By: Wayne Brown
For a long, long time, it was not really very funny to me. I associated it with all the bad things that had happen to my life back in the mid-80’s thus I did not dwell on it but attempted to put it into the closet in the dark backside of my brain to be dusted off one day when the emotions have long since dried up. I have dusted off that old box and pulled this out of it today to see what it looks like. I am proud to say that I can now look back on it and laugh, as I should have in the first place.
It was the mid-1980’s and I was a married man with two children in the process of moving back to Texas for a new position with my employer. My wife at the time was not overly thrilled as she longed to be nowhere else but California, her home state. The longer she thought about it, the deeper the desire became until she finally became obsessed with the idea. She thought about little else from that point on. Not to say that I was not concerned. Being in California was not a problem for me but I had no job there and I had invested a lot in my current employment…several years, thus, I could not see chucking everything to start over in California. It just did not make good sense to me. Thus, I ended up divorced and alone in Texas. Now you start to see some of the contents of the closet.
After the divorce, I lived alone in the house waiting for it to sell so that the ex and I could split the proceeds, if any, between us and go about our lives. The housing market in Texas was the pits at the time. Texas was in the midst of a low point in the oil and gas industry so the economy was rather stagnant. It also did not help that home mortgages were running in the 13% interest range thanks to all of Jimmy Carter’s great ideas for improving society during his presidential tour. Given those factors, one had a better chance of being struck by lightning than selling a home.
In the end, I lived in the house another seven years attempting to sell it for what I paid for it at the most. I may still hold the record for a single individual having a house on the market for the longest period without a sale. I could probably be in the Texas Real Estate Hall of Fame if I really pushed for the recognition. While I wouldn’t mind the attention, I think I had rather be known for a more intellectual feat than that one.
Near the end of this long-term selling effort, I suffered an incident which created considerable trauma in my personal life and the fact that it occurred was attached to the fact that I was the one stuck selling this house. At the time, I traveled a lot…gone for a week or two weeks and then sometimes longer. Getting my grass mowed was a challenge to say the least along with just having clean underwear. Luckily, there are at least seven ways one can wear the same pair but let’s not discuss that issue as it is not the point of this story. Suffice to say that I traveled a lot so often realtors would call to make an appointment only to find that no one was there when the showed the house. They became accustomed to it being empty.
It was a Friday night, and I had been out to the local bar and tossed back a few beers with the guys. We spent a while admiring the female traffic which circulated around the dance floor much like kids float by you in the tube river at the water park. It was a typical weekend mating ritual which repeated itself each week. We seldom tired of it and on a few occasions, we actually cut a doggie or two out of the herd…but not on this particular Friday night.
I returned home rather late…sometimes after midnight and wasted little time getting into the sack. Now that I was single again, I had taken to sleeping in the buff in an attempt to release my inhibitions and allow my emotions to flow freely. That was my situation on this Friday evening, or, should I say this early Saturday morning since it was after midnight when I arrived home.
In all my nudeness, I slept rather well and remained in the sack until around nine on Saturday morning. I was rested and ready to begin my day. The thought occurred to me that a glass of orange juice would be the perfect treat to launch my day so I slid out of the bed and proceeded out of the master bedroom and up the L-shaped hallway past the other bedrooms and baths. The hallway ended at the front door foyer and I transitioned across the foyer into the living area and then on to the kitchen where I proceeded to pour myself a glass of orange juice on this beautiful Saturday morning. Oh…did I mention that I was still in the buff? Well I was. Had you walked in at that point, I would have turned and given you a crisp salute standing there in all my nudeness and stated, “Good morning ladies and gentlemen, Captain Buck Naked at your service.” It just seemed a natural part of the freedom living alone in my own home. You know what they say about Americans behind closed doors?
It was at the point of taking my first sip of orange juice from the glass that I heard the doorbell ring. It was also at that very point when I glanced down and became fully aware of my nudeness. I thought about who might be at the front door then give up on that. It was way too much trouble to go back to the bedroom and get dressed just to answer the door and possibly buy a box of Girl Scout cookies. The alternative of answering the door in the nude and scaring a bunch of Girl Scouts also did not sound too sane at this point either. In an instant, I had convinced myself to simply ignore the door bell and get on with drinking my orange juice. Now it was time for a shower.
I placed the glass in the sink and headed back across the living area toward the foyer to reverse my course back down the hallway to the bedroom and the bath for the shower. Just before I reached the foyer, I heard the sound of a key being inserted into the deadbolt lock and tumblers turning. Someone was attempting to open the door and apparently had a key to do it with. Oh my God! Who could that be? Then it dawned on me that the house was for sale and it was probably a realtor who was coming to show it. Here I was within inches of greeting them at the front door in the buff. I would be flashing the entire bunch full out as they stepped over the threshold and into the foyer of the house. I could just hear the husband yelling, “Don’t look Ethel!”
I was frozen in my tracks on the carpeted floor of the living room. I could not make the foyer with a flash and I dared not attempt wrestle the door closed in the nude. What if I lost? Worse yet, what if the competition to get the door closed stimulated my sexual desires and ….there was that voice again, “Don’t look Ethel!”
I heard voices. They were coming into the foyer. I was frozen in my naked tracks in the living area just a few feet away yet shielded by the walls. I ran for the kitchen. I paced back and forth. Something, do something, oh man what an idiot you are sleeping in the buff. Better yet, what an idiot you are drinking orange juice in the buff. Never mind…got to do something, got to go somewhere, got hide! Quickly I looked about…no way could I get inside the refrigerator without moving all those shelves. Besides what if they noticed the door was ajar and closed it. I could suffocate before another realtor showed up and found dead and naked in my own refrigerator…no dice! The cabinets were too high and not of the question. I briefly considered climbing in the washer. It would be a squeeze but if I ducked down maybe the lid would close. Then again, what if Ethel decided to look in the washer? We’re talking major heart attack here. No, that was a “no-go”. The voices were coming my way. I had to move and fast.
Suddenly, an epiphany…I remembered that I had an old set of coveralls in the truck of my car which I kept there for roadside emergencies. I had them for years. They were not the best choice but they sure as hell were the only choice at the present for now my only escape would be to go into the garage and crawl up under the car in my nakedness. I could already feel the grit of the concrete floor scratching against the cheeks of my butt…no a good picture. Those coveralls were sounding really good. If I hurried I could get them on before they came out to inspect the garage. I quickly popped the release on the car trunk and scrounged about for the garment as the voices entered the utility area just behind the door leading into the garage. I was now trapped like a wild animal and my heart was beating just as fast as that of a trapped animal. If I had pants on I might have pissed them.
I found the coveralls and jumped into them in record time quickly pulling the zipper up the front to its maximum travel. The coveralls were a beautiful dark blue with a couple of torn spots which exposed the white skin of my butt cheeks. I had never considered that a problem but then I had always imagined myself wearing these coveralls over my regular clothes. Now my ass was literally hanging out for all to see. I would have to position myself strategically in order to avoid exposure.
I guess I had forgotten how old these coveralls actually were. I had also not realized how much I had grown since I last tried them on. They were tight…the tightest fitting coveralls that I had ever owned. They were skin tight and highlighted the equipment stored in the lower body compartment to the point that one did not need an imagination. Still, it was a hell of lot more secure than being naked in the kitchen. My ass might have been hanging out the back and my work tools impressed upon the front but at least I was partially covered. I had come a long way in a short period of time. The least of my worries was the noticeable high water effect of the too short legs of the coveralls. I imagined myself looking a lot like Jethro Bodine on the Beverly Hillbillies in these coveralls.
My white hair legs extended considerably below the bottom of the leg length of the coveralls and I was also barefooted. Ain’t I a sharp-dressed man? I thought “what the hell”…short britches ain’t no problem when your ass is hangin’ out and your equipment is highlighted. With that thought I bravely opened the utility room door and stepped inside to say “hello” and welcome to my humble home. You have to be hospitable when you are trying to sell your house.
I encountered the realtor and her clients in the living room. Ethel and her husband took a glance at me and then at each other. I quickly distracted everyone with my chatter telling them that I was out in the garage working on my car and instructing them to make themselves at home, stay as long as they liked, and just to enjoy their tour of the house. The realtor smiled rather sheepishly and quickly hurried Ethel and her husband off down the hall to see the rest of the house. I went back into the garage and raised the hood on the car attempting to look as if I was actually doing something of a technical nature. All the time the thought was running through my mind that Ethel was probably thinking, “first guy I have ever seen work on a car with his ass hanging out”. Yeah, well you should have seen me earlier, Miss Ethel.
Finally, the entourage left me in my solitude of the garage. I listened through the glass as they mounted the realtor’s car and drove away. I then ran all the way to the bedroom and got fully dressed just in case another realtor was on the way unannounced. I cannot tell you how much I liked those clothes. My heart rate had dropped and the adrenalin flow was reduced allowing me to once again return to a state of normal body function.
Ethel and her husband did not buy my house. I never really knew why but I did have dreams that possibly Ethel envisioned things of a sordid nature occurring within those walls and could not live with the mental picture. Whatever the case, we all went our separate ways and I may be the only one to this day who has broken the silence of that fateful event which I kept so securely stowed away for so many, many years.
Now, having revealed this event and the details thereof, I just hope that I have not done Ethel an injustice by including here name in the recount. If I have, I am truly sorry and I hope that she will look upon the situation with the same set of eyes as mine and let loose any anger she holds and simply do as I have done and…turn the other cheek.
© Copyright WBrown2011. All Rights Reserved.
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