Illustration by Bob AulMy husband, John, and I had just finished watching American Beauty, which we both loved for different reasons. I found Kevin Spacey's portrait of a 43-year-old man so much like my husband that I am considering telling my daughters that none of their friends are allowed in the house. John thought it was an accurate portrait of women today—not me, of course, but other women. So we were driving home and decided to go by Linda's Doll Hut to see who was playing. It turned out to be a typical night: couples sitting in their cars with the doors open, people standing outside smoking, and the bass blasting out of the little roadhouse by the freeway. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw what appeared to be a naked man. “Look, John!” I yelled. “There's a naked man!” He drove a little closer, and sure enough, it was a naked man. He had just passed the entrance, where people were standing. But no one paid him any attention. He jogged down the street—a slightly overweight, naked white man holding the family jewels—and disappeared into a storage yard at the end of the block. John and I were laughing, but not one other person appeared to have noticed. Who needs the movies? We have Orange County.
