The Empress’ New Clothes / Les nouveaux vêtements de l’Impéatrice

Before we had even arrived at the Gulf Coast condo, we had already fought. My brother, Josh, drove from Chicago to pick me up in my university town two weeks ago, and after spending some time with my mom the next day, we set out for the big ocean blue. Only two hours into the drive, I received a phone call from my sister, Katie, who asked when we thought we would arrive.

“What?” she said, not quite able to hear me over the combination of cell phone crackles, road noise, and Moby.

I repeated to her that just over 100 miles remained of our trip southward.

“Oh. Well, I’m going to head over to pick up David (step-brother) at the airport, and probably won’t be back by the time you arrive. I’m going to let my friends stay, though.”

Josh and I were unimpressed by her decision to leave people in the condo while not there herself. Suffice it to say that, although I’m sure the three friends in question were trustworthy that day, they were once known as a pretty lawless bunch back in their recent high school days. I informed Katie that I felt it would be better for her to wish her friends adieu before going planeside. Equally unimpressed by my suggestion, Katie began to tell me exactly what she would and would not do for me, and may have been in the process of making a disparaging remark about my perceived uptightness when Josh grabbed the phone from my ear.

“Tell your friends to get the fuck out of the condo, bitch!” I imagined I heard him say to her. What I actually heard was, “Bad idea, Kate. I think they should go, too.” Or something close to that.

After a considerable and formidable exchange of undercuts, insults, and bad language, the only resolution seemed to be to call my father to inquire as to how to change the lockbox code for the front door. Equipped with the combination to the device, Katie’s relatively local friends not only would have access to the condo at any time while we were there for the week, but would also be able to key their way in after we left and throw a post-Katie beach fiesta. The tense, combative atmosphere we had created before our arrival persisted throughout the week, but was temporarily uplifted one drunken evening.

In all actuality, Katie and her boyfriend were the only ones drunk. Neither was wasted, but both were just past the point where the guard that keeps reasonable people from doing unreasonable (and defaming) things had dropped. The five of us (Josh, Katie, Katie’s boyfriend, David, and me) were all on the beach, enjoying what I believe was our first group-wide conversation without bickering and blubbering, when Katie’s boyfriend announced that he would go swimming. Five minutes later, Katie stood up, calmly but quickly removing her bikini top – and bottom.

“I’m going skinny dipping!” she announced, sashaying toward the surf.

“Evidently,” the rest of us thought.

She returned to us after her ten minute frolic under the waxing moon, soaking and nude – and quite confident, I am forced to admit. Still amused, Josh offered up a proposition (not that kind):

“Hey, Kate – I’ll give you five bucks if you walk up to those people and talk to them,” he said, gesturing toward a group of three teenagers walking down the beach in our direction. The group consisted of two girls and one guy, the latter of whom was carrying a flashlight whose beam meandered up and down the shoreline as they strolled.

Without a verbal response, Katie sidled up to the posse. The flashlight beam passed casually over her naked body, then sailed sharply downward. She asked in a sexy, vapid voice: “Hey… Umm… Anyone know where I can find a clothing store around here?”

It was hard to hear anything over our titters and snorts and the sound of the ocean waves, but we were able to make out the girl’s puzzled response: “Do you mean, like, a souvenir shop?”

She might as well have suggested an ice cream cone. Instead, she had recommended a snow globe. After finding out that the three teens hailed from Texas, I vowed never to raise a child there. That is, unless, Texans shop for clothing at the local merchant of airbrushed tees.