About the time the top-down convertible stopped just down the road, waiting for him to catch up, Brady realized who it was. He should have been faster on the uptake, he thought. Who, other than the guy living five houses down from his parent's house in Titusville, Florida, owned a restored, cherry-red 1967 Impala SS convertible? Of course, what could he do other than walk up to the car? Dive into the bushes? The guy had stopped to give him a lift.
Brady's dad had made him stop mowing Mr. Wheaton's lawn three years earlier when Brady was in high school. His dad wouldn't say why, but it was right after Mrs. Wheaton moved out and took the kids. The whole neighborhood was buzzing about whatever had gone bad between the Wheatons and wouldn't talk to their kids about it. The Wheatons had seemed like a Ken and Barbie couple up until then.
He hesitated for a moment, but only for a moment. He needed to get back to the college campus from bumming a ride to his parent's house to raid the secret stash of money he had there while they were vacationing over in Tampa. He was hitching it, and Mr. Wheaton had been good enough to the stop the car. Brady needed the ride. He thought too of pulling his T-shirt back on. There was a thought in the back of his mind that he probably should do that. But he didn't. He also didn't want to think about how he'd been told he'd get a car to stop faster for him if he was shirtless—because if he thought about that, he'd also have to give some thought to what he'd had to do a couple of times to get the rides he got. But he had to admit that it always worked—and it wasn't like he didn't give out at college from time to time.
As he reached the passenger side of the car, he heard his name being called. "Brady? Brady Buxton? That's you, isn't it? Where can I take you?"
"You headed to the center?" Brady asked as he looked up and down the road before pulling open the heavy door of the old land cruiser. "If so, I'm on your way. The college by the causeway out to Merritt Island. If not, no problem. I'll get another hitch."
Walt Wheaton worked at the Kennedy Space Center, as did most of those Brady knew in Titusville, including both his own mother and father. Brady didn't know what Wheaton did there, but he assumed it must be physical, because Wheaton was in top physical shape. He did a lot of running up and down the streets in the neighborhood in just his athletic shorts and runners, and it didn't look like he had an ounce of fat on him. Not bad for an older guy. He must be in his late thirties at least, Brady thought.
When Brady opened the passenger door, though, he stepped back, his eyes going big. "Whoa," Brady both thought and said. Mr. Wheaton might look stripped down during his neighborhood runs, but he was even more stripped down than that now. He was naked.
"What?" Wheaton said, and then he laughed. "Oh, yeah, I didn't think. It's become so natural. Climb on in, Brady. I won't bite. I'm on my way out to Playalinda Beach, on the northeast edge of Merritt Island. Here, I'll cover up, if it will make you more comfortable." As he said this, he unrolled a beach towel that had been stuffed in front of the center console and spread it across his lap.
That hadn't been in time to hide from Brady, though, that the man was built big and that the sandy-red hair on his head was just as sandy red elsewhere.
"Still got the Impala," Brad said, nervous for something to say as they got on the road.
"Yep, still got the old '67 Impala Supersport. Wouldn't let go of it for the world. Happy my wife didn't want it. I'm livin' alone in the house now, you know."
"A 396-4BBL-V8 engine," Brady said.
"Yep. You remembered. I'm impressed."
"I've always loved this car."
"I always would have given you a ride. All you had to do was ask. I'd still like to give you a ride. So, off we go; go ahead and climb in."
Brady swallowed hard and decided it was time to change the subject. "Playalinda Beach? Isn't that—where you are headed?"
"Yes, that's a nudist beach. That's why I'm . . . well, you know. Do you know what Tuesday is? And, get in the car. Neither one of us can get to where we're going if I don't get this buggy going down the road."
"No, what's next Tuesday?" Brady said, as he slid into the seat, but kept as close to the passenger door as he could after he'd closed it. It was a big boat of a car, so there was distance between them—which Brady thought was good. Bucket seats, which also was good. He was having a bit of problem with tension and response. He was a player—in sort of an exploratory way so far. He just never thought of doing it with Mr. Wheaton. Now, with his father's admonitions going through his brain and certain things maybe clicking into place, thoughts were entering his brain. He was fighting them off, though.
Included back there in his brain were thoughts about Mr. Wheaton he'd had when he was mowing the guy's lawn. Not thoughts he should have been thinking then—and maybe shouldn't be thinking now. The guy was a lot older than he was and he lived in Brady's parents' neighborhood.
"Tuesday is National Nude Day," Wheaton said, as he pulled the car out onto the street and pointed it at the Atlantic Ocean. "Both my wife and I are nudists. Well, my former wife, I guess I have to say. We met at a nudist camp. Not something we followed in the neighborhood, of course, but we'd go to beach camps now and again. It's all natural and comes comfortably for me now. I'm sorry if I wasn't thinking about how it looked when I picked you up. But I was driving directly to Playalinda Beach for the weekend. They're having a big celebration to mark the day. And it's not something I'm supposed to go to dressed."
"Uh, it's OK," Brady said. "But, uh, is it really feeling so natural to go around naked?"
"Naked's not a word we use for it, Brady. Naked is being stripped of all your clothes and exposed to emotions and senses—if you know what I mean. Nude is a lifestyle. You're still stripped, but it's of inhibitions and all the baggage we have to carry around all day in regular society. When you're nude and with other nudists you just are stripped of all the baggage. thoughts of sensual don't enter into it."
"But, uh, doesn't it get embarrassing? Isn't it sometimes, you know, arousing—and easy to see?"
Wheaton laughed. "Not for experienced nudists, like me. You get used to it. Older and out-of-shape nudists, of course, don't cause much trouble for those not yet fully immersed in the practice. It's not about sex—not when you really get into it. It's more about freedom. Hardbodied and young and attractive people sometimes make controlling yourself difficult, but nudists understand. They take someone showing arousal in their stride—just like being given a verbal compliment—like me telling you that you are sure looking good these days—which you are. You must work out a lot."
"Yes, some," Brady answered. He couldn't help letting his eyes gaze at Wheaton's towel-covered lap to see if he was showing any signs that Brady himself was experiencing. But the towel was so thick and bunched up that he couldn't tell.
When the trajectory of his gaze raised to Wheaton's face, he saw that the man was looking at him instead of the road and had a little smile on his face. And the gaze hadn't started at Brady's eyes. It had moved up from his young, cut torso.
Embarrassed—and feeling something else he was fighting—Brady said, "If you turn right up there, my dorm is down the street a bit." He wasn't sure, but he thought what he said came out more like a squeak than his normal voice.
As the car stopped and he opened the door, Wheaton said, "Remember, it's nude, not naked. We're not talking anything prurient here. It's just a natural, back-to-nature lifestyle. You might give it a try. I'd love to take you to one of our gatherings, if you're ever interested."
"Uh, yes, thanks," Brady answered. "And, uh, thanks for the ride. Thanks a lot, Mr. Wheaton."
"Call me Walt, Brady. You're grown now. What, nineteen? Twenty?"
