Clothing Optional Read online

  —Of course.

  —This is the same thing.

  —Okay.

  —Really?

  —I said okay.

  —So you’ll give me fifty thousand dollars?

  —Sure. That all right with you?

  —Well, I’m taking a bit of a hit here, but it’s worth it.

  —For our friendship?

  —For our friendship.

  Mrs. Glickman’s Deposition

  Setting:

  A lawyer’s office in Los Angeles, California.

  Situation:

  Two years ago I was involved in an automobile accident with an eighty-one-year-old woman. Although my insurance company made several attempts to settle with her, she kept insisting that the offers were insultingly low and was now suing me personally.

  Her Claims:

  That, as a result of injuries sustained from the accident, this now eighty-three-year-old woman has not been able to sexually satisfy her now eighty-seven-year-old husband.

  In Attendance:

  Me, the now eighty-three-year-old woman, her now eighty-seven-year-old husband, my attorney, her attorney, and a very fat female court reporter.

  Note: The following are the exchanges, the way I remember them, between my attorney and the now eighty-three-year-old woman, unless otherwise indicated. (I’ve also changed the old crone’s name.)

  Q:

  Your name is Rita Glickman?

  A:

  Yes.

  Q:

  And you understand, Mrs. Glickman, the oath you just took is the same as if this were a court of law and that the penalty for perjury is also the same?

  A:

  Yes.

  Q:

  And you further realize that due to the nature of your claim I may have to get somewhat personal with my questions?

  A:

  What do you mean?

  Q:

  Well, in your suit you say that because of the accident with Mr. Zweibel you have not been able to perform your, let’s say, marital duties. Am I correct?

  A:

  Yes.

  Q:

  This is a legal assertion called “loss of consortion.”

  A:

  Okay.

  Q:

  So to investigate this fully, I may have to ask some rather embarrassing questions, such as “Before the accident, how often did you and your husband engage in marital relations?”

  A:

  Four times a week.

  Q:

  Excuse me?

  A:

  Four times a week.

  Q:

  Perhaps you didn’t understand my question—

  A:

  What’s not to understand? Before this hooligan slammed into me, Gerry and I had sex four times a week.

  Q:

  And by sex you are referring to…?

  A:

  Intercourse.

  Q:

  Intercourse.

  A:

  Intercourse.

  Q:

  Four times a week.

  A:

  Yes, we had intercourse four times a week. (The fat court reporter starts blushing.)

  Q:

  Now, when you say four times a week…strike that…Was it literally…strike that…Now, Mrs. Glickman, on the morning of November 18 of last year you had a collision with Mr. Zweibel and you sustained some injuries.

  A:

  Yes.

  Q:

  And what exactly was the nature of those injuries?

  A:

  I had bruises across my chest and contusions in my left hip.

  Q:

  And because of these injuries to your chest and left hip, you claim there was an interruption of yours and Mr. Glickman’s regular sexual activity.

  A:

  Yes.

  Q:

  And why was that?

  A:

  I was in too much pain to accommodate the weight of my husband’s body…(Everyone steals a peek at the now eighty-seven-year-old Gerry Glickman.)

  A:

  …plus, he likes to move around a lot and I just couldn’t keep up. (Everyone steals another peek at the now eighty-seven-year-old Gerry Glickman.)

  Q:

  I see. And for how long were you unable to accommodate your husband’s weight and movement…strike that…How long was it until you and your husband were able to resume normal marital relations?

  A:

  Seven months.

  Q:

  So you’re saying that following your accident with Mr. Zweibel, for seven months you had—

  A:

  No sex.

  Q:

  And after those seven months, when all your wounds were healed, you and your husband returned to your regular rate of intimacy?

  A:

  Yes.

  Q:

  Which is…?

  A:

  Four times a week.

  Q:

  Four times a week.

  A:

  Yes.

  Q:

  (under his breath) Four times a week…

  Her Lawyer:

  Counselor…

  Q:

  Okay, okay, Mrs. Glickman, you do know that there are other ways…strike that…Mrs. Glickman…were there any other ways you were able to show affection during this seven-month period?

  A:

  Other than kissing and hugging?

  Q:

  Yes.

  A:

  No.

  Q:

  You couldn’t show affection?

  A:

  No, I couldn’t.

  Q:

  And why was that?

  A:

  Because I also hurt my jaw.

  Her Lawyer:

  Jesus.

  My Lawyer:

  Oh my.

  Me:

  God help us all.

  Q:

  I would like to remind you that you are under oath, Mrs. Glickman.

  A:

  But I did hurt my jaw. It’s right there in my hospital records.

  Q:

  Yeah, yeah, I saw them…. Now, were there any other injuries from this accident that affected your marital relations with Mr. Glickman?

  A:

  Well, I did suffer a loss of hearing.

  Q:

  Your hearing loss has hurt your sex life?

  A:

  Yes.

  Q:

  How so?

  A:

  Because sometimes it’s difficult for me to hear what Gerry would like me to do, and this throws our timing off. You see, Gerry’s very expressive, and if I’m looking at him, I can read his lips. But when I’m facing another direction and Gerry issues a command—

  Her Lawyer:

  I think this would be a good time to take a break.

  My Lawyer:

  Me too.

  Me:

  God help us all.

  During the break, the court reporter made some phone calls, Mrs. Glickman read a magazine, and everyone else followed her now eighty-seven-year-old husband into the men’s room.

  Letters from an Annoying Man

  For the most part, writers are not famous. Even the most successful ones fail to turn heads or grace the covers of tabloids unless they happen to marry or do something terrible to somebody who is famous. No matter how expansive their body of work or how highly regarded their contribution to the culture, they are an anonymous bunch whose celebrity may, at best, be limited to name recognition or familiarity with something they’ve written. This is hardly a new phenomenon, as legend has it that even Shakespeare himself had trouble getting laid without a name tag and sixteenth-century photo ID.

  Personally, I’ve come to accept my lot in public life. I learned early on that acknowledgment from strangers would have to come secondhand when my words are spoken by actors. If my words hold interest and receive laughs, the best I can hope for is that people will make a point of remembering who wrote them. And if I happen to
be in the back of the theater shouting, “Hey, I wrote those words!” the chances of my being recognized are likely to increase accordingly. Shy of that, people tend to leave me alone. Except, that is, for a man named Kevin Traverson.

  Dear Mr. Zweibel—

  I just read your book, The Other Shulman. Could you please autograph this copy and send it back to me in the enclosed self-addressed stamped envelope?

  Sincerely yours,

  Kevin Traverson

  Dear Mr. Traverson—

  Thank you so much for your kind words about my book—which I am returning with the autograph you requested. I’m so pleased that you enjoy my work.

  Your pal,

  Alan Zweibel

  Dear Mr. Zweibel—

  While I appreciate your prompt response, I must say that I was terribly disappointed when the copy of your book arrived and I saw the inscription. Sure, I can understand how you’d think that “To Kevin, This book is really good” is a cute thing to write but, quite frankly, I didn’t think that your book was really that good. In fact, I thought it was just okay. So I am returning that copy with the hope that you will send me another one that merely has your signature on the title page.

  Thank you,

  Kevin Traverson

  Dear Mr. Traverson—

  Sorry that it has taken me so long to get back to you, but I’ve been on a 31-city book tour promoting my novel (the one you think is just “okay” despite all the great reviews it’s been getting) and have fallen behind on my correspondence. Enclosed is a personal copy of my book with a new autograph. I hope it’s to your liking.

  Sincerely,

  Alan Zweibel

  Mr. Zweibel—

  Couldn’t help but notice that you signed your last letter “sincerely” as opposed to “your pal.” How come? Because I didn’t like your book? One would think you’d have a thicker skin by now, as I see that not all critics gave it the raves you referred to. I’ve enclosed a handful of those less than “great reviews” along with the book you sent me. I’m returning it to you because the copy I sent you was a first edition; the one you sent back was a second printing. Was this an oversight? Or a subtle way of telling me that your novel has actually sold enough copies to have a second printing despite what I think of it as well as the picture of you on the inside cover? I saw you on TV and couldn’t help but notice that you’ve either aged dramatically since your book came out (are you sick?) or your publisher decided to print a picture of a young man who looks like he could eventually look like you.

  Kevin Traverson

  Kevin—

  Enclosed please find an autographed copy of a first edition of my book. Funny thing—I almost sent you a signed copy from the third printing. It’s a good thing I double-checked!!!!

  Alan Zweibel

  Mr. Zweibel—

  I received the copy of your signed first edition and was relieved to see that you finally got it right.

  And I guess congratulations are in order—I just read that The Other Shulman was nominated for the Thurber Prize for American Humor. I’m speechless. One can only conclude that this has been a slow year for the comic novel.

  But I’m proud to say that I’m letting your good news inspire me. A few years ago I started writing my own novel but had to put it aside when my aging mother took sick. Eventually, she stopped aging and died. It was hard at first but I now feel ready to resume writing, and that’s where you come in. Enclosed are the first 247 pages of my book. I think it’s real good (I’m about a third of the way through the story) but really need a pair of fresh eyes to read it, give me detailed notes, and help me figure out how the remaining twenty-three chapters should go.

  Thank you very much.

  Sincerely,

  Kevin

  P.S. When you go through my manuscript, please pay particular attention to the character named Van Cliburn. I thought it was a great name since he works for a moving company (get it? Van? Moving van?) but I’m now wondering if people would get confused with the real Van Cliburn, who’s a pianist. Do you think they will? Should I change the character’s name? Or do you think it’s okay because everyone knows that the real Van Cliburn is 73 years old and would never work for a moving company?

  Dear Mr. Traverson—

  Thank you for your kind words about the Thurber nomination. I consider it quite an honor to be in the company of the other nominees—all of whom are widely considered to be among the greatest comic minds of this generation.

  And thank you for your confidence in thinking that I can be of help with your novel. As a fellow writer, I know how precious our material is to us and how much trust we must have to show it to someone while it’s still a work-in-progress. So I’m flattered that you have such faith in me.

  However, I’m afraid that I must decline. At the moment I am incredibly overwhelmed with my own workload and I don’t think it would be respectful to you or your material if it’s relegated to a back burner where I won’t be able to get to it for a few months, at the very least.

  Again, I appreciate your thoughts and wish you the best of luck with your book, which I am returning unread.

  Sincerely,

  Alan Z.

  Dear Big Shot—

  So you have no time for me, huh? Have so much work of your own that you can’t read the first 247 pages of my novel, do you? Well, then how do you explain that piece you wrote for Sunday’s NY Times Op-Ed page? Where you said that when you ran the New York City Marathon, at the starting line you purposely stayed toward the back of the pack of 33,000 runners “for pretty much the same reason that cowboys, if given the choice, would prefer to be behind the horses during a stampede.”

  Sound familiar? No? Well, it should. I’m referring to page 64 of the manuscript you claim to not have read. Where I say, “When Van Cliburn was a young boy, before he decided to become a professional mover, he wanted to be a wrangler even after his father told him all about stampedes.”

  Still say you haven’t read my novel? Or, in the very least, the third paragraph on page 64? I find that hard to believe. Almost as hard to believe that someone of your supposed stature would stoop so low as to steal from me.

  I demand an explanation.

  Kevin Traverson

  Dear Thief—

  Still waiting for an explanation.

  An Impatient Kevin Traverson

  Hey Shithead—

  My attorney’s name is Elliott Throneberry. Don’t say I didn’t warn you.

  You Know Who

  Dear Mr. Throneberry—

  I am in receipt of your registered letter and, given the letterhead on your stationery, can only assume that you are indeed a lawyer. And it’s a rather generous assumption at that, given the caliber of client you appear to be representing.

  That being said, allow me to set the record straight with the sincere hope that this matter continues no further. One: I did not read your Mr. Traverson’s manuscript. Two: To the best of my knowledge, Mr. Traverson does not own the word stampede. It is in the dictionary, and last I looked, his name was nowhere to be seen near its listing. However, on the off chance that I am mistaken and that word stampede is indeed his, and his alone, to use; may I suggest you forget about me and give serious thought to suing John Wayne’s estate, as they have a lot more money than I do and he used the word more than anyone I can think of?

  Sorry to cut this letter short, but I just heard an ambulance drive by and I suspect you have to get ready to go chase it.

  Shysterly yours,

  Alan Zweibel

  Dear Mr. Zweibel—

  Congratulations on your book winning the Thurber Prize for American Humor!!!! It is so richly deserved and has already been a boon to me as I sold the copy you sent me on eBay for a price that should go even higher with the holiday season quickly coming upon us. Toward that end, can you please autograph these twelve copies and send them back in the enclosed carton? My attorney says it’s the least you can do given all the stress I’ve suffered at your
hands, and I tend to agree. I feel it can serve as an excellent first step in the healing process.

  Your Biggest Fan,

  Kevin Traverson

  Dear Kevin—

  Enclosed please find the copies of my novel that you sent me. And while I did not sign them as you requested, please note that I did enclose a jar of petroleum jelly, which should no doubt make it that much easier for you and your attorney to take turns shoving all twelve books up each other’s ass. And though I don’t know it firsthand, I can only presume that it will also help in your healing process.

  Your pal,

  Alan Zweibel

  Clothing Optional

  Let me just say at the outset that as I write these words, I am fully clothed. Shirt. Pants. Shoes. You know the look. Now, this is a point writers rarely feel the need to make. Traditionally, they simply go about the task of setting down words with little or no mention as to which parts of their anatomy are covered or exposed. I envy those writers. I used to be one of them. Allow me to explain.

  About a month ago, the pressures of script deadlines made the task of arranging dialogue between characters running around on a movie screen an all-consuming one—to the extent that any distraction was deemed so intrusive, I was absolutely livid when pulled out of a rehearsal to take a call from this magazine.