by Forest, Will
Crest of a New Tide
The unexpected greeting cards that Christopher and Angela had received read as follows:
You are cordially invited
to the home of Karl and Florence Lowell
1580 Bayview Court
for dinner at 7:00 next Thursday
the 26th of March. RSVP…
Now, ten minutes before the stated time, they found themselves navigating Dr. Ross’s hatchback uphill through the curvy streets of a very high-class neighborhood, each mansion seeming to surpass the one below in size, style, and bayfront vista. There were plantation-style extravaganzas, Georgian-style fortresses, neo-Gothic gargoyle-studded mini-castles, and Spanish colonial stucco caserones with tile roofs. Angela and Christopher weren’t surprised, although certainly impressed, when they realized that Florence Lowell’s estate, a contemporary glass-and-concrete cantilevered structure, occupied the summit of this hill. Christopher parked his humble hatchback next to a latest-model Land Rover, and the two professors, uncomfortably wearing what they assumed would pass for semi-formal attire, wound their way along a stone path to the front door while making a few final comments about their host Florence Lowell’s legendary involvement on the GCU board of trustees, her status as one of the area’s leading yellow-dog democrats, and the absence of any other vehicles in the driveway or on the street at 7:10. Dr. Saucedo rang the doorbell.
The door opened presently to reveal a surprise that wrought shock, chagrin, and finally delight on the professors’ faces. There was Florence Lowell, wearing nary a stitch, flanked by her husband, similarly unattired. Both sported allover tans. In spite of the wrinkles and flaccidity unavoidable by the seventh decade of life, they looked fit and trim.
“Dr. Ross, Dr. Saucedo, so nice to see you,” said Florence. “This is my husband Karl. Please come in and make yourselves comfortable.”
Angela and Christopher stepped inside, glanced at each other with eyebrows raised bemusedly, and began to remove their clothes.
“Here, you can put your clothes on these chairs. And take the towels, they’re to sit on. I’m going to prepare your drinks,” said Florence. She and her husband turned around and walked out into the bay, or so it seemed, before disappearing to the left of the living area with its ceiling-to-floor glass wall that opened onto the moonlight rippling over the water.
“Did you see this coming?” whispered Christopher as he unbuckled his belt.
“No! I’m intrigued! And I’ve never experienced this feeling,” Angela whispered back as she struggled with her sweater, “this feeling of throwing off the weight of my clothes as part of a welcome to someone’s home. How enchanting!”
Freshly undressed, the two professors stepped down into the living room. Angela was drawn immediately to the night view from the glass wall, while Christopher studied his hosts’ collection of paintings and sculptures. He appreciated the concentration and variety of original works, but deemed it inordinately Eurocentric. He recognized the music, however, as decidedly American—New Orleans-style jazz.
Florence and Karl appeared with four tumblers on a tray. “I want to thank you for accepting our invitation,” said Florence.
“It’s our pleasure, Mrs. Lowell,” replied Christopher.
“Please, call me Florence. May I call you by your first names as well?” asked the GCU trustee as she passed her guests their margaritas.
“Of course,” said Angela. “I was admiring the view. It’s so lovely tonight, I can only imagine what it would be like on a warm summer evening with a breeze off the bay…”
“It’s just delightful,” said Karl, “But summer or winter, morning or evening, the best way to take in the view is as nature intended.”
“Karl and I knew you would appreciate visiting with a clothes-free couple like ourselves,” began Florence. “Please, sit down and let’s talk a little.”
“Now that I know you’re a nudist, I imagine you must be interested in our courses and the students’ CRM projects,” said Angela.
“Indeed, Karl and I are very interested. We have been nudists for as long as we can remember, though not in any official way until recently when we joined the AANR. But we grew up skinny-dipping here in the South and just prefer being naked.”
“The night Florence and I met, we were in a group, all of us teenagers, and we went skinny-dipping,” added Karl. “It was a wondrous summer night at the creek.”
“We always take our clothes off at home, and we have a few nudist friends that we host or visit from time to time. A couple years ago we traveled with some of these friends to Australia for a nude vacation. It was fantastic!”
Florence changed her tone. “But let me tell you, Angela, Christopher, that I’m already very familiar with your courses and with what the students are doing on campus. As you might guess, all the publicity has made its way into the gossip among the trustees. And let me say that I’m glad you’re feeling comfortable, because I’m going to grill you like Cajun catfish!”
Christopher took a swift sip of his margarita. “I’m getting the feeling we’ve put you in a tight spot. As a nudist, you’d like to support us, but you’d probably face significant resistance on the board of trustees.”
“That’s exactly my situation. And it is compounded in your case, Christopher, because, as you know, the board of trustees has the final say in tenure and promotion cases. Usually, our function in that regard is merely a formality. We certainly don’t study the cases ourselves; we simply approve the documents forwarded to us by the president.”
“I think I see where you’re going with this. In the event of a rejection, you could possibly defend…”
“Now let’s not get ahead of ourselves, Angela,” said Florence. “Such an action would be unprecedented. Let me ask a few questions first. Christopher, point blank: other than objections that may arise from your, let’s say, innovative teaching style, do you have a strong tenure case?”
“Yes.”
“How do you know?”
“I’ve published more than expected, won grants, presented at conferences, designed new courses and received excellent student feedback, etc. And I know I have the support of my chair and dean, except that neither one feels able to defend my ‘innovative teaching style.’”
“Has the popularity of your course been noted as an advantage for the philosophy department’s attempt to meet the state viability requirements?”
“Yes.”
“Angela, you already have tenure,” continued Florence. “Have you received any threats, bare or covert, to your job security?”
“No.”
“Your research is controversial at face value. Without even thinking about reactions from local school boards around the country, have you already met resistance from your professional community?”
“Well, yes, but only because, as you say, some colleagues see the words ‘nude’ and ‘school’ together and have a meltdown. But many others have been supportive, and I have two strong bases to rest on: the fact that the prestigious ISCD funded the research, and the fact that I employed a solid research methodology with several kinds of data.”
“Good. I think it will be obvious to the campus community that you and Christopher support each other. I would advise not being too vocal about it. Let Dr. Ross’s case rest on his merits without the need for your praise. It might appear desperate otherwise.”
“I agree,” said Angela.
“Here’s a question for both of you: do you have any plans to get married?”
Christopher choked on his drink and could only gasp, “Not at this point.”
Angela glanced at him with pursed lips. “Maybe. Why?”
“I’d suggest you wait at least until the end of this semester, until the tenure case is—hopefully—resolved. Do you think that’s reasonable?”
“Definitely,” said Christopher, looking at Angela, eyebrows raised. “Definitely.”
“Alright, now it’s my turn for a question,” said Karl. “Would you like more margaritas?
”
“Please,” replied both professors. Karl took their glasses to the bar.
Christopher crossed his hands and looked at Florence. “I am very grateful for your interest, and I’d like to know what you think about all this.”
“I support your innovations, Christopher. And I don’t mean that as a euphemism. I think what you both are doing is truly innovative, because even the historical precedents—like the Greek gymnasium or similar academies of other ancient cultures—were almost always segregated by sex. Your innovation is not just to reintroduce the nude classroom in modern times, but also to include both women and men. It reminds me of those t-shirts that have been popular for years now, ‘co-ed naked lacrosse’ or ‘co-ed naked rugby’ or what have you. Well, you two have really done it. You’ve brought the idle fantasy of a t-shirt slogan to life, and you started not on the athletics field but in the classroom. You have even begun this experiment in—what’s your term, Angela? oh, yes—nude body learning, specifically under the double aegis of philosophy and pedagogy, disciplines that explore the secrets of how we know and how we learn. I find this very admirable, and I’m sure there are others who have reached the same conclusion.
“However, I also think you’ve still got a helluva fight ahead of you. You know, very well I’m sure, the generally conservative mores that are still in sway in this country. And I’ll bet you know how often these mores are merely hypocritical fronts for outrageous behavior, and defended all the more fiercely if only for that reason. There were so many sex scandals in the church my family attended when I was growing up…it was all about shining brightly on Sunday morning to obscure the sins of Saturday night. But times change. College students today have different attitudes about their bodies. You two are on the crest of a new tide, which could bring an enviable cutting-edge reputation to GCU. But, it may be only a wave and not a sea change, in which case it will crash and dissipate sooner or later.”
Florence finished her margarita and set the glass down on the table. She gazed out at the ocean for a moment. “There’s no denying you’ve certainly made waves around here, anyway. I support you both, and frankly you’re lucky you have me. I’ll do what I can, and I do have some pull with the other trustees, but it would be very difficult for us to overturn a tenure rejection at the level of the dean, the provost, or the president.”
The two nudist couples—one pair in their sixties and the other in their thirties—moved to the candlelit dinner table, enjoying the view of the bay on one side and the fire in the hearth on the other. They enjoyed Karl’s black bean soup, salad, and crawfish étouffée, and Florence’s raspberry flan, while discussing state funding for the university, the best areas for nude outdoor recreation along the Gulf Coast, and Florence’s summary dismissal of Mardi Gras as a “wallowing in last year’s crushed moonpies.” The hours passed quickly until the moon rode high and it was time for the guests to leave.
“Few times in my life have I received such a gracious and welcome surprise,” said Angela. “As usual, I’m reluctant to put my clothes back on!”
“Ah, but it is chilly outside,” said Karl.
“Thanks so much for having us,” said Angela, pulling her sweater down.
“Thanks for your hospitality and support. It was great to spend time with you both and get to know you better,” said Christopher, already dressed.
“Please keep on with your innovations, and do all you can to build support for them,” said Florence. “I think just getting the word out about what actually happens in your courses will be key. Maybe you could invite some of the administrators to your classes or to the student group meetings – the dean, the provost?”
“That’s a good idea,” said Christopher. “My department chair has already come, but we’ll work on more visits. I like that word you keep using—innovation—and I’m tempted, corny though it may sound, to coin the term ‘innudation.’”
“Oh, that’s delightful,” approved Florence. “Let’s call you the ‘innudators’ then!”
“Nice to have met you both,” said Karl. “I leave you with a question from Michelangelo: ‘What spirit is so empty and blind, that it cannot recognize the fact that the foot is more noble than the shoe, and skin more beautiful that the garment with which it is clothed?’”
“That’s a quote I know well! I shared it in class a few weeks ago when we discussed Renaissance body aesthetics,” said Christopher.
“It’s one of my favorites,” added Florence. “Drive carefully. Let us know how things go!”
Smoothing Out the Path
Lana did not feel naked. She felt transparent, right down to the marrow of her bones. The rush of liberation she had experienced in the Humanities Building had been replaced by a kind of edgy comfort, almost guilt, at feeling so unbound breezy while those around her labored through their clothes. Streaks of sweat dampened Tim’s t-shirt under his arms and across his sternum. No doubt sweat streamed down the cleft of his buttocks and between his thighs. He had supported her project by searching the archives for the requested footage, but he wasn’t even going to be on film. Why wouldn’t he take his shirt off as a token gesture of solidarity?
She had decided to avoid pixelization, even though she knew they’d have to work around the fact that they hadn’t been able to set up the camera angles ahead of time at the “Nude-Out” to block out or film around certain body parts. But this was the challenge she now wanted to meet: to bring social nudity to a new level of consciousness. She had edited everything and set it all up as a late-night news segment, following the broadcast rule that not even bare buttocks were permitted on network television before 10:00 PM. Much more obstructive than the tops of people’s legs, she knew, would be the top bosses at the station, who had only a hint of what was about to happen.
And now as she waited for the red “ON AIR” light, the suddenly unwelcome sensation that attacked her was not shame, or loneliness, or embarrassment, or fear. It was the mildly amusing, somewhat perturbing certainty that she had no voice. Transparent as she felt, how could she produce any sort of vibration capable of registering on the microphone suspended just over the camera?
“Are you really gonna go through with this?”
Such luxury squandered, Tim’s voice, she thought.
“What’s the matter?”
Lana clenched what she imagined must be her gut, contracting thirstily where she thought her throat to be, and felt her invisible heart quicken on its own initiative.
Tim stared through her. He abandoned the camera, stepped away a moment, and returned carrying something, a cylindrical shape that…
“eeeeaaAAAHH! My arm! Get that off my arm!”
Tim winked. “You never know when you might need a cold beer.”
Lana was relieved but flustered. “Don’t drink that now! I’m ready. Now.”
“Are you really ready?”
She eyed the beer. “Alright, one swig of that, and I’m ready.”
The prickly cool liquid traced her throat for her, smoothing out the path for her voice regained.
She handed the can back to Tim. “You don’t know what this means to me, do you?”
“It means your job. Hell, it might mean mine too.”
He tilted his head back and finished off the rest of the beer.
“You’ve got guts, Lana. More than me. You’re not gonna see any more of me than this,” he said, pulling off his sandals.
Lana smiled at the gesture. “Okay, cameraman, it’s showtime.”
Judge for Yourself
Brad McIntire lay in bed at 10:15 PM, his thick eyelids straining feebly against the gravitational prose of the College of Engineering’s accreditation report. He woke up a few minutes later and stared at the extended forecast on the TV at the foot of his bed, hearing his wife performing her nocturnal ablutions in the master bathroom, and then the last thing he saw before going under again was the bulleted list of goals for the mechanical engineering program. When he awoke again, his wife was sitting ne
xt to him.
“I came over to wake you up. You’ve got to hear this report they’ve been announcing. I think it’s on next.”
“What is it?”
“Something about GCU,” she said, keeping her gaze on the screen.
“Good or bad?”
“I don’t know. They showed a crowd in the Humanities Building courtyard.”
Brad scrutinized his wife’s tone of voice and the look in her eyes. Was she excited? Upset? Trying to remain indifferent?
“Were they…dressed?”
“Hmmmm? Oh, I think so. It was just a brief shot, I think I would have noticed if they were naked. Why wouldn’t they be dressed?”
Brad took Lynne’s hand. “Let’s go back to Crete.”
Lynne turned to face her husband, smiling. “What’s this all about?” She chuckled. “Were you dreaming just now? I think you’ve drooled on these papers…”
“No, no, I wasn’t dreaming. I’m serious. Let’s go back to Crete, I don’t know when yet, but we’ll go back to that beach, and this time we’ll join in.”
Lynne pulled the bedclothes back and peeked underneath. “Look at you! You’re lying under a heavy bedspread, wearing a bathrobe, pajamas, and probably boxers underneath, and it’s not even that cold tonight. If you want to hit that beach, you’d better practice what you preach.”
“That’s an excellent point.” Brad stood up. “I’ll take off my bathrobe.”
Lynne laughed. “One step at a time.”
His robe hanging on one arm, Brad stopped, suddenly staring at the TV. “Yep, that’s her.” He sat back down heavily. “This might be really bad.”
Lana Fitzgerald’s face filled the screen, her voice imploring the broadcast viewers to understand “that context is everything, and so for the viewing of the next segment you should remove as much clothing as you feel comfortable doing.”
“Well, Brad, you’re ahead of the game,” Lynne said, turning around to face her husband again. “Oh, but you’ve got to take the robe all the way…”
