We were naked.
Standing over in the crowd, leaning against the stolen Mustang, slurping good-naturedly at nickel beer, doing their best to look inconspicuous and not doing a bad job of it, were Elam and Hopp. Elam was watching the bushes, as I’d told him to. I stuck my head out a ways. A little ways. Elam nodded that he’d seen me and I stuck my head back in.
“My mom’ll kill me, Kitch,” Wheat said again.
“She didn’t kill you last time.”
“Almost.”
“We got no choice, Wheat. You think I like this idea?”
“You think I want to go back to jail, Kitch?”
“You didn’t seem to mind the first time.”
“At least explain why we’re doing this.”
The two Highway Patrolmen were leaning against their car, looking bored. One of them was eating a grape snow cone. The other was slouched, arms folded, half-asleep.
“No time to explain, Wheat,” I said. “Let’s go.”
And two naked birds, with nothing in hand, emerged from the bush.
Running.
Chapter 37
I took the lead.
This time I wasn’t covering myself. It wasn’t that I’d gotten over my initial shyness: there were people to push through. We literally had to shove our way through the crowd to be able to run in front of the platform truck where the Mayor was announcing the winners of the bake-off.
It wasn’t as bad as coming through those doors and unexpectedly bumping into a wedding party assembled for a picture taking. No, this time Wheat and I were ready for the throng, and neither one of us fell down. We did get our pictures taken again, though, as both drunken reporters managed to snap their flash cameras and catch us as we streaked by.
I caught a glimpse of a Highway Patrolman dropping a snow cone to the pavement as we passed, cutting within three feet of the patrol car. I heard squeals of laughter and horror and even some scattered applause as we cut around the platform truck and skirted the saw-horse blocking off the main street from where it turned into the highway out of town, which is where we headed.
I heard Wheat coming up from behind me, and then he was edging up on me, and we were like a couple of relay runners who forgot to bring along a baton to pass. There was no sound, except for our feet on the blacktop road, and our breathing. It wasn’t dark out at all, the moon was bathing us and the road in a milky glow. We were running like graceful animals, side by side, in perfect precision. We were running fast, hard, but easily, too, like conditioned athletes.
We were beautiful.
It was so different this time. I felt no sense of panic, or even of danger. I felt free. Naked and running and free, my feet padding along the road, cornfields gliding by on either side of me, the moon coasting along above.
I looked over at Wheat, not breaking stride.
He was grinning.
I grinned back at him, and we stepped up the pace a little. By that time we’d gone a good half mile.
By that time the siren had started up, and the Highway Patrol car was in pursuit.
A quarter mile later they caught us.
The Highway Patrolman who hours earlier had reminded me of Shaker Saltz grabbed me by the arm. The other patrolman grabbed Wheat’s arm, and both of them solemnly shoved us in back and drove us wordlessly back into Wynning.
We were greeted with cheers and applause. There were a few sour faces in the crowd, but not many. The Mayor looked confused, but I saw Uncle Phil, who was grinning ear to ear, and then saw him lean over and begin whispering in the Mayor’s ear, and the Mayor began to nod. Most of the townspeople were too high on nickel beer and tacos and snow cones and cotton candy and pop to be mad at us. Sue Ann came over to where the patrol car had pulled up and blew me a kiss through the window. She had my clothes under her arm.
It pleased me to come back to such a warm reception. But it pleased me even more to come back and see that empty space along the curb in front of the bank.
Chapter 38
Nobody pressed any charges. Sue Ann’s uncle convinced the Mayor that Wheat and me streaking was a positive thing for Wynning, that it would mean just that much more publicity for the Centennial Celebration.
Which was exactly right. The Des Moines Register guy’s picture came out over-exposed, but the Port City Journal photographer got a good clear shot of us, which he sold to People magazine, who did an article on us, which stated that we had streaked at Wynning to protest our going to jail for the other time we streaked. I told them that, and it was a lie. I admit it.
By now I’m sure you understand why we streaked. First off it gave Wheat and me a reason for being in Wynning. Sue Ann’s uncle, seeing me there, assumed I had come to streak, and I couldn’t let him down, without making him suspicious. And, of course, streaking we drew away the highway patrol and enabled Elam and Hopp to sneak out of Wynning by the back door.
And in case you’re wondering how I convinced Elam to go along with leaving the money behind, I. simply pointed out that a thorough investigation of the bank robbery (and with the money taken, the investigation would be far more thorough than if not) would have had to include an investigation of Wheat and me and why we were in Wynning, and from Wheat and me to our DeKalb County Jail bunkmates Elam and Hopp would be no great jump.
But we never were linked to the robbery. If you can even call it a robbery: after all, no money was taken. And I wouldn’t have written this book if my lawyer hadn’t advised me that no legal action was likely to be taken against me.
Sue Ann’s father will be finding out the truth for the first time when he reads this. I expect his reaction to be negative. He’s a nice man, but he’s bound to be unhappy about being bound for fifteen some hours in that bank.
Sue Ann I did tell that truth to, and right away. She found it all very exciting, and didn’t feel I’d taken advantage of her in the least. Otherwise we probably wouldn’t be married and living together in Iowa City right now. I am going to grad school, in business, and her father is helping me through, though he may cut me off when he reads this book.
I also told the truth to my father, who at first was furious with me, for all kinds of reasons; but then I reminded him he was a minister and said, “Come on, Dad... all I did was turn the other cheek,” and he started laughing and forgave me. My mother gave in (and stopped crying) when she saw me on The Mike Douglas Show. If Mike Douglas wasn’t ashamed of me, well, then, she wasn’t ashamed of me, either.
Of course Wheaty has done much better on the talk show circuit than I have. We did several of them together (we did The Tomorrow Show with the guy who streaked the Academy Awards) and then they started asking Wheaty alone. Johnny Carson has had Wheaty on six times, one of which was when Johnny himself was there. Wheat’s living in Hollywood, with the Founder’s Day Queen.
Wheaty and I are a corporation, as you may have read. We each get half of each other’s project. I get half of his comedy album, and he gets half of this book. Wheat and I are still the best of friends, contrary to what you may have read in the National Enquirer.
Now comes the hard part. Ending the story. My agent wanted me to call in a ghost writer to help on this book, primarily because he wanted to have the manuscript in about two weeks, before the streaking fad became ancient history, but I insisted on doing it all myself, and not trying to just rush through and cash in on a fad.
But I really do wish I could have a professional writer’s help right now, because the story is over, and I don’t know what to do to get off stage.