Naked Guy

Katharine Monger

“Hey. Look. It’s Naked Guy.” We were crouched around the table with the short leg, my wallet wedged between it and the bar floor. Over Jason’s shoulder, in line with the point of my nose, Naked Guy stood behind his second-story apartment window across the street. The overhead light paled the shadows that would otherwise accentuate any muscles in his arms. As he stretched them above his head, his chest billowed in a slight curve, taut in the high wind of a yawn. He began pulling mindlessly at his dick.

“Did I tell you about the time?” “He blew a load?” “It was impressive.” Vlad, the bartender, limped over and clasped Jason on the shoulder. “Announcement?” Jason laughed. “Not tonight, my man. Not tonight.”

“Thank Jesus,” Chris said as he texted to his overseas girlfriend. We didn’t know which sea, exactly—but she liked rock climbing, he’d said once, “so she’s hot.” We’d pointed out he was afraid of heights, preferred high rises to high tops, and couldn’t do a standard push-up to save his mother.

“It’s motivation,” he said, “to get me in shape.” A pinch on my arm. Manny was smiling, crosseyed, inspecting a black hair between his fingers. “You’re basically a dude.” “The hormones. I’m falling apart.” Jason let out a great laugh, slapped the bartender on the ass. “Make me something, something like, pure moonshine.” “I can do that,” Vlad said. My beer was flat. Seemingly out of the ceiling, Anna’s face leaned down, kissed my forehead. Before I could respond she was bouncing away to the bar. I wanted her girlfriend, tightly crosslegged and cross-armed in her stool, to glare at me, to start something. But her attention was on Anna, who was leaning precariously over the bar, calling out for a sugary shot like the college kid she never was.

“Why’s she play you?” Manny asked, chugging the rest of my beer. “Ugh. Let me buy you something strong. Not from Vlad.” “No, that’s okay.” “Aw, Naked Guy! Come back!” Jason’s hands clapped in the air. My wallet slipped, slid across the floor. Manny slapped his arm across the table to stop the bottles. Across the street, the apartment was dark.

“He’ll be back,” Anna called out in an Austrian accent. I could see the pattern of her bra under the red bar lights. Black stripes. “Manny?” “Yes, Jason.” “How’s Bradley?” Chris snorted. “Bradley was okay,” Manny said.

“Was?” “Was,” Chris repeated. Anna was leaving. Jason sighed. “Look. I’d heard, but I didn’t want to tell you. I’d heard he was an asshole.”

“The fuck?” Chris said, still staring into his phone.

Jason nudged him and asked, “Doesn’t feel like sexting?”

“No, I was—no, what? Why’d you let him go out with that freak?”

“Fuck I didn’t say he was a freak, I said he was an asshole.”

“He wasn’t that bad,” Manny said. “Forget it.” I turned to him. “You’re too nice, Manny. That’s your problem.”

“No, no, hear me out.” Jason downed his blue moonshine, then paused, staring at the empty glass.

“It’s okay, really,” Manny said. “And never take relationship advice from J,” I said.

“That’s not fair! I’ve had my share of ladies.” “Exactly,” Chris said. “Manny doesn’t need a bitch.” Manny stood. I stood. He cocked his head. “I’m going out for a smoke,” he said. “I need some air,” I said. “He was one of those, those, lost souls, you know?” Jason called after us. Manny and I squeezed past Anna, who was kissing her girlfriend’s palm in the entry.

Outside the bar, I could hear drivers driving too fast down a parallel main street. Drivers driving, drinkers drinking. But our street was quiet, the bar surrounded by mid-century family homes, some with families sleeping—but most empty, their college student inhabitants out taking chances. Houses with two, three porches, each with a different personality, a different subset of Midwestern culture. Folding camp chairs, dirty plastic tables. Porch swings. Bar stools. Couches. Posted on the bar door was a sign, “OUT OF RESPECT FOR OUR NEIGHBORS, PLEASE LEAVE QUIETLY.” Manny danced around the breeze with his lighter. Eventually he gave up, sat on a concrete garden wall.

“I wanted to like him,” he said. “I know.” “Guessing game. A big guessing game.” I didn’t ask, but I thought I knew what he meant.

Anna shrieked. Inside, she was a monkey on her girlfriend’s back, pointing over and above us to Naked Guy, standing in his lighted apartment window with a gun to his head. I wondered who hadn’t told him his mustache wasn’t doing him any favors.

We both jumped when the door slammed behind us.

“This happens all the time,” Jason said.