Nude Men

bet is patience. I look at the people standing in line near us, hoping they all have many distractions and won’t be tempted to listen in on us. They would think we belong in a mental institution. In front of us is a mother talking loudly to her three children, who are playing loudly together. Good. I glance behind us. There are two men, about my age, thirtyish. They look rather sophisticated for Disney World. Tall. Educated. One of them has longish brown hair. They are both wearing shorts. They are tan. The other one is blond. They are the types of men women would prefer to me. I could not imagine living creatures more out of place at Disney World than these two men, especially their combination. They are talking to each other. Anyway, they look discreet, as if they wouldn’t stoop to eavesdropping.
    “I’m sorry,” I tell my mother. “I didn’t express myself clearly. I simply meant that such wonderful behavior is rare in anyone. I know very few people who would have had the courage or the wit to even attempt to treat the porter that way, not to mention the mastery with which you carried out the operation.”
    “Oh, spare me, Jeremy.”
    “I mean it.”
    “So do I.”
    When she talks, my mother is sure of herself. She articulates well- Her tone is clear, confident, authoritative, and powerful. It makes anything she says sound intelligent. I did not inherit her talent, but sometimes when I speak to her, I feel I’m able to imitate it.
    “I’m sorry,” I say. “What interests me is this: I’ve never seen you treat a man the way you treated the porter, in that clever way. I’d like to know if there was a specific reason.”
    “Yes. It’s because I never really knew men before.”
    “What an intriguing thought. You’ve piqued my curiosity.”
    “It was already piqued.”
    “Right again.”
    “I was not right before. How can I be right again?”
    I look around in embarrassment. The two men are still talking. “Because you are always right,” I tell my mother.
    “But not in a specific way in this conversation.”
    “Right again.”
    “This time it fits, because I was right before,” she says. “What did you mean when you said you never really knew men before?”
    “Okay, you want to get back to the subject. Giving some sort of warning is more polite than just barging rudely back in.”
    “I’m sorry.”
    “I don’t care if you are. That’s not the logical thing to say at this point. I’m merely teaching you something that you should already know.”
    “Would you like to get back to our conversation?”
    “It’s that sort of warning I mean, but you do it so clumsily. A better way is to say, ‘As we were saying...’ Or, even better, ‘I don’t mean to interrupt you, but our conversation was so agreeable that I would love to continue it from where we left off, if you would like to.’ ”
    I glance back. They’re still talking.
    “As we were saying,” I say, “what did you mean when you said you never really knew men before?”
    “You chose the less good way. I can’t believe it. Just to upset me. I told you the second way was better than the first way, and you went ahead and used the first way.”
    “I’m sorry, but the second way was too hard to remember. It was long.”
    “I marvel at your lack of shame in admitting the weakness of your mind. What is even worse than having a weak mind is not having the shame to hide the fact.”
    “I don’t mean to interrupt you, but our conversation was so agreeable that I would love to continue it from where we left off, if you would like to.”
    “You’re now using the second way, which means you lied when you said it was too long to remember. What is even ruder and more obnoxious than having a weak mind and not having the shame to hide it is to purposefully reveal the fact that you lied at an earlier point in a conversation.”
    We’re already in it so deep, I may as well just charge ahead, even if they’re listening.
    “Yes,” I say. “What did you mean when you said you never really knew men before?”
    “I meant that recently I have discovered them in a new way.”
    “Oh, really.”
    “What way,” says my mother.
    “What?”
    “What way,” she repeats.
    “What do you mean?”
    “What way.”
    “What way?”
    “Through books,” she says.
    “Through books.” I take a Kleenex out of my pocket and wipe my forehead.
    “No need to repeat what I say. You can come up with something a little more