Bronze Body
Bronze Body
First published in a chapbook of the same title
“You and I both saw a man kneeling in the forest. He was naked, hairless, painted head-to-toe. Definitely trying not to be seen. We got freaked out.”
“I can’t agree it was a man. I shaved my head first year of college. I'm not a man.”
“Yes, I remember. Friends joked I was dating G.I. Jane.”
“Be thankful I got you to quit that fraternity before chugging the Kool Aid.”
“Touché.”
Ken and Lauren sat in their Subaru, at the north trailhead, staking out the early-90s Volvo parked off the dirt road in the shadow of the forest. They had already used their phones to search: “trail-running naked,” “paranormal Finger Lakes,” “Ithaca nudists,” “Iroquois myths of Lakes Seneca and Cayuga,” “Finger Lakes chupacabra,” and “spirit of the stone boy” (the last two being total shots in the dark). Now they were waiting to see if a painted streaker might come jogging out from the woods, here at the terminus of the Backbone Trail, where they had just been hiking.
Ken said, “You’re probably right. It was just somebody who gets off painting himself—or herself—and running naked through the woods. Some primal urge. Perfect day for it. Fourth of July, everyone in town for the fireworks. We probably scared him. It.”
“Them,” Lauren said, correcting him. “Just us unpatriotic, anti-social types out here, apparently.”
The shaggy pines swayed in the warm breeze. Pink and blue clouds blanketed the setting sun. Cattle lowed on a distant pasture. The scene was movie-romantic: teenagers parked at The Spot, kissing imminent, the feeling that something watched them from the weeds heightening the thrill.
“We’re holding hands,” Ken said, “We’re walking the trail—sorry, I just want to get our story straight.”
“Again? Now you’re embellishing. We weren’t holding hands.”
“Yes we were. I look up and glimpse a jogger coming—”
“We weren’t holding hands. You don’t do PDA, remember?”
“As I’ve said, walking in the woods, fine. Let’s hold hands. In town, in public, I just don’t like it. It makes me feel…showy.”
“Sounds like early childhood trauma. But do continue.”
“Keep your diagnoses to yourself,” Ken said, before pretending to take a bite from Lauren's long, brunette ponytail and pecking at her with kisses. She playfully swatted him away.
Ken said, “So we assume there’s a cutoff on the trail and the jogger is taking a turn—not diving into the woods to hide.”
“That’s right.”
“We keep walking and discover no cutoff, only forest. Then we spot the man crouching in the ferns. Covered in metallic, dark paint, motionless like a statue, eyes closed and averted.
“We’re not sure they were a man,” Lauren said.
“Fine. But we can agree that this person—or elf or alien or whatever—was very fit?”
“Lean-fit, yes. Not bodybuilder-fit. Wouldn’t you say I’m lean-fit?”
“Yes, of course. We see it, we turn, we run.”
“Powerwalk, yes.”
“Powerwalk. Why don’t you tell the damn story?”
“Kidding, kidding.”
A half hour of waiting and still no streaker. They meditated over frog-song and cicada-buzz. A squirrel shook the branches above, dropped an acorn on the Subaru’s hood. Donk.
They watched the evening fade to night, the moon now giving the Volvo and the trees a spooky glow.
“My god,” Ken said, breaking the long silence. “I just remembered what we had been talking about on the trail. I said that people are sick of jaded characters in contemporary fiction. They’re sick of meta-this, meta-that. Then we spotted our little mystery man.”
“Yes, I remember,” Lauren said. “So what?”
“We shouldn’t mention that detail when we tell this story. It’ll ruin it.”
“Why?”
“We don’t want to sound pretentious. Adjunct professors don’t get paid enough to talk that way during summer break."
“Whatever,” Lauren said. “I don’t care either way.”
“Good. But I do think we ought to decide on a name for our painted antagonist. How about the ‘Golden Boy?’ ”
“Golden Boy?” Lauren said, chuckling. “Like, the guy who can do no wrong? The boss’s favorite employee? That in no way represents the encounter I just experienced. And they weren’t gold.”
“ ‘Golden Boy’ is a good name.”
“I'm sorry, but ‘Golden Boy’ sucks.”
“Well, maybe we just say it was a ghost,” Ken said. He blew a puff of air into Lauren’s ear: “Boo.”
“You ass!” she said, swatting him for real this time. “A naked jogger covered head-to-toe in makeup—let’s be real—is a person of privilege.”
“Not necessarily. Could be a differently-abled person.”
“Yes, I was getting to that,” Lauren said. “A proper name ought to reflect nuances of class, ability, race, and gender.”
“You know, there’s a group in Ithaca that meets weekly to talk about how ghosts are basically cosmic glitches? Not dead people. Just kinks in the multiverse. An alien steps through a doorway half a universe away from Earth, suddenly finds itself in the middle of the Finger Lakes National Forest. Oops.”
“Well, why don’t you go check this group out?”
“Perhaps I will.”
They listened to the woods, the dark chasm enveloping them: chirping crickets, bullfrogs, and a million leaves rustling, providing just enough cover for something to sneak up alongside the car.
“Bronze Body!” Lauren said after a few minutes. “How about it? ‘Body’ is sexless and ‘bronze’ is racially and socially inclusive. It’s an ancient alloy, but it’s also the faux-metal of choice for sophisticated poor folks who buy their picture frames at IKEA. Us, for example.”
“I don’t know,” Ken said. “That name doesn’t excite me.”
A fluttering sound in the weeds grabbed their attention. It grew louder, then it stopped. Ken jumped when Lauren laid her hand on his bald pate to massage it.
“I just want to tell a ghost story,” Ken said. “No more critical theory. At least for the summer.”
Lauren kissed Ken’s bearded cheek. “Okay. But when you write your ghost story please change my name. And my hair.”
“Why? Because you wouldn’t want friends to confuse real-life-Lauren with fiction-Lauren? Afraid fiction-Lauren may come across as overbearing?”
Donk. Another acorn hit the hood. They both jumped.
“All right,” Lauren said. “Time to go.”
Ken started the Subaru and crept forward. He stopped behind the Volvo, illuminating the stickers cluttering its bumper. One said, “Ithaca is Gorges.” Another read, “Ten Square Miles Surrounded by Reality.” A purple cartoon mushroom with beady eyes and a Grateful Dead skull served as bookends. Hawk feathers hung from the side-view mirrors.
Ken said, “I wonder if the Cosmic Glitch Society has a bumper sticker?’ ”
“This has to be Bronze Body’s car,” Lauren said. “Maybe we should wait, get some closure on this mystery.”
“You really want to see some naked stoner stumble out of the woods?” Ken smiled at Lauren, his Buddy Holly glasses and scruffy beard aglow in the dash lights.
“That might spoil your ghost story, huh?”
“Exactly,” Ken said. “Anyway, I already know the ending.”
A long pause. “Yeah?” Lauren asked.
Ken leaned in for a kiss.
“As if this isn’t the corniest thing in the world,” Lauren said, clutching him, pulling him closer.
“Oh god,” Ken said, “You’re so right.”