“Sure thing. Here she is.” I gave Sarah the phone. It seemed as if things went better if I wasn’t around to hear half the conversation, so I went outside and stood on the balcony overlooking the parking lot. I thought it would be terrific if a green Mercedes SUV rolled in right then with Allie and a woman in it, but no such luck. The only thing that came in during the six or eight minutes Sarah was talking with Jeri was a Subaru Outback. A guy in his sixties and a woman about the same age got out and went into a room somewhere on the first floor. But it wasn’t a bad evening to hang out on a second-floor balcony while the girl I was going to spend the night with chatted with my purported fiancée.
Behind me, the door opened. Sarah gave me the phone. “Jeri wants to talk to you.”
“How’re you doin’, sweetheart?” I said. Sarah went back in the room and shut the door.
“It’s late. I’m already in bed. I just thought I’d phone before I conked out.”
“Big day tomorrow.”
“Uh-huh. I’m ready for it. And . . . Mort?”
“Yeah?”
“I had another talk with Sarah. I know you’ve got that one room, but she said there’s no way anything would happen with you. She just, you know, likes it when you, uh . . . notice her.”
“So I’ve noticed.”
“And I know you like to look. I mean, you’re a guy. It’s what guys do.”
“Yup. We’re pigs. It’s a tremendous defect, like not tightening lug nuts enough or keeping air filters clean.”
“No, it’s not. Girls look at guys, too. That’s what Thunder Down Under is all about, in case that got by you. I mean, I like to look.”
“You do?”
“Oh, for heaven’s sake. Yes. And . . .”
“And?”
“And if you didn’t like looking at women—I mean, Sarah, or girls in general—then I’d think you didn’t like looking at me either, and I would hate that.”
“I love the way you look, Jeri. And I think this one-room thing here in Bend was a lousy idea—not mine, by the way—so as soon as we end this call I’m going to go get another room.”
“No! I mean, no, don’t do that. Please don’t.”
“I don’t want you to worry, Jeri.”
“I’m not worried. This is getting tangled up, but it shouldn’t. It’s not that difficult. It’s just that I trust you—completely. And I trust Sarah, too. She and I had a good long talk. So I don’t want you to get another room because I don’t want you to think I think it’s necessary. It’s not.”
“Jeri—”
“Did she tell you about the bicycle thing in San Francisco? She didn’t, did she? I told her I would tell you later, when I get back, but now it looks like I’d better—”
My head spun. “Bicycle thing? What’s that?”
“I told her not to say anything, but now I’ve got to tell you. I was on a case in San Francisco earlier this year when they had this nude bicycle thing going on around the Embarcadero. I was on a sidewalk when hundreds of people came by on bicycles, a lot of them not wearing anything at all. Men and women. Almost all the women were topless. A lot of them were in body paint and nothing else, and some were completely naked, no body paint or anything. Everyone was having a lot of fun, and, well . . . maybe it’s weird but I wanted to join in. I wanted to be riding with them.”
What to say to that?
“Mort?”
“I’m here. I’m listening.”
“When they came by, I suddenly felt like crying. It was so real, all those naked people. So real. They could do that and I couldn’t. People were on the sidewalk with me, watching. It’s called the World Naked Bike Ride. It’s an organized thing, sort of official. Their slogan is, “As Bare As You Dare.” It’s supposed to be a protest, but I don’t think it is, really. It’s just people who decided it would be fun to be naked in public for a while, so they have to have a First Amendment reason to do it. There’s a bike ride in Los Angeles, too, and Seattle, Houston, Melbourne, Australia—all over. Even London and Madrid. Like seventy cities all over the place, thousands of people. Hundreds of thousands of people having fun being free. In Portland last year there were over ten thousand riders. Ten thousand, Mort. I want to do it with Sarah in San Francisco. I’m going to. I want to be that totally free at least once in my life. Sarah said she’ll do it with me, so that’s settled—we’re going to do it next year. I might wear a cache-sexe, but maybe not. I’ll have to think about it. I’m pretty sure Sarah won’t.”
My mind whirled. These were television buddies?
“What’s a cache-sexe?” I asked.
“Look it up. You made me look up boffing, although I had the gist. Anyway, I understand Sarah and how she feels. That’s why I really don’t want you to get another room. I’m just doing a lousy job of telling you it’s okay, because it is.”
“So . . . let me see if I’ve finally got this straight. What you’re telling me, in your roundabout, rambling, infuriatingly erratic way, is that it’s okay if Sarah’s not always entirely dressed around me.”
“Oh, jeez, you are such a shithead.”
“Now that’s a term of endearment I understand.”
“Well, it is. So anyway, please don’t get another room. I would feel awful if you felt like you had to.”
“If you insist.”
“I do.” She was silent for a moment, then, “I’m going to do that bicycle ride, Mort. At least topless, but maybe more, I don’t know yet, but I’m going to do it.”
“Okay.”
“Mean it?”
“I’ll watch from the sidelines. I’ll take pictures for our old age album. We can laugh at ourselves when we’re eighty. Well, at you anyway, although I’m in a group photo with a bunch of IRS agents, so that one’s a scream. I’ll even help apply body paint to critical areas if that’s
