The Parade

"Broken campaign promises are a long-standing American tradition," I said to the moderately-sized crowd in the Santa Reyes, California, Civic Auditorium. "Sometimes those promises are just forgotten by the voters. Sometimes no one believed them in the first place. I loathe broken promises.

"But there are two other things that I hate just as much. As soon as politicians win their very first elections, all traces of personal humility vanish, only to be replaced by a hallucinatory sense of entitlement. They truly believe that anyone who challenges them in the future is either evil, a traitor or both. They suddenly think that they know everything on every subject, and that that knowledge grants them authority over every aspect of our lives. We had a city council president a few years ago who spent her weekends driving around residential neighborhoods and telling people that their grass needed mowing. Whether it did it or not. I sprayed her with a garden hose.

"The other thing I hate is politicians who use us only as stepping stones. They could be one month into their terms, and if a shot at higher office arose, they'd be off and running and not giving a damn if they kicked us in the face on their way out of the starting gate.

"I'm Shelly Simon. I teach at the junior college, and I'm running for mayor. And that's why I am making a promise today that will guarantee that I retain a full measure of humility and forestall even the slightest chance of my ever running for higher office. It's also a promise that no one is likely to forget, and people will probably remind me of it every single day. If you elect me as your mayor, I promise you that every year that I am in office I will lead the 4th of July parade through the streets of our city completely naked. Thank you."

I managed to make it to my car in the parking lot while avoiding the only two reporters who had witnessed my speech, Rodney Creech, a total airhead from the local TV station and Monica Williams, a sharp and well-respected journalist with the Santa Reyes daily paper. But I knew I would have to deal with them later.

Sally Falcone, my campaign manager (and cousin) was already in the driver's seat with the engine running. As I slid into the passenger seat and she pulled away, she glared at me with a mixture of astonishment and not a little anger.

"Why didn't you tell me about this?"

"I didn't know."

"What?"

"Sally, I was just sitting there before my speech, thinking about how I'm a total dark horse, running against a four-term incumbent, and I realized that I really needed something to make my candidacy stand out."

"The only thing standing out will be your tits. And your nipples, too, if it's a cool morning or if this is actually the sort of thing that turns you on."

"It's bound to be warm on the 4th of July. And the parade always starts at noon."

"Oh, great. That means that if your nipples do get hard, then everyone there will know that it's not due to cool weather. Good thinking, Shelly."

"Okay, I didn't really think this through, but I did tell them the truth. You more than anyone know that I'm running for mayor only because I want to serve this town, help them get rid of that crook Patterson and experience some honest government for a change. I don't have any higher political ambitions. I'm not even a public person. I hate being the center of attention."

She just stared at me, and I felt skewered on her obvious and skeptical thoughts. Not a public person? Hate being the center of attention?

"I know, I know," I admitted. I understand that this is a strange and desperate stunt, and I really will be the center of some very public attention, but I love this town. I've lived here all my life and would make any sacrifice for it."

"Including sacrificing your dignity?" Her face broke into wide smile. "Okay, then. I'm all in. On two conditions. One, you never pull any more surprises like this on me. And two, that I don't have to walk with you."

I was flooded with relief. "Agreed and agreed. Thank you, Sally."

"You're welcome. I never had any intention of becoming a professional campaign manager, anyway. We may as well have some fun with this even if we do go down in flames. You really are serious about doing this?"

"I can't not do it. That was about the most . . . uh . . . explicit campaign promise ever made."

"It's for sure the most memorable. For once you're lucky your parents are both dead. They'd have to move to Bolivia AND get plastic surgery. Okay, let's get down to brass tacks. Please tell me that you don't shave your pubic hair."

"Wax. But just the bottom. From the top of my clitoral hood on down, around my clitoris and labia and vagina and such."

"Shelly, pull up your skirt and pull down your panties."

"I don't wear panties."

"That figures. Then pull up your skirt." I dutifully did so. She looked at my vulva, shaking her head.

"Damn, Shelly. Your clitoris is gonna stick out like a sore thumb. I mean that literally. It's poking out of its hood like a red thumb. Okay, maybe a pinkie finger. One that somebody just smacked with a ball-peen hammer. In fact, it looks just like the hammer's peen, itself. Only red."

"Thanks."

"Look. I just want you to understand that if you parade naked down the street, everyone, and I mean everyone, will be able to examine your clitoris like it was a single grape displayed in the center of a dinner plate."

"Jeez, Sally. I don't think your description has to be so graphic."

"Yes, Shelly. It does."

I swallowed and said, "Okay, then."

When we returned to my modest campaign headquarters (Sally's dining room), our volunteer secretary, Jenny, was inundated with calls. She looked up helplessly from the blinking buttons and said, "The TV guy is holding on line 4, and the paper is on 5."

"I'll take them in the living room," I said. I went in, followed by Sally, promptly disconnected the TV guy and took the call from the paper.

"Shelly Simon." I was met with uproarious laughter from Monica Williams. "You go, Girl," she sputtered. "You have made my year. I can probably even get the New York Times to reprint my story. Okay, not really. It's not national news. Yet. Next 4th of July, though, it will be. Are you really going to do it?"

"I don't think I have any choice. If I win."

"On that front, I have a bulletin for you. This is by no means an official poll, but my researcher has been making some calls, telling people about your crazy campaign promise and asking what they thought about it. Unsurprisingly, the response from males has been overwhelmingly positive, and most of the females have said something like, 'Hell, I'd pay to see that.' Best of all, they really do seem to understand why you made that promise. One woman told her that if you actually kept it, you would have her vote forever. She phoned Patterson, too. He called you a deranged exhibitionist and known slut. Right now I'd say you've gone from sure loser to slight favorite. Can I schedule an interview with you?"

Known slut? As a non-practicing lesbian, I very much doubted that he could substantiate that claim. I wasn't an exhibitionist, either, but after the next 4th of July, that would be a hard charge to refute. But I'd be the mayor by then.

"Sure, I'll be happy to do the interview. How about 2 o'clock tomorrow at my campaign manager's house?"

"I know where it is. I'll see you then." She rang off.

Sally sat in on the interview with Monica Williams which went well. It became immediately apparent that Monica had spent several years covering Patterson, knew how corrupt he was and would write nothing that hurt my chances. At one point, she turned off her recording device and said, "We just know that Patterson took a big kickback on the Fox Hills development, but we can't write the story because he did such a good job of hiding the money. I hope you kick his ass, and we look forward to seeing yours, too" She laughed at her own segue, turned the recorder back on and began asking the requisite questions.

"So you're really going through with that naked parade promise?"

"Every year. To tell you the truth, it was kind of a spontaneous impulse, as Sally can attest, but the voters will see that I keep my promises, no matter how outlandish."

"You won't find it embarrassing?"

"I am absolutely sure that I will, but that really is a small price to pay for this town. If this stunt gets me elected, and I freely admit that it's a stunt, then I can fulfill my other promises, too. To end Mayor Patterson's corrupt administration and give our citizens a shot at honest government. Here's another promise: if I'm elected, there will be a purge. Did you know that the city's maintenance crew built a deck for Patterson's house?"

Monica said, "Thank you, Shelly Simon, switched off the recorder and added, "Good luck."

Sally said, "I just hope she doesn't get arrested."

"I spoke with Chief Kelly," Monica said, "and if she doesn't perform any lewd acts, he won't bother with her."

Sally said, "I hope he doesn't consider her pubic tonsorial choice a lewd act." Monica perked up.

"Is this something I should know about?"

I cut Sally a withering glance. "No, it's nothing. Forget about it."

As it turned out, I got really lucky. Searching for a campaign stunt of his own, Patterson's rich wife announced that she was providing the funds for some evangelical missionaries that she supported, who were busily exterminating Amazonian Indian tribes (either through disease, slavery or outright murder), to provide every family in one tribe with a refrigerator. She said, "Refrigeration is really important in the tropics."

Now, this might have been a generous act had there been any electrical suppliers within 700 miles of the tribe (and the Indians had some really long extension cords), but there weren't and they didn't, and when video emerged of terrified Indians being crushed to death by refrigerators falling from the sky, Patterson's campaign was pretty much over.

Furthermore, Patterson and his wife chose this point in the campaign to engage in a bitter divorce proceeding, and their estranged and much-aggrieved 20-year-old daughter offered to walk naked in the parade with me if I won.

This was a little bit underhanded because the daughter had already approached me about it, and I had assured her that if she made such an offer, it would be graciously rejected. Thus assured, she called a press conference and made the offer in public. At our only mayoral debate, as expected, Patterson jumped all over my 'perverted' parade promise, but I just told him that as our illustrious ex-mayor, he would be invited to walk naked with me. He got all flustered and red-faced and stormed off the stage. I won in a landslide.

The first half-year of my tenure went swimmingly. As promised, I cleaned house in the administration and attracted a couple of decently green companies that paid good wages to our town. Unfortunately, one of the CEOs was a real jerk who made a big point of telling me how much he was looking forward to the parade. He made it sound like that was the only reason he had moved his company here and said he planned to give all his employees the day off so that they could attend. I told him that since the 4th was both a national holiday and fell on a Sunday I didn't think his employees would find his offer all that magnanimous, and if he wanted that badly to see me naked, all he had needed to do was come to Santa Reyes on the 4th and watch the parade. I was also able to fight off a big-box monster store that would have devastated our downtown shopping district. My approval ratings were high when July crept up on me.

Since we had actually won, Sally had become a lot more cautious, pleading with me not to go through with my promise. "Please listen to me," she begged. "You don't know how you'll feel about a political career a few years from now. Why totally destroy that possible future?" Her pleas fell on deaf ears.

I was adamant. "Sally, if I shut down those options right now, then I will never even be tempted to run for any other office than mayor of Santa Reyes. And once my constituents see me walking down that street naked, they'll know that I would never abandon them because I never COULD abandon them."

Shortly before noon on July 4th, I parked my car near the parade's starting point, stripped off all my clothes, locked them in my trunk and walked up to the lead float. Just walking that short distance naked gave me a sobering jolt. I was naked in just about the most inappropriate place possible. Being around the corner from the start of the parade, there weren't many people looking at me, but I knew that was about to change drastically. I felt really conspicuous, and I knew that for at least the next three and a half years, in every meeting, large or small, everyone there would have seen me walking through town naked.

There was a small slit in the front of the float so that the driver of the tractor beneath it could see where he was going. I walked up to this window, peeked in and saw Tommy, one of the men who works on the crew that maintains the city's streets and roads.

"Hello, Tommy," I said somewhat self-consciously. Where do you want me?" He grinned at me, dismounted and walked up to that window slit, which clearly afforded him a fuller view of my naked body. He said, "Good to see you, Ms. Mayor. I didn't think you were gonna show. In about two minutes, walk to the corner, turn left, proceed down the middle of the street, and I'll follow about 30 feet behind you. I gotta tell you, though, both sides of the street are packed for as far as the eye can see. They've already extended the finish line by many, many blocks. There's gotta be more people on that street than actually live here. I think the word's gotten out. I talked to one guy who drove here from Cleveland just to see this, and there are TV trucks parked all along the street. It's gonna be a long naked walk, Ma'am, and if you don't mind my saying so, I think I'm really going to enjoy the view from back here. That is, judging from what I've seen of your front so far. I had to pay a buddy of mine $500 to trade with me so I could drive the lead float."

I noticed his eyes drifting downward. "Well," I said, laughing nervously, "I hope you get your money's worth."

"I'm sure I will. Hold on. I'm getting a call." He touched the headset he was wearing with its bud in his left ear, listened for a few seconds and said, "Time to get moving. You're a good sport, Ma'am."

"Here, hold these for me," I said, reaching through the slit and handing him my car keys. As he got back on his tractor, I turned around and walked about 50 feet, hearing Tommy call through his little window, "Yes! My money's worth!" I had to smile at his boyish enthusiasm. I made a left and began my walk down the center of the town's main street and through its primary shopping district. Tommy wasn't kidding. The sidewalks were jammed with people, and I couldn't even see to where the crowds ended. There was a huge roar, beginning near me and rippling along the street for, I guessed, as far as people could see me. I'm not going to even try to downplay my horrified reaction. Walking so naked, so out in the open and in front of so many people, I was as embarrassed and humiliated as anyone could conceivably be. I had never been naked in a public place before. Never gone skinny-dipping. Never even been outdoors naked. Now here I was, looking down that long, straight street bordered by throngs of avid spectators. Unshielded from view by any preceding floats, people blocks away could look my way and see a lone, naked woman, walking toward them, her curly black patch of pubic hair set against her pale flesh and seeming to announce, "This is it, folks. This is what I look like totally naked. Watch this space. (And wait until you see what's below that patch of hair.)" I could not have felt more utterly exposed.

What had I been thinking? What had I done? I hadn't envisioned this at all. I had naively pictured it as some kind of quirky, small-town peccadillo, observed only by my constituents. This was something else again. It felt and looked like Pasadena's Rose Parade or Macy's Thanksgiving Day Parade, only instead of featuring giant balloons, it featured a naked woman making a spectacle of herself in front of a national media presence. Cameras were, of course, everywhere, and it was all I could do to resist my bladder's persistent urging and keep from further disgracing myself. What I had hoped would be an amusing political statement meant to reassure my constituents had become a nightmare. I was acutely aware of my nakedness and vulnerability, aware that every eye was on me, evaluating my body, watching my bared breasts bouncing with every step and probably laughing at my public humiliation. Looking at the crowd, I could pick out, among all the strange faces, so many familiar ones, too. Childhood friends, old teachers, my one-time babysitter, my favorite aunt, my mailman and the kid who bagged groceries for me at the Safeway. I spotted some, maybe all, of my junior college students. I figured that job was now over and wondered how I'd get by on the mayor's meager salary. I wasn't going to steal like Patterson. I was blinking back tears.

As I later learned, there were pictures and videos of me all over. On every porn site on the internet, even though I didn't think that what I had done was in any way pornographic. Newspapers and TV stations throughout the country ran censored photos and videos of me, but one, an alternative weekly in Portland, Oregon, ran the photos uncensored. It was a small-circulation paper, but it's still a real shock to pick up any newspaper and see a large, full-color picture of yourself on the front page, naked in the street in front of an exuberant crowd and showing . . . everything.

I didn't really hear much laughter from the crowd, though. They were cheering me on and exulting at such a brazen display of public nudity. Still, Sally's words came back to me, and I knew that in any direction I turned everyone would have an unimpeded view of my clitoris. My mind was racing, verging on panic, and I was taking long, deep breaths, trying to stave off that panic, all the while waving to the crowd, keeping what must have looked a ghastly smile plastered on my face and pretending to be having the time of my life.

Then, when I was beginning to relax just a little, tiny bit and drawing some semblance of strength and confidence from the support of the crowd, something terrible happened. The tractor driving my float broke down. "Sorry," Tommy called to me. "I think I know what it is, but it's gonna take about half an hour to get a replacement part."

I froze like a jacklighted deer. Up until now, this show had at least been a procession, moving to some kind of conclusion, some kind of finish line. A moving parade. Now it was just a naked woman, standing in the street with everyone staring at her and wondering what she was going to do next. I even considered continuing on my own, leaving the floats behind and walking the rest of the way as a one-naked-woman parade. I glanced down at my breasts and the top of my pubic hair and cringed. I just couldn't see going on without the imaginary security of the accompanying floats that absolutely no one here was looking at, anyway. If there were any possible way to feel more publicly and helplessly naked than I already did, that would have been it. I turned to my right, spreading my arms wide and keeping my feet apart, my posture meant to convey the attitude, "Okay, this is what you came to see. Take your time, and have good, long look." I slowly turned around to face the other side of the street, continuing this display, which, although making me look like a blatant exhibitionist, was far preferable to just standing there and beginning to look increasingly mortified by this unexpected development. I saw many people lean over to their neighbors and appear to be whispering something, which in my fevered imagination could only be, "She sure does like showing off her clit, doesn't she?"