By John Tellegen
It was chilly. But unless you’re on the surface of the sun or you live in Palm Springs, it always feels chilly running naked through the streets at three in the morning – well, I was wearing socks but it was still nippy.
About five hours earlier I was drinking heavily at a bar on the boulevard. I’d been drinking a lot lately. The place was Irish and held turtle races on Thursdays. The turtles all had R-rated names like, Clitortoise and my favorite, “My girl can’t wrestle but you oughta see her box…turtle.” It was a long name, but it was also a long night.
I was on my fifth beer and who knows how many shots when a woman fell into the bar next to me. She was tanked, moderately attractive, and well-known to the established drinkers at the hole. Her name was Chicklette, or I heard it wrong, but who cares…it didn’t matter anyway. She wanted some attention and I was just the lush to give her some.
We traded irrelevant stories and lies about our pasts and we drank and smoked a lot of cigarettes. Her shirt was showing some cleavage but she had a mole in between her breasts that had a little hair growing out of it. Every time I saw the little growth my stomach turned. Her lipstick was a pale pink and reminded me of a grandmother and her blondish hair was overproduced and frizzy. We were sure to be having sex before Craig Ferguson signed off for the night.
As Bill the bartender proclaimed “last call,” Chicklette and I stumbled out the door and I started trying to hail a cab. It wouldn’t be easy at 2 a.m. but Chicklette offered her place that was only a few blocks away for a nightcap, a Jacuzzi, and some much needed lovin’ that I would certainly wish to forget for the rest of my days. But at that moment, I happily agreed!
When we arrived at her apartment nothing seemed amiss. She had the standard IKEA furniture, the crappy sound system, the cigarette-burned carpet, and the insane 70-inch, high definition super-plasma television.
“Get naked,” she said as she trolloped her way into the kitchenette. “We’re gettin’ wet.”
I happily obliged and tore off my clothes, standing in only my socks in her living room. That’s when I saw something that changed my mood like a magical buzz-kill. I noticed two Hot Wheel cars on the floor next to the TV. As I processed the sighting, suddenly a man emerged from the backroom holding a toddler in his arms.
“What the fuck, Chicklette!?” he exploded.
“Shut the fuck up and get back to your room,” she shot back.
At that moment, thoughts starting to rush through my mind:
“What the fuck am I doing here?” was the first one. “Who the fuck is that guy?” was the second. Then she socked him in the mouth and he kicked her in the stomach sending the third thought careening into my brain, “Get the fuck outta here!”
So there I was, running through the streets naked when low and behold, the police pulled up along side me.
I stopped running.
As I tried to frantically explain to the officer that I was just trying to bang Chicklette when things went sideways and I had to bolt, the officer got a strange look in his eye that made me think at some point in his life he tried to bang Chicklette too. I was going to ask him how he got past the mole when I decided to shut up. I did have the right to remain silent after all.
I had never been to jail but had seen enough movies to know how it was going to go. Or so I thought. Since I was nude, they placed me in a suicide gown which is basically the most uncomfortable piece of clothing one can don – an unrippable, unwearable piece of car upholstery.
They pushed me into the cell and clanged the door closed. I think they clang it for effect because it seemed totally unnecessary to me. I looked up and was facing the biggest man I had ever seen. A mountain of flesh. The kind of man who could pop me like an adolescent pimple on his ass. And he looked familiar.
“Are the guy from that Tom Hanks movie?” I stuttered.
“The Green Mile,” he said, his voice deeper than the Pacific.
“…I’m Kyle,” is all I knew to say, positive he was going to eat me for a late night snack.
“Are you suicidal?”
“Why the gown?”
“They brought me in naked.”
“Are you a perv?”
“No. Well, define perv.”
“Are you a sex offender?”
“No. But I’ve been told that my sex is offensive.”
The man chuckled and smiled and I knew I was saved.
“I’m Michael Clarke Duncan.”
“Yes! You were in ‘Armageddon’ too, with Affleck.”
“Yeah, but right now I wanna know what you’re doing on this green mile. You don’t seem the jail type,” Michael said.
“I not. I had this girlfriend and she dumped me after I asked her to marry me. I guess I’ve been drinking a bit too much ever since. But who cares about me, when is your next movie coming out?”
Michael flicked his eyebrows and lowered his chin, “I’m done making movies.”
“Kyle, I’m dead!”
“Oh my god. I didn’t know,” I said.
“It was all over TMZ.”
“I must have missed that news cycle.”
“Well, anyway. If this girl has you drinking so much that you land in jail, she wasn’t right for you anyway.”
“Wait a minute, now I remember, didn’t you hook up with Omarosa, that crazy reality show bitch?”
“You, watch it,” Michael took a moment to reminisce, “and she was just as crazy in bed!”
“And I loved her,” Michael stated.
Just then, a horn sounded and my name was shouted over the PA system. Apparently someone had paid my bail.
“Hey,” Michael said as he grabbed my gown, “it’s too late for me but you can still live. Stop chasing every skanky girl that will let you feel her boobs and find yourself someone who really cares about you.”
I nodded, but I must admit that the draft coming up through the gown and blowing against my balls made it hard to concentrate.
“You’re probably right. I mean, look at where it’s gotten me.”
“Find out who you really are and be that,” Michael said with hope in his eyes.
His words made sense. I didn’t want to be the old me but I certainly didn’t know who the new me was either. I had some work to do.
“Hey!” Chicklette called out from down the corridor. “I bailed you out! You still wanna Jacuzzi?”
Her eye was black. My soul was in crisis. I sat back down next to Michael.
“Looks like I’ll be here awhile longer. Is Bruce Willis as cool as he looks?”
Michael Clarke Duncan slowly smiled and nodded.
“Cooler than the other side of the pillow.”