embarrassment, the two men are staring at me silently. I smile faintly, to seem at ease, and turn away.

  Disney World: Bright pastel colors everywhere. Everything so happy. The people so fat, and so much flesh uncovered, and thick lips eating hot dogs, and shorts bunched up in the crotches because the big thighs pull them up at every step, and the other fat families taking turns being pushed in the wheelchairs that you can rent.

  Sara tells us she has a new philosophy of life. She explains it like a scientist: “The solutions to problems are in the words themselves. For example, the solution, when you’re depressed, is that you’ve got to take a deep rest. Get it?”

  “How tall are you?” my mother asks Sara.

  “Five feet seven and a quarter.”

  I’m sure she’s telling the truth, because I’m five ten, and she’s just about three inches shorter.

  “That’s very tall for a girl with such a low number,” says my mom.

  “What number?” asks Sara.

  “Your age. Eleven is a low number, wouldn’t you say?”

  “No. I’d say it’s a young age.”

  “No. It’s a low number. That’s more objective. Just because you’ve only lived a few years doesn’t mean you’re young. Especially in your case,” she says, sweeping her eyes very notice-ably over Sara’s body. “It just means your number is low.”

  Sara nods, as though she understands, accepts, and likes this.

  We go to pavilions called Horizons, Universe of Energy, and World of Motion, in which there are little train rides, meant to be educational. We are all sitting there, in the vehicles, watching with great boredom the fake-looking Audio-Animatronics (these are life-size dolls that move a bit, accompanied by spoken words). Not one of us three wants to be here, not even Sara. I am certain, I instinctively know with every shred of my being, that she insists on going on these rides to find opportunities of getting closer to me, of manipulating me and charming me in every imaginable way. My mother goes on these rides because she doesn’t want to miss a moment of being with me. I go on these rides because we are a sandwich, and I am the baloney.

  Some of the lines are long, thirty minutes or more. My mother is complaining, so I tell her she can go walk around with Sara while I stand in line. Sara says no, she wants to wait in line with me, but she encourages my mother to walk around. My mother leaves us (to my great surprise, because for the first time on this trip, she is going to miss a few minutes of my presence). Sara is in a fine mood. She is nice to me.

  “How much do you weigh?” my mother asks Sara. “About one hundred and fifteen pounds.”

  * * *

  Sara acts languorous, like a cat, draping herself over the seats of the rides. Every chance she gets, she hugs me with fright. She plasters her body against mine.

  My mother says, “Look at that cute little prick over there. Nice and fresh. Right out of the oven.”

  But what’s the point? No one hears her. I guess she’s just venting her anger. I guess it’s just the principle of it.

  To Sara, it’s like a game. She tries to be seductive when my mother is not looking. It makes me very uncomfortable, to say the least. She gives me furtive kisses, not on the mouth but, still, nearby. I want to say, “Mommy, did you see what she did to me? Make her stop.” The few times that my mother does see something, she says, “Aw, it’s so cute.”

  Sara says, “When you’re solitary, and it’s a problem, the antidote is in the word. Soul it airy. Which means you’ve got to make your soul more airy and light. People will like you more if you’re less serious, and you won’t be solitary anymore.”

  I am very physically attracted to Sara. She is extremely sensuous, in addition to being beautiful. Very supple. What she wears looks absurdly, grotesquely sexy on her. Just shorts, not particularly tight, not particularly short. Flat shoes. She also wears miniskirts, but they are not tight; they are full and loose and totally appropriate for her age. She wears no makeup and looks all the more stunning for it. She is very physical with me, always touching me. I wonder if she’s the type of person who is always touching everybody or just always touching me. In any case, she’s not always touching my mother.

  She sometimes gets mad that I don’t respond to her caresses and kisses and cuddles. She tries to make me jealous by pointing to older men she finds attractive. Also very old men.

  My mother makes kissing sounds to passing men.

  “That’s not in those books!” I tell her.

  “No, but it’s all coming back to me now.”

  We buy Mickey Mouse masks. Mickey Mouse for me, Minnie Mouse for Sara. My mom refuses to get grandma Minnie Mouse, even though they have one. She gets no mask.

  I try to flirt with women, so that Sara will see I’m interested in women my own age. I also try to get her to be interested in little boys.

  Sara points to an old man in a wheelchair and says, “Isn’t he good-looking? He’s so charming.”

  I look at her, shocked, and realize it’s not only to make me jealous that she does this; it’s to show me that she likes older men and that if I don’t give in, another man probably will.

  A few minutes later I point to a five-year-old boy and say, “Isn’t he good-looking? He’s so charming. You should go talk to him.”

  She bangs her shoulder against mine and says, “Oh, yeah, right.”

  “Hello,” says my mother, in a small, suggestive voice, to men who walk by.

  Sara has the face of a child. I cannot be in love with that beautiful child’s face. It’s just too young.

  “Pretty,” says my mother to men.

  My mother does not have a very high opinion of me. She finds me socially inept and retarded. “What is even worse than being incompetent with your career and your love life,” she tells me, “is being inept at everyday life.” She feels sorry for me and is probably very embarrassed by me, but she doesn’t want to hurt me. She feels it’s good for me to be with her, that it can only help me. When she’s harsh, it’s not because she dislikes me. In fact, she often says, “I love you and just want what’s good for you. You need to be shaken up a bit.” I don’t take it too personally.

  My mother complains to Sara about me. Sara complains to my mother about me, saying things like: “Don’t you think he should let himself go a little more? Don’t you think he’s too stiff and constipated?”

  “I agree,” says my mom. “That’s what I’ve been telling him for years.”

  “He’s always so worried about doing what’s proper.”

  “Couldn’t agree more.”

  We go back to the hotel at around five, because Sara has a headache and wants to rest.


  Right after dinner, my mother goes to her room to sleep. Sara comes to my room and begins to talk about things; I’m not sure what things, because I’m so tense. She seems very relaxed.

  She keeps talking about me, analyzing me, telling me what she likes about me. She shows off her flesh. I’m not sure if she’s doing it on purpose or if it’s just me, old pervert that I am, noticing it. If she is doing it on purpose, she has a talent for it, because it looks very natural. She reeks of childishness. Smooth cartoonish skin. Even the slightly uncoordinated movements of children. She looks like putty, like if I press her arm, it’ll change shape and stay that way.

  As we talk, she insists on sitting next to me, with my arm wrapped around her. She cuddles in the hollow of my armpit. “You’re my teddy bear,” she says, which is music to my ears. That’s the kind of attitude I like. The innocent, friendly one. At one point she walks over to the door and spins around. She starts singing “Tonight” from West Side Story. She walks slowly toward me, perfectly serious, with an intense expression on her face, singing: “Tonight, tonight, there’s only you tonight. Tonight there will be no morning star. Tonight, tonight...”

  She finally reaches me and begs me to sing with her. I object quite energetically, telling her I can’t sing at all. She insists even more energetically, and we start singing the duo, her cheek glued to mine, my voice sounding like I don’t know what. In fact, I’m not really singing, I’m talking.

  She finally goes to her room to sleep.

  * * *

  The next day Sara wants to do Horizons again. So we do it again, even though Mom doesn’t really want to.

  We then go to MGM Studio, taking the shuttle bus at around 4:00 p.m. We take a ride called “Backstage Studio Tour.” We only do the first half, which is on trams and lasts twenty-five minutes. There’s a scary part when our tram goes over a bridge, which starts shaking, and fire appears everywhere, and a huge amount of water comes crashing toward us. The fire is hot, and the people on the left side of the tram get wet. We are on the right side. The second half of the tour, which we don’t do, lasts forty-five minutes and is on foot.