Wayne Scheer
Naked Lady in 3B
You never know what's going to turn your life around. For me, it started when I peeped into a lady's window and saw her naked.
What happened is, I'm driving home after a bad date. You know, the kind that drags on until two in the morning and when you finally get her home, she says she has to get up early in the morning, pecks you on the cheek, and without using words makes it clear that if you were the last man left on earth she'd cut her hair short and take up women's golf.
So I'm not exactly in a good mood. I'm driving home slow listening to reruns of radio call-in shows and they keep repeating, "Don't call in. This is a pre-recorded program." Apparently, losers like me who listen to this crap at two in the morning are too stupid to know better. I'm angry and disappointed and more than a little horny when I look up at this apartment window and I see what I think is a naked lady walk by. My first thought is, it's been so long I can't even tell for sure if it's a woman. But I stop my car right there in the middle of this lonely side street and she walks by again. This time there's no doubt about her gender. I mean she's a knockout what with dark hair and perky little breasts. Maybe it was the light or the mood I was in, but I'm telling you she was something special. Then she turns around and walks away from the window and I'm standing there watching this cute little round ass fade away.
Now if I were a gentleman I would have just snapped a mental picture, gone home and developed it while jacking off. Instead, I back the car up a few feet and park across the street where I have a better view of her window. That's when I think it's too bad I don't have a real camera with a telescopic lens or something. Like a private detective.
Well, I sit there for damn near twenty minutes seeing nothing and then the lights go out in her apartment. But I'm hardly thinking about her anymore. I'm imagining myself as a private eye, like in the movies, and I'm working on a super secret espionage case and this woman is a spy from some Middle Eastern country. She's seduced Five-Star General Buck Reynolds, the man in charge of planning a multinational mission to kidnap this big deal terrorist and bring him to justice. It's up to me to stop her before she puts truth serum in his cocktail.
Just then, I hear a voice. "Hey, Buddy. What're you doing?"
I turn and see a cop in his patrol car, which he pulled along side of me, and I nearly piss in my pants. But then I think I'm not some sleazeball parked outside in the dark hoping to get a peek at a naked lady. I'm Peter Owens, Private Eye.
"My name is Owens, Peter Owens," I say, avoiding his eyes and hoping my voice doesn't crack. "I'm a private detective. The husband of the lady in 3B hired me. He's out of town and wanted me to make sure she wasn't fooling around or nothing while he's away." Then I add, "Everything looks cool."
He looks at the dark apartment building and then he gets out of his car, but his hand is near his gun, like John Wayne. He shines his flashlight in my eyes and asks to see my detective license. I tell him I don't have one at the present. "I'm sort of a freelancer," I say. "But I'm gonna get the paperwork in real soon."
"Freelancer, huh?" Now he asks to see my identification. I reach for my wallet and his eyes are on me like he thinks I may be some sort of dangerous person. My adrenaline is surging. I watch my hands shake as I pass him my driver's license.
"I thought you said your name was Owens? It says here your name is Wendell Milkins."
"Yeah, that's right," I tell him. "You see, my detective alias is Peter Owens."
I see his partner slide across to the driver's seat and ask, "Is there a problem, Bo?" Just then, a message comes in on the radio sounding like static to me but Bo hands me my license as he gets into his car. "No. No problem. That right, Wendell?"
I nod.
"You just move on. Go write your report to the lady's husband." He laughs, and I hear him saying to his partner as they drive off, "That was the famous Peter Owens, Private Eye."
My heart's pounding like it's going to hop out of my chest and do the watusi. Sweat's pouring down my face and I think that maybe I really did wet myself. But in my head I hear the cop's voice saying, "That was the famous Peter Owens, Private Eye."
And I like the way it sounds.
I go home and all I can do is think of my encounter with the police and the naked lady. To tell you the truth, I don't know which got me more excited, but I was so wired there was no way I was going to sleep that night.
Instead of sleeping, I pace the length of my apartment, from the bedroom to the kitchen, about a hundred times. What's gotten into me? I keep thinking. I mean I'm Wendell Milkins, for crying out loud. I design websites for people who want to make their goldfish Internet celebrities or sell their baseball card collection. The closest I ever get to action is clicking on www.oralangel.com.
It was daylight when I finally fell asleep and I woke up a few hours later. Instead of running to the computer to see if this Heather chick I've been communicating with responded when I told her I was a doctor, I decide to pack my breakfast and drive over to Deland Avenue and see what's happening in apartment 3B.
I jump into my trusty 1992 metallic blue Toyota Corolla, and I drive the four or five blocks to where I last saw happiness in the shape of a bare ass. I park outside her building and I count three windows up and two over and there's her apartment window, only the shades are pulled. But I got nothing but time and my morning meal, a bag of Cheese Doodles and a V-8.
Maybe half an hour goes by and I'm imagining I'm on a stakeout watching for anything suspicious going on in the building. I see two teenaged boys walk out the front door and I write in my log: "9:15 a.m. -- 2 white males about 16 exit building." Then I see a woman about forty go into the building carrying the Sunday paper and I record the activity. Later, I write, "Black male and female exit, late twenties, wheeling what appears to be a baby carriage." Over the next hour I fill my log with similar information, but I note: "No sign of naked lady in 3B."
That's when I decide to take action. I enter the building just as a balding man in his sixties (I make a mental note of that for my log) is leaving. He looks me over as I grab the door from him and walk into the apartment house all cool-like, as if I belong there. I'm proud of myself, but then I realize it's just a little anteroom and the next door is locked.
So I look at the wall with all the names and buzzers and I look up 3B. It says, S. Brochio. I take out my log and make a note: "S. Brochio. Run computer check." Next, I ring her bell. I have no idea what I'm going to say but I figure if I'm Peter Owens, Private Eye, I'll think of something.
A sexy voice that still has sleep in it answers and I stutter idiotically, like I'm auditioning for an Adam Sandler movie. "Is anybody there?" she asks a little more impatient than sexy this time. I mutter, "S-sorry" and run to my car.
When I get in to resume my surveillance I see she's opening her curtains. The morning sun makes it hard for me to see her clearly, but I realize I shouldn't be here. What if she notices me watching her and calls the cops?
I don't know what to do, so I drive off.
But I'm hot now. I mean I've seen her naked and I've heard her voice. Usually for me it's one or the other. I either talk to them at a bar or I see a nude picture on the Internet. This is about as far as I've gotten in a long time.
I think: what would Peter Owens do? But that's not the right question. I'm not Peter Owens, dammit. I'm Wendell Milkins. I ask instead: what would Wendell Milkins do? And I sit down at my computer and begin working.
Within an hour I learn her full name is Samantha Anne Brochio and, because she joined a computer dating service, there's all kinds of information available about her. She's twenty-five, only two years younger than me. She's a hospital administrator, drives a '98 Solero, was married but recently divorced, no children or pets, interested in modern art, likes to backpack, no religious affiliation, and prefers comedies to dramas.
I print out a photograph of her. She's not as pretty as I originally thought, her nose is a little too big and her eyes too close together, but her dark hair and full lips more than make up for it. She's cute and sexy and, as crazy as it sounds, I start to think what it would be like if she were my girl.
About a week goes by, and I still can't sleep. I can't work. I keep thinking about Samantha Brochio naked. I'm also feeling guilty, not because I saw her naked; no, I'm feeling bad because I used my computer skills to find out all kinds of personal stuff about her. I even had her picture made to look like a wallet photo so I could think of her as my girlfriend. And I keep parking outside her apartment house hoping to get another peek.
I'm beginning to creep myself out. And believe me, knowing myself the way I do, that takes a lot.
So I decide I have to get this Samantha chick out of my head. I'm also worried about the way I keep thinking of myself as Peter Owens, Private Eye. Yesterday, I used my charge card at Radio Shack and I started writing "P-e-t" before I caught myself. But no matter how much I try to get my mind on other things, Samantha's naked body keeps flashing before my eyes, like in some movie about a psycho serial killer.
Hell, the real me is so normal I bore myself. I design web pages for a living. I've even won awards for my work. I'm single, but I was engaged up until eight months ago. We were going to marry, have kids, even move to the suburbs. Then she met Hector, the big deal real estate developer, and left me alone to play with my computer. Three years together and she dumps me for a real estate developer.
I try to get back to work. I'm designing a web page for a hardware store chain and another one for an art gallery. I'm also doing a soft-core porn site for some freak who wants to put his collection of celebrity rear ends on the Internet. He wants me to set up a tease page so he can charge pervs $1.95 for a photo of the actress's ass of their choice. He says he has a large collection of asses, different sizes and shapes, so he can do a fake celebrity ass shot if he can't find the real thing. I'm setting up a Celebrity Butt of the Week contest where people try to match the actress with her butt.
And even this doesn't keep my mind on my work.
When it gets dark outside, I start thinking that maybe Samantha just got home and she's changing out of her work clothes. The next thing I know, I'm in my Toyota parked across from her window.
So that's where I spend most of my evenings, eating my supper of a ham sandwich, Cheese Doodles and V-8, with a Ding Dong for dessert. I'm feeling crummy about being here, wishing I could just go home, but her curtains are open and I hate to admit it, but I'm more than just a little hot and bothered. She's probably not even home, but I'm reaching deeper than is necessary into the bag of Doodles on my lap, if you know what I mean.
Suddenly, a woman who could be Samantha comes out of the parking garage across the street and walks to the building. If it's her, she's shorter than I imagined and maybe a little skinnier, too. But there's something about her dark hair and the way she moves. I know it's Samantha.
I'm about to jump out of the car and race to her, but my arms and legs don't work. Then I think: what would I say? Do I tell her I've been sitting out here, playing with my Doodles, waiting for her? Yeah, that would be a real turn on.
Just then, I hear a man call, "Sam, we need to talk!" This guy, tall and angry-looking, wearing a dark suit but with the tie loose, jumps out of the doorway of the apartment next door.
Some detective I am. I'm so busy watching her window I don't see this nut stalking her.
"No, we talked enough," she says. "You're not supposed to be this close to me, you know that. I'll call the police. I swear I will." She starts to open the door of her building.
Now this is where it really gets weird. He grabs her arm and spins her around. She tries to push him away but he grips both of her shoulders and shakes her, shouting, "Dammit, I just want to talk!" I see her head snap back and I can hear her cry.
For once, I don't think. I just jump out of the car, yelling, "Hey! Take your hands off the lady."
He turns, and I swear there's fire in his eyes. This stranger, a good two or three inches taller than me, shouts, "Who the hell are you?"
"Owens, Peter Owens," I say, staring directly into his bloodshot eyes. "And you need to calm down." My voice is even and forceful. I'm not sure I even recognize it.
He glares at me, but I glare right back. "The lady hired me to protect her," I say, and I keep staring into his eyes. I don't even blink.
Finally, I see him look down. "Sheeeiiittt," he mutters, and walks away without looking at Samantha or me.
"Thank you," she says, after she catches her breath. "That was my ex."
"Glad I was here, Sa, umm, Ma'am."
She holds out her hand. "My name is Samantha Brochio."
"I'm Wendell Milkins," I say, taking her hand.
"But I thought you said it was Peter?"
"Do you think he would have listened to me if I said, 'The name's Milkins. Wendall Milkins?'"
We laugh, and I'm still holding her hand. And she's still holding mine.
So I tell her I really am a detective, but my specialty is computer surveillance. She's so impressed, she doesn't even ask what I'm doing parked outside her apartment building. Even better, she agrees to go to a local coffee shop with me.
I can't believe my luck. I mean, since my ex dumped me I've been digging myself into a hole and complaining because I'm getting dirty. Now, for the first time in a long while, I'm looking up and seeing daylight in the face of a dark-haired beauty with incredibly deep, brown eyes.
I tell this to Samantha after she tells me what she had to go through to leave her ex, a stockbroker with a drinking problem. She laughs and says, "Wendell, don't give up your day job, because you'd sure make a lousy poet."
At first, I don't know how to take this. Arlene, my ex, was always serious. I remember showing her my video collection of old Monty Python clips, especially my favorite one, "Man with Tape Recorder Up His Nose." That's the one where a man comes out on a stage, sticks a finger up his nose and music comes out. That cracks me up every time I even think about it. All Arlene could say was, "I don't get it. It's silly and pointless."
"Of course it's silly and pointless," I remember shouting at her. "That's the point."
"I still don't get it," she said.
That's when I should have realized me and Arlene didn't make much sense. But she was impressed with me because I knew so much about computers. A guy will accept anything if his girlfriend is impressed with him.
I ask Samantha, "Do you like Monty Python?"
She stands up, right there in this coffee shop with the waitress and a half-dozen customers looking at us, sticks out her right leg and shakes it while twitching her head like a bird on speed and waving spastically with her left arm. She takes about two steps like that and turns around. We both shout, "The Ministry of Silly Walks!" And we spend the next hour talking about our favorite Python skits.
We even get serious and talk about how neither of us believes in any one religion, but in some kind of spirit that wants us to do right in spite of ourselves. This leads us somehow to politics and how we think everything is all messed up. She takes my hand, kind of makes her bottom lip disappear and looks at me with the darkest, deepest eyes I've ever seen.
"I'm responsible," she says. "I voted for Ralph Nader the first time."
"So it was you!" I shout. And we laugh some more.
All the time I'm thinking, what should be my next move? I'm wishing I shaved in the last few days or at least used deodorant this morning. I'm worried about coming on too strong. After all, I'm not exactly every woman's dream. I'm almost six feet and weigh one-forty after a heavy pasta meal. My hair is kind of dirty brown and it doesn't exactly stay in place. To make it worse, I wear glasses that keep slipping down my nose, so I have to keep poking them back up like a dweeb. I want to ask her out like on a real date, but I decide maybe I should just ask for her phone number.
While I'm torturing myself, she says, "So, when are you going to invite me to your place to watch Monty Python and the Holy Grail?
I almost swallow my tongue. I'm trying to act cool because this is the most beautiful woman I've ever seen, even if her top front teeth kind of overlap. "Um, well..." and I start stuttering like an idiot.
That's when she gets this look on her face, where her eyes are so big she looks like she's auditioning for a minstrel show. "You're the one who rang my doorbell about a week ago, aren't you? You buzzed me and then you started stuttering."
I try to deny it by looking innocent and not saying anything.
"You woke me up. When I looked out the window, you're the guy I saw running to his car and driving away, aren't you?"
"No, well, yeah...you see, I uh, was testing the security of your building so I rang a few buzzers and nobody let me in, so I left. Your building passed its security inspection, by the way."
"You're full of shit."
I don't know what to say. If I tell her the truth, I figure she'll freak out. If I tell her I found out her name and ran a computer check of her, she'd think I'm some kind of stalker, which, of course, I am. But in a good way. I mean, all I want to do is get to know her and get her to know me. I can't think of a good story, so I take a chance. "Yeah, that was me." I kind of mumble and hang my head. "I just wanted to hear your voice."
She stares at me. I see her cock her head to one side and wrinkle her forehead until her eyebrows almost come together. Then she reaches across the table, gives me one of those Elaine Benis from Seinfeld shots to the shoulder, and laughs. "You almost had me. That guy was shorter than you and creepy looking."
Before I can speak, she looks at me with those incredible eyes and says, "So are we going to your place or not?"
Later that night, we're in bed together. We just had sex that was so good, I think if I died right now, it would take major reconstructive surgery to wipe the grin off my face.
"Samantha, I have something to tell you," I say without thinking. But then I hold back telling her the truth. Maybe there really is a spirit in me that wants me to do the right thing, but I don't know what the right thing is. She could really be the one. I want to be honest with her, but how do you tell a woman you're in bed with that you've been stalking her?
She kisses me while I'm rearranging the words in my head like I'm playing some kind of crazy game of Scrabble. "You know me well enough to call me Sam," she says and giggles.
She really giggles. And I think I'm falling in love. I've only known her for a few hours, so it's dumb to think about love, I know, but I'm already imagining I'm introducing her to my parents and my father says to Sam, "So you think you can put up with him, eh?" And she says, "Yes, sir. For the rest of my life." And my mother hugs her and says, "There's nothing to you. Let me fix you a sandwich. Ham and cheese, maybe some potato salad?" And I put my arm around Sam and say, "I love her just the way she is." And we all laugh and hug, like we're a real family. I don't even see my mother spaced out on her pills or my father sleeping off last night's hangover.
"So what do you want to tell me?" Sam asks as she sits up on one elbow and lets the covers drop so I see her little round breasts with tiny pink nipples, and I think of the first time I saw them from her apartment window. I kiss her, then I give each of her breasts a peck, and I say, "I just wanted to tell you how much I...like you."
"Well, I like you, too," she says and reaches her arm around to grab me by the hip and pull me towards her. We kiss some more. Then she says, "Now tell me what you really wanted to say."
And I tell her how I want to be honest with her and how I hope one day I can look her in the eye and say, "I love you."
She smiles. "Good line. How many times have you used that one?"
"A couple, but this time I mean it."
She laughs. "So when are you going to tell me why you've been lurking outside my apartment building and why you rang my bell last week?"
I look at her and I feel my heart pounding. "You know?"
"As soon as I saw that beat up old Toyota of yours, I knew it was you."
"And you got in my car anyway and let me take you to my place and . . ."
"Fucked your brains out. Yeah. I figured, how dangerous could you be if you like Monty Python?"
"But I could have been some kind of obsessed stalker? You should be more careful, you know." Then I realize I'm trying to protect her from me. I'm wondering if maybe the world slipped off its axis and nothing is real anymore. I think this is just another one of my fantasies and I'll wake up and be Wendell Milkins again, computer web designer.
But it isn't a fantasy. Sam is real. She knows who I am, and she likes me anyway.
I tell her the truth about how I saw her that first time and why I was hanging around her apartment building. I even tell her how I checked her out on the computer and found all the information she sent to a computer dating service. I don't say anything about the picture of her I had made into a wallet size photo so I could think of her as my girlfriend. That creeps even me out.
"So you've been stalking me?" She rearranges herself on the bed and pulls the covers back over her breasts.
"Yes."
"You've been parking in front of my building hoping to get another peek at me nude?"
"Yes."
"That's sweet," she says, and giggles. "But does this mean you're not really a detective?"
I nod. When I see the look of disappointment on her face, I add, "But I could be."
"And I could be your assistant. And we could go on stake outs together."
"Sure. I'll use my detective name, Peter Owens, and you can be..."
"Sam Owens," she says, smiling and kissing my lips. "We could be a husband and wife detective team."
She rests her head on my chest and starts humming the theme from the old Monty Python show. We both make farting sounds at the appropriate places.
©2005 by Wayne Scheer
