Naked Men

by Alicia Giménez-Bartlett

  “Yes, great, we had a great time.”

  “I’m calling because I need to talk to you. Would you be able to meet up tomorrow morning?”

  “Sorry, Iván, I’ve got another commitment tomorrow.”

  “But this is pretty urgent, and I can’t talk about it over the phone.”

  “I’ll call you as soon as I’m done, and we can meet.”

  I don’t feel like calling him, but I’ll do it. It might be the last time I go out with him. Sandra’s right: we don’t have much in common. But I would hate for him to think I didn’t want to meet up because I didn’t like his show. He shouldn’t think I’m passing moral judgment on him, condemning the way he makes a living. I’ll call.

  * * *

  I didn’t think I’d have to go through this sort of thing. Don’t lawyers complain about having too many cases on their plates? So why hold a settlement meeting for a man and woman who have nothing more to say about their divorce?

  I hadn’t seen David for months. Having him right there in front of me didn’t make me feel anything in particular, but strangely I’d forgotten what he looked like. It lasted just a moment, because then I suddenly recognized the features my eyes had seen so many times. He hadn’t changed—maybe he was more resolute now, less pensive. He’d also lost that guilty air he’d adopted after his confession: “I’m in love with another woman.” He must have felt relieved once he’d said it. It’s uncomfortable keeping secrets like that. I was his problem. It’s not pleasant being someone’s problem without even knowing it. That hurt me more than his betrayal, his lies, his falling out of love.

  I hope he notices how calm I am. I just want to get through this settlement business. I regret how I reacted when he told me, “I’m in love with another woman.” I should have been completely impassive. Really, I should have been the one to bring our fictional marriage to an end. It was a familiar problem: how many fictional marriages did I see all around me? Lots of them, and they didn’t seem so bad. In theory, a long-lasting romantic relationship goes through a number of different stages: passion, understanding, friendship, support, respect. Because my mother died so young, I was unable to confirm whether that’s the case with my parents’ marriage. And now I won’t be able to confirm it in my own. I do know one thing, though: we never went through that first stage. When we got married, my main feeling was that we were forging an alliance that would benefit the company, which seemed like a good thing. Women’s dreams are so ludicrous. We always add an emotional element to everything.

  Luckily, I’m fairly reserved and never shared my unromantic fantasy with anybody: “Joined together in matrimony for the greater glory of the company.” Had I been more open about it, I’d now be the object of more ridicule. I only hope God grants me the gift of amnesia.

  And here came David, out of the blue. Tanned, probably spending more time outdoors now that he’s with the simultaneous interpreter. His hair cropped very short—the simultaneous interpreter probably likes it that way. Casual clothes, which she probably buys for him. He must be thrilled to be freed of the stern suits he felt obligated to wear as my company’s lawyer.

  We listen with feigned attentiveness to the lawyer’s every word as, point by point, he outlines the agreement we’ve drawn up. There is nothing to amend, add, or put into context. We sign. Like an idiot, I rebuff the gold ballpoint pen he holds out to me, remembering how I gave it to him for his birthday. I pull out my own pen and sign my name. And that’s that—from now on, I’ll have only memories.

  When we leave the lawyer’s office, David invites me out for coffee. He’s relaxed but not smiling. I tell him no, I’m in a hurry. I hold out my hand, but he doesn’t shake it. Another mistake. Luckily, it’s the last one I’ll be able to make in this story.

  Driving back home, I nearly run over a homeless man who appears unexpectedly from behind a trash container he must have been rummaging through. “Nearly run over” may be an exaggeration, but I do have to slam on my brakes and I stop mere inches from him, his shape indistinguishable under the sheer bulk of clothing he’s wearing. He looks up blearily, as if he doesn’t see me. But he does see me: screaming, he calls me a bitch. The passersby stop for a moment, observing us. A hot wave of blood floods my face. I’m startled to discover that my first impulse is to leap out of the car and fly at his ragged body, kicking and shouting. I don’t do it, of course, partly because of the people watching. I swerve around him and continue on my way. My rage gradually dissipates, but I continue to be startled by having imagined such violence. It’s not my style. My style is to worry: what would have happened if I’d plowed into that riffraff? An endless series of mounting problems—ambulances, lawsuits, a trial, compensation. Today, though, just for having called me a bitch, I wanted to kick him until I was completely wiped out. It’s weird. I’m not quick-tempered, I’m not one to fly into rages, I don’t get worked up easily. I’ve always considered indifference to be a powerful weapon. I guess I’m frustrated after the settlement meeting. Seeing David must have upset me more than I thought. It’s unsettling that my personality might be changing without my even realizing it. Switching it up at this point in my life and under these circumstances would be tremendously inconvenient. Being the way I am has allowed me to get to where I am, and it’s gone pretty well for me. But signs of a shift to a new personality are piling up. For one, I’m less and less interested in work. I seek mental escape by going out with Genoveva. And I’m getting testy. It’s worrying. I don’t care about changing hobbies or lifestyles, but I couldn’t stand changing my personality. If that happens, I’ll despise David for the rest of my life. I’ll eventually be able to forget the humiliation of being dumped for a younger woman. I’ll no doubt forget the years I wasted being with him. But I won’t be able to forgive him for turning me into someone else.

  * * *

  “Seriously, though, Javier, what did you think of the show the other day? Old fuddy-duddies think it’s shit, really filthy stuff. They say it’s faggy, when it’s obviously not. Not that I have anything against fags. I’ve got friends who are fags, and they’re hilarious, really cool people. But if the show was for queers, I wouldn’t be in it no matter how much they paid me. I don’t want anybody mistaking me for one. Our show is something else—it’s got a happy vibe. It’s about having a good time. The women who come to see us with their guys, I know afterwards they must really get it on. And the ones who aren’t coupled up must have to look for some kind of release, because we get them all hot and bothered, I can tell. Plus the show’s artistic and stuff. You don’t have to know a whole lot to be up there, but you’ve at least got to be able to dance to the beat and stay in good shape. If you’re a balding, two-hundred-pound schlub with love handles and a beer gut, you’ll have to look for something else. We don’t go completely naked, so it doesn’t matter if you have a small prick; you can add some padding if you need to. Mariano and the other guys who perform alone at the end of the show do have to know a lot more and be well hung, since they strip all the way. They’ve all got a gift, see. It’s like they were born for this stuff, even though this stuff didn’t exist when they were born. They work really hard: working out, looking for new songs and bringing them to the boss, improving their posture, tanning sessions, going to the salon every two weeks . . . But as far as I know, not a single one of them is gay. I think Mariano makes sure of that. Not because he has anything against queers, but so the dances will be more authentic and exciting for the ladies. You can always tell when a guy’s a fag: a little smile, a little hand flip—you can tell, and that would be no good here, as I’m sure you understand. Mariano has crystal-clear rules for his business. He doesn’t allow drugs at work. Well, you can always do a rail of coke, but if he catches anyone shooting up, they’ll be out on their ass. He doesn’t give second chances, man, that’s just the way he is. And I love it, because drugs wrecked my family. You get that?”

  “Of course.”

 
“OK.”

  The teacher looks at me with an expression I have a hard time reading. It’s like he’s doesn’t give a shit about any of it.

  “To be honest, I don’t have a gift for this. I strip for the money, and I like that. But it’s not my calling—nothing ever has been. When I was in school, all the boys wanted to be soccer players or airplane pilots or Indiana Jones—but not me, man. I had no fucking clue what I wanted to be when I grew up. But I already knew what I didn’t want. I didn’t want to work like a goddamn mule for peanuts. I didn’t want to be an electrician or a mechanic or a plumber or go to a factory and do the same thing every fucking day of my life and not earn jack at the end of the month. I knew that for sure! I know this is going to sound like I’m trying to suck up to you, but I swear it’s true: the only thing I ever thought I might want to do was be a teacher. I don’t know, man, being with kids and teaching them things and telling them whatever you want and them having to listen to you no matter what—that’s pretty awesome. Don’t laugh—it’s cool to have someone listen to you. You don’t notice because you’re used to it; you’d still be with those kids right now if the damn nuns hadn’t fired you. By the way, how are things going with that? Are you looking for another job?”

  “Things aren’t great, Iván. An opportunity may come along, but I’m losing hope. Being out of work is harder than I expected.”

  “That’s rough, man. It’s like everyone’s telling you to your face that you’re a piece of shit when none of it’s your fault. Telling you you’re taking advantage of other people. And if your chick has work—and Sandra’s real nice, by the way—then it’s even more of a bummer. You’d think it would be better, but no, because you end up getting all screwed up about being a kept man.”

  “You clearly get how I’m feeling.”

  “I’ve been there, man, and it was awful. At the time I was living with this girl who worked as a cashier in a grocery store, and it was fucking miserable. I even had to ask her for money to buy smokes! I started doing odd jobs here or there and was earning a little, but not much. That’s when I got involved in the show. A friend of mine told me he was looking for guys, and I took the plunge. It’s just a job, I thought, why not? Am I hurting anybody? Is it illegal? It’s a job like any other, plus I get to have lots of free time. Don’t you think so, Javier? Isn’t it just another job?”

  “Of course.”

  “Well, look, that’s actually exactly the reason I wanted to see you today. Maybe you’re going to think this is crazy and laugh, but I’m going to say it anyway, since we’ve gotten to be friends and I don’t like seeing my friends in a bind. Remember that number with the teacher and students? In the show, I mean. Well, a guy who plays one of the students, this French guy named Georges, came in the other day saying he wants out. Not because he’s had problems with the owner or anything like that—his mother died and left him a house, and he wants to try to set up and run a country inn. Being one of the students is the easiest role in the show, so I thought maybe you could do it.”

  Shit, I knew it. I knew he was going to look all scared—but this is worse than I expected. The bastard looks like he’s seen a ghost. Seriously? I offer him a job, and I’m the one who’s going to have to apologize.

  “I think you’ve got potential, man: you’re tall, slim, no gut . . . Shit, man, you look good. And you don’t have to put your heart and soul into it or anything—I think you could do a good job. Just rock those bones in time with everybody else, and you’ll do great!”

  “Damn, Iván, you really caught me off guard here! I never imagined you’d suggest something like this.”

  How can I get out of this one—it seems clear he’s serious.

  “Anyway, you might think I look good, but if I showed up and told Mariano I want that role, he’d tell me to fuck off.”

  “Not if I ask him—we’re friends.”

  “But I’m a terrible dancer. I’ve never had any talent for it.”

  “It doesn’t matter.”

  A terrible dancer? Now I’m the one who’s surprised. This dude’s a goddamn moron. Does he think he’s going to be twirling around in a ballet or something? I’m really tempted to say, “Look, teach, this isn’t a damn movie. You just have to waggle your cock back and forth, that’s it. Forget about dancing—there’s no need. You just have to have the stones to go out there half naked and then get even nakeder.”

  “See here, Javier, I’m not asking you to join the show so you can be a star or go international. I’m talking about a well-paying job, which there aren’t so many of. And since it’s just on the weekends, you won’t have to give up whatever you’re getting on unemployment. Plus the guys in the show are really cool. There’s the occasional jackass, but not many. We get along really well for the most part. After the show, a bunch of us always go out for beers and something to eat. We have a good time, talk about the things that happened that night: a woman in the audience who was really hot, another one who acted like an idiot . . . I don’t know, we have a good time.”

  “Don’t get me wrong, Iván. I’m really grateful you thought of me for the role. I’m sure it’s a great job, and I could certainly use the money. But I can’t see myself doing that. It’s like . . . ”

  Careful what you say here, Javier. Careful with your similes. What’s the plan for finishing the sentence I’ve started?

  “ . . . like if they offered you a job as a teacher”? No way. That would basically be saying “like if they offered you a job as a teacher when you’re a total loser who doesn’t know his ass from his elbow.” Not an option. Nor can I tell him that his dancing buddies, the good-time guys, make my hair stand on end just looking at them, and I’d switch seats on a bus so as not to have to sit next to them.

  “ . . . like if they suggested something you’d never even considered. How would you react?”

  “I don’t know, man! Unless they were suggesting I take up the priesthood, I’d probably think about it for a little while, maybe even a day or two.”

  “No thanks, Iván, really. Being a stripper is as good a job as any, maybe even better, but I can’t see myself there. I just can’t see it. You understand, right?”

  “Of course.”

  Of course I get it. It must be a real bummer worrying that one of your former convent students might see you. Seeing a girl who once asked you about the assignment now staring at your junk bundled away there in your undies . . . Yeah, I get it, but I’ve done what I can. He was fucked without a job, right? So I go and offer him one. If he doesn’t like it, that’s his problem. I’ve done what I can. Now we’re square when it comes to how he checked up on my grandma and went to her funeral. Even Steven.

  “I hope you’re not mad, Iván.”

  “No way, man! It takes all kinds. To each his own.”

  “And let’s get together for a beer from time to time.”

  “Absolutely, man, say no more!”

  I won’t call again—I did what I can. But I do like him. The teacher’s a good guy.

  “It’s a deal.”

  I won’t call, but I truly appreciate his having thought of me for the stripper job. It’s a humorous anecdote I’ll never forget. Iván’s a good guy.

  * * *

  An unexpected visit. Unfortunately, I was home and had to ask her in. She’s had highlights done in her hair and I’d swear she got Botox injections in her forehead and maybe her crow’s feet too. She looks awful. I guess she thinks I’m delighted to see her, happy to have her show up at my house unannounced. I haven’t talked to anybody from our circle of friends in months. Teresa wasn’t a close friend. I’ve never had close friends of the sort you confide in or discuss life with. I invite her to have a seat, offer her a coffee. I figure I’ll just let her talk:

  “I didn’t think I’d catch you at home, since it’s during the workday . . . ”

  She’s lying. Somebody’s obviously
told her I haven’t been going in to the factory much, that I’m neglecting my sacred duties as a businesswoman. She wants to gossip, pass the scuttlebutt along to other people, corroborating or refuting their claims. Trying to be patient, I lie too:

  “You know, with the recession, things are pretty slow. They don’t need me to be at work as much as they used to.”

  She reluctantly accepts my explanation.

  “I always thought it was the other way around: the harder times are, the more effort you have to put in.”

  “That’s one way of looking at it.”

  I have no intention of engaging in a debate with her over the functioning of capitalist enterprises or how to ride out financial crises. I politely ask after her husband and daughters.

  “Raúl’s doing well. He’s always got something going on. Since he travels abroad so much, we hardly see him. Our eldest girl started at Esade. Didn’t I tell you? I guess not, since we hardly see you either.”

  She titters, and I titter back. At this point she’s realized I’m not going to open my mouth unprompted. If she wants to get anywhere, she’s going to have to drag my confidences out of me by offering up some of her own. Maybe she’ll get better results that way.

  “So tell me, Irene, how are you doing?”

  “I’m great, as you see.”

  “You look wonderful, though to be honest we’re all a little worried about you.”

  That’s the crux of it: “We’re all a little worried about you.” Teresa has shown up here at my house as the spokesperson for our social group. “We all” are my friends from the club. They’re people I’m supposed to keep seeing, the members of my natural tribe. “Worried” means intrigued. They want to know why I’m acting the way I am. The word has another implication too: they’re offended they haven’t gotten an explanation for my absence since my divorce. From somewhere within me I muster some acting skills I’ve never used before and didn’t even realize I had. I shake my head hard enough that my hair swings back and forth, and let out an incredulous chortle.