Nude Men

expected, I am not fine a moment later. Nor hours later. In fact, I become haunted, not by the photograph, as one would think, but by the hair. I start having nightmares every night about long blond hair. I dream of Rumpelstiltskin, and my having to weave hair into straw and then into gold; I dream of the Scarecrow in the Wizard of Oz, made of hair instead of straw; I dream of Rapunzel; and I dream of quicksand, of slowly, inexorably sinking in a lake of soft, warm, silky, fatal yellow hair, and suffocating.
     
    P eople clap at her overseas. In Corsica. In Sardinia. In fancy restaurants. They’ve heard about that funny, quirky, intriguing, amusing little New York thing, these rich Europeans—that little New York whim, that little New York indulgence, of clapping at almost nothing, of clapping at almost no one, at a nobody whom one simply... claps at. The few who haven’t traveled and seen it themselves have at least heard about it, seen her photograph in magazines and newspapers, seen her on TV. And so they clap, to contribute to the movement, to propagate the trend ad over the world. Every little clap counts.
    Apart from those very good reasons for clapping at Laura, there is the far more important, far more significant, intrinsic reason, which is that to not clap, or, worse yet, to not recognize her, or, worse yet, to ask people why they are clapping, is, as always, deadly. Therefore, cultured people, rich people, and socialites secretly study her photograph and memorize her face in the privacy of their homes, to prevent a disaster from occurring. Or so the media say.
     
    L aura teds me she has a fantasy of running through a crowd of people who are clapping at her. Their clapter would be like wind in her hair. The crowd would part for her like the sea parting for that guy in the Bible, but only slightly; the crowd would still be close to her, lightly touching her as she runs through it. She would run as fast and as powerfully as possible, until she would enter her audience in a deep, advanced, and “beyondish” way.
    “Beyondish as in ‘beyond,’ ” Laura explains to me, “as in ‘another dimension.’ ”
     
    O ne day the media upset her. She comes running to me. She has just spoken to a friend of hers in New York, who has told her she’s made the front page of the National Enquirer. The headline goes: “Laura’s show will go on, even in death.” And the article says: “Laura has stated in her will that when she dies she wants her entire fortune to be spent on having someone stand at her grave at ad times and clap forever, or until her money runs out. Shifts are allowed.”
    “I am outraged!” Laura fumes. “How egomaniacal do they think I am? They’re mocking me.”
     
    L aura starts having strange dreams. In the morning she calls down to me from her top bunk:
    “Jeremy?”
    “Yes.”
    “I dreamed that I started loving my audience too much and wanted to make love to them. In the street, when they clapped at me, I took off my clothes and wanted to make love to the world. Then I got arrested.”
    “Really?” I ted her. “I dreamed of Rumpelstitskin.” We dream about what’s on our minds.
     
    * * *
     
    A nother morning she calls down:
    “Jeremy?”
    “Yes.”
    “I had a terrible nightmare that people couldn’t talk to me anymore. No one. A1ll they were able to say to me was ‘Clap clap clap clap.’ Even you.”
    “Really?” I ted her. “I dreamed of the Scarecrow.”
     
    ”J eremy?”
    “Yes.”
    “I had a terrible nightmare that people’s hands were like mouths that were snapping open and shut. They wanted to devour me, all those hand-mouths, like a thousand piranhas. Like: clap clap clap, yum yum yum.”
    “Ready?” I tell her. “I dreamed of Rapunzel.”
     
    “J eremy?”
    “Yes.”
    “I had the worst nightmare that people started clapping me. They clapped me.”
    “You mean they clapped at you?”
    “No. They clapped me. They clapped on me. They slapped me.”
    “Oh.”
    “Yes. Beating me. And then killing me. They clapped me to death.”
    “Hmm. I dreamed that I was sinking in a lake of hair.”
     
    * * *
     
    “J eremy?”
    “Yes.”
    “I dreamed that I shot the clappers. Not ad of them, but many. And no one arrested me, and it made sense. I mean, could you imagine them arresting me for shooting the clappers?”
    “Yes. Why can’t you?”
    “Because in a sense, you know, Jeremy, I own the clappers and can therefore do whatever I want with them.