May We Be Forgiven

go?”
    “What is it?”
    “Like-minded people?” she suggests.
    “A political group?”
    “Not exactly, more like a social gathering.”
    “When is it?”
    “Tonight.”
    “This evening?”
    “Like you’re so busy? It’s eight to eleven—I figure to go around nine.”
    “Does it have a name?”
    She sighs. “It’s a friends-and-neighbors party. Do you want me to pick you up?”
    “I’ll meet you there. Have you got an address?”
    “It’s at the laser-tag place called Night Vision, in the mini-mall. …”
    “The one with the CVS?”
    “That’s the one. Can we meet in the parking lot?”
    “Sure,” I say. “What’s the dress code?”
    “Casual,” she says.

    S itting in the car outside of CVS, waiting, I consider telling Cheryl about the woman from the A& P. I’m not sure why I feel guilty about letting the grocery-store woman “service” me—like I’m somehow cheating on a woman who is cheating on her husband—or why I feel compelled to tell all to a woman who I have absolutely no relationship or commitment to, and yet I am equally or more uncomfortable keeping it to myself. I am lost in this peculiar reverie about confession when she taps on my car window—scaring the hell out of me.
    I get out. “I’m not usually up and out at this hour,” I say, half kidding—I used to like to go and listen to jazz in the evenings when I lived in New York.
    “I went to the grocery store to kill time,” she says, somewhat nervous. “I spent a hundred seventy-eight dollars. I’m assuming the perishables will be fine for a couple of hours.”
    “As long as you didn’t buy anything melty.”
    “Meat and milk,” she says.
    “You changed your hair,” I say, realizing that every time I see her she looks different. Today it’s in more of a wedge, like Dorothy Hamill, the ice-skater.
    “It’s a wig,” she says.
    As we’re crossing the parking lot, I begin, “In the interest of full disclosure. …”
    “Don’t,” she says, and I stop. “Is it really important?” she then asks.
    “Not really,” I say.
    “It can wait,” she says, half a question.
    I nod—it can.
    “I’m a little nervous,” she says.
    “What about?”
    “I’ve never been to one of these things before.” She pauses. “In the interest of full disclosure,” she says, almost mocking me, “I probably should have told you over the phone, but …”
    “What?”
    “I’m not sure if everyone will be clothed,” she says, not missing a beat.
    “What?” I stop; a car pulling in brushes past me, nearly taking me down.
    “I’m just saying …”
    “That it’s, like, a nudist party? And somehow you didn’t want to tell me until now?”
    “I didn’t want you to be nervous,” she lies.
    “You didn’t want me to say no.”
    She says nothing.
    “Is nudity required?” I ask.
    “Optional.”
    “Are you going to get naked?” I ask.
    She shrugs. “First I want to see what it’s like.”
    There’s a handwritten sign taped to the door—“Closed for Private Party.” A table in front of the ticket booth is decorated with a banner that reads “Welcome OurFriendsandNeighbors. org.”
    “May I help you?” a guy in polo shirt and khakis asks.
    “I signed up for the event,” Cheryl says.
    “May I have your name?”
    “Cheryl Stevens.”
    He finds her name on the list, smiles, and says, “And I see you’ve brought a friend.”
    “Is that all right?”
    “Of course, the more the merrier,” he says, handing me forms to fill out.
    “We are a private membership club—ten dollars to join and thirty for tonight’s event.” I take the papers.
    “While you’re working on those, I’ll go over the parameters and give you some information on our upcoming potluck.”
    Working on the form, I initially skip the name and address parts and fill out my e-mail and cell-phone number.
    The man in the polo shirt notices the blanks.
    “Not sure who you want to be tonight?” he asks.
    I say nothing.
    “Come as yourself,” he says, “it keeps things simple. Once, we had a guy who bumped his head at a roller rink, and it took three days to figure out who he was.”
    I leave the blanks open.
    “Okay, the parameters … As you know, this is a public facility that we’ve rented for the occasion, so we want to reiterate that, while we are a clothing-optional gathering, it’s not a free-for-all,” he says, winking. “And …” He pauses. “This one we take seriously: no means no. We’re rigorous about