Free Clothing Optional by Alan Zweibel Page A

oversights to wrongheaded miscalculations. But if pressed to recall a moment where I plummeted to my lowest depth of civil behavior, the time when my chosen exit strategy was, at best, atrocious, it would undoubtedly be what took place about ten summers ago in our town’s swimming pool.
    It was an August afternoon. The temperature was in the nineties and our kids were getting antsy, so we decided to take them to the local swim club. The Olympic-sized pool was crowded with similar-thinking neighbors who were seeking relief from the oppressive heat. The time soon came, however, when I found myself in need of relief of my own. That’s right, I had to pee and was faced with the familiar decision of whether to leave the pool and endure the hot cement of the pool’s perimeter on my barefooted way to what was traditionally an unkempt men’s room or simply stay put and add a little water of my own to my surroundings.
    I opted for the latter with no knowledge whatsoever that the town was trying an experiment where they put a chemical in the pool that, when combined with the acidic property of urine, turned a reddish color, which, in effect, acted as a billboard proclaiming, “THIS DISGUSTING PERSON JUST PEED IN OUR LOVELY POOL!” What followed was even more horrifying, as I had no way of knowing that the rather heavyset woman who was next to me, the one to whom I pointed to let our community know that it was indeed she who made a liquid donation to where they were bathing before I scampered away in a cowardly attempt to put as much distance between us as possible, was a local candidate for mayor. That what I was actually doing was telling a significant segment of the town’s voting population that this sweet, grandmotherly woman who was running on a “town beautification” platform had just sullied these very waters with a beverage that she had drunk earlier and was now personally recycling into the pool that they and their loved ones were playing Marco Polo in.
    The elections were held that November, and she lost by nine votes. Whether those nine people were at the pool that day and this episode influenced their decision is a question I cannot answer. Nor can I tell you with any degree of certainty that if she was elected mayor, she wouldn’t have eventually ridden that wave of popularity to higher offices in the county, state, or, God help me, the United States Senate, had I not snuffed out her political career. All I do know is that about a year later, I saw her at the crowded deli counter of our local supermarket, said, “I am so, so sorry,” and handed her the much lower number I was holding before scurrying away as quickly as if she had just peed in a swimming pool.

The Enchanted Nectarine
    In 1979 I ate a nectarine that I still think about.
    It was August. August 2 to be exact. My girlfriend and I were getting engaged, and a show I’d written material for,
Gilda Live,
was about to begin its run on Broadway. Life was good. And was made that much sweeter by a purchase I’d made at a Columbus Avenue grocery on my way to rehearsal. A nectarine. China’s contribution to the world of fruit. And while this writer does not regard himself adequately gifted to describe the glory of that mutant peach with hairless skin, let’s just say that the moment I bit into it, I instantly forgave God for all the wars and sufferings he’d previously turned his back on—figuring he was busy making this amazing nectarine while all that other stuff was happening. This taste of heaven, which caused me to wonder whether, at the next round of SALT, the Soviet Union would think twice about invading Afghanistan if Jimmy Carter were to feed Leonid Brezhnev a nectarine like this one just before their little chat got under way. Whether Leonid would, instead, take one bite, immediately drop to the floor in a squatting position, and hold Carter’s hands as they kicked their heels in the