Nude Men

can do about that?”
    “I got nine paper cuts.”
    “Oh, sweetheart. I hope you disinfected them well. I have some rubbing alcohol in the bathroom closet above the sink. You should go and clean the cuts. Better safe than sorry,” she says, turning the chicken over.
    “It’s okay,” I say.
    “Is there anything new in the celebrity world?” she asks.
    I think for a moment. “Andy Rooney is in big trouble. He made a racist comment or something. I filed that one about twenty times.”
    “What else?”
    I think some more. “Princess Stephanie had a fight with her dad about her bodyguard boyfriend. I forget his name. I filed that one only five times. The stolen shoes of Marla Maples I filed about twenty-five times. The new Brady Bunch show I must have filed fifteen times. The Liz Taylor party thirty times. The—”
    “Do you want capers on the chicken or not?” interrupts Charlotte.
    “Yes,” I answer absently. I stare at the ceiling, thinking about my filing, and tears come to my eyes. I could talk to Charlotte about it. I could ask her what she thinks I could do or say at work that would make them stop giving me filing. Charlotte’s a psychologist. But she’s mushy, like I am. She’s cottage cheese, I remind myself. She would give me a cottage cheese answer. I don’t say anything. I am too depressed, too lonely. I make myself think of Lady Henrietta, the painter of nude men. Even thinking of her and of our meeting Saturday doesn’t cheer me up anymore. I’m afraid, nervous, and anxious. Why did I agree to pose for her? It’ll just bring me humiliation, probably even terrible embarrassment. Perhaps—I realize in horror—even rejection. When Lady Henrietta, the painter of nude men, sees me, Jeremy the maggot, naked, she might just totally refuse to paint me and say, “Sorry, I made a mistake. A mouth is not a good representation of a naked body. It does not have clues and signs. Sorry.” What will I answer to that? Should I say, “Well, I’ll let you paint my mouth if you want”?
    I clasp my hand over my eyes.
    “Is something wrong?” asks Charlotte.
    I yank my hand away, startled. “It’s the filing,” I lie. “I hate the filing.”
    “Poor sweetheart. We must talk about that. We must think of something you can tell those monsters who are exploiting you. But right now supper is ready, so why don’t you go wash your hands and come sit down like a good little boy.”
    “Yes, Mommy,” I say, to please her.
    I go sit down.
    “You forgot to wash your hands,” she says.
    “No I didn’t.”
    “Yes you did. You forgot to go to the bathroom and wash your hands. You got up from the bed and you came straight to the table and sat down. You must be a little dazed from all that filing, Jeremy. Now run along and wash your hands before the chicken gets cold.”
    “Charlotte, I did not forget to wash my hands. I didn’t do it because I didn’t feel like it.”
    “You can’t eat without having washed your hands.”
    “Is that a new thing with you? You never talked about washing hands before.”
    “That’s because I always thought you did it.”
    “Charlotte, I have a confession to make. I never wash my hands after I go to the bathroom.”
    She looks at me in silent amazement for a while and then slowly says, “That is totally gross.”
    “But I wash my hands after I file. Does that make up for it?”
    “No. That is totally gross,” she repeats.
    “To please you, I will go wash my hands.”
    I get up and wash my hands. I come back and sit down. She is still standing there, staring down at the table.
    “What’s wrong?” I ask.
    “It is totally gross, Jeremy. I’m not sure I’ll be able to eat now.”
    “Relax,” I say, tapping her elbow. “A little shit on your hands once in a while isn’t the end of the world. It’s healthy.”
    “It’s abnormal. I’m worried about you, Jeremy,” she says, shaking her head slowly.
    “Oh well, let’s eat,” I say, trying to change the subject. “Come sit down, sweetheart. The chicken’s getting cold.”
    She remains standing, still shaking her head.
    “Are you okay?” I ask.
    “No, not okay at all. I’m worried about you, Jeremy.”
    “Why? You think I have a psychological disorder?” I chuckle. She stops shaking her head and stares at me without answering.
    “What?” I say defensively, my mouth full of chicken. “You think I have a psychological disorder? Is that what you think?”
    “Yes.”
    “Because I don’t