The Night I Escaped From The Zoo : 2 / 5

By Iolanthe Portmanteaux

I didn’t hear a sound as it went, but I could tell that the spaceship was gone. When I looked straight up, nothing blocked my view of the Milky Way. There weren’t any planes or weather balloons. There were no blobs of light or darkness that could have been alien ships. There wasn’t a cloud; the sky was a cold black backdrop to the stars. The moon was just above the horizon. I was thankful for its strange, pale light -- otherwise I would have been left standing in total darkness. There was nothing above me and nothing around me. The desert was as empty as the sky. Here I was: naked, alone, and far from everything. Not only had the aliens left me in the wrong body, they’d made off with my car. What could they possibly want with that old clunker? It was probably just carelessness. For sure, they weren’t a very tight operation. A month from now, they’ll stumble over my car. They’ll wonder what it is and why they have it. They’ll use that garage-door opener on it to see if it’s male, and when it doesn’t rear up and groan, they’ll toss it over the side.

Yes, those stupid aliens took everything. All they’d left me was the shirt I was wearing when I was Ross, and not a single thing that belonged to Mayda -- aside from her body! -- no clothes, no keys, no cards, no nothing.

All this time, as I turned to look around and above me, I was distracted and disturbed by the bobbing of my breasts and the swaying of my butt. Shocked and still unbelieving, I looked down at myself. I clutched my breasts; I shoved my hand into my crotch. There was too much on my chest and not enough between my legs. And my ass! Somehow, the most disturbing part of being naked in public was the sensation of having my butt on display. I couldn’t see it, but I could easily picture what I looked like from behind. I’d seen it often enough, and I didn’t want to give that view to the general public. I blushed as I felt how large and smooth it was. It was wrong, all of this. So utterly and completely wrong.

”WHY?” I shouted. ”WHY? WHY WHY WHY? WHAT THE HELL DID YOU DO TO ME? WHAT THE ACTUAL FUCKING HELL!” I balled up my fists and screamed into the night. I howled and wailed and raved. It hurt my throat, but I didn’t care. I fell to my knees and cried until I ran out of breath.

How can I ever play football ever again? The question struck me hard, and the answer hit me even harder: I could never play football again. Not seriously, which was as good as saying “not at all.” And if I can’t play football, I’ll lose my football scholarship. No -- I lost my scholarship already, just by ceasing to be Ross. Hell, I lost my car, my girlfriend, my balls, my “up and coming” status… everything!

Now what was I supposed to do? Go live in Mayda’s apartment and pretend to be a girl? Was I supposed to go to Barcelona and play soccer? I knew zip about soccer! Shit… Mayda was a star. I’d be a total beginner. How could I possibly step into her place? Still, it was a stupid game; how hard could it be? I mean, if you get the ball you run into the left corner and kick it across the net. Once I figured out what the referee’s whistles meant, I think I’d be set.

I’m kidding, of course. I trained and worked hard for years to be the football player I am now. I mean, the player I was until a half hour ago. Mayda had trained and worked just long and just as hard. Sometimes when we worked out, I had a hard time keeping up with her! If I sucked at soccer, what would I do? Somehow, I’d have to hit the ground running. After all, I couldn’t get any slack by explaining to the coach that I was really Ross. And what about our friends? What would I tell them about Ross? What would I say to my parents? My face went white. What would I tell Mayda’s parents?

It wasn’t right. It wasn’t fair. It was insane. I couldn’t tell anyone anything! They’d lock me in the zoo.

Shit.

Still, I knew I did the right thing. I was right to stay behind. There was no way I could go and live in an alien zoo. But what about Mayda? Will I spend the rest of my life worrying about her? Wondering whether she was okay, out there on another planet? I still don’t understand why she wanted to go. Was it something I said? Something I did? Was it that stupid glass turkey? I sighed. It could have been anything -- how could I know? I felt guilty. I didn’t want to feel guilty. I didn’t think I should feel guilty.

Oh, God.

For some reason I started to cry again. I only stopped because it was making my abs hurt and I had no more energy left to scream with. I sniffed and snuffled, and when I looked up I saw headlights in the far distance. Whoever they were, they were heading east, back toward town. Hopefully they’d stop and give me a ride. Otherwise, I’d be walking for hours. Barefoot..

I quickly put on the flannel shirt. It fit me like a circus tent. I rolled up the sleeves into two big cuffs.

As the lights grew closer, I waved with both arms and jumped to get the driver’s attention. He stopped a few yards back from where I was. There was a rack of lights mounted on the roof, which told me he was a cop. He turned a spotlight on me. I blinked in the light, but made an effort to not cover my face. Then he swept the spot to my left and right. Making sure this is not an ambush, I figured. When he stepped from the car, I could see from his uniform and his buzz cut that he was a state trooper. He was a tall, lanky guy, over six feet easy. “Need help, miss? Are you alright?”

“Yes,” I said. “I’m just trying to get back to town.”

“What are you doing out here all alone?”

“I -- uh -- I had a fight with my boyfriend.”

“Huh!” the cop grunted as he walked around the car toward me. I was a little puzzled by that, and asked him, “It’s a little chilly -- could I get into your car? Can you give me a ride back to town?” He didn’t answer. He walked across the beams of his headlights and looked me up and down. The expression on his face made me very uneasy. That, and the fact that he had his hand over his badge. He tried to make it seem a casual pose, like he was just resting his hand, but it was obvious: he was hiding his badge number. I wanted to run, but how could I? Where would I go? I knew that Magda was fast, but I was barefoot in the middle of nowhere. He’d catch me in a flash, and then I’d have to explain why I’d run.

He came very close and said, “A fight, huh? Did he hurt you?” Again, his eyes scanned me, this time lingering on my bare legs.

“No, I’m not hurt. He didn’t touch me. I’m fine.”

“What’s his name? And your name?” he asked.

I answered, “He’s Ross Ghulyan, and I’m Mayda Zakaryan.” It was the first time I claimed her name. It felt like a lie, but I knew I’d have to get used to it.

“He just drove off and left you?” I nodded. “It must have been a hell of a fight. So, this fight… was it a verbal fight, or a physical fight? Did he hit you? Did you hit him?”

“It was a verbal fight,” I said. “It was an argument. Nobody hit anyone.” I didn’t like where he was going with these questions.

“And uh…,” he reached up and fingered the collar of my shirt. “This fight… was it a naked fight?”

I looked up into his leering face and swallowed hard. “Part of the time, yes,” I said.

“Then the bastard took off with your clothes, didn’t he.”

“Yes.” I cleared my throat and repeated, “So... can you give me a ride to town? Or towards town? I see you’re heading in that direction.”

“Yes, sure, I can do that,” he said, and he slowly licked his smiling lips, looking me directly in the eyes the entire time. He said, “This shirt -- it isn’t yours, is it.”

“No,” I replied, my voice shaking. “It belongs to Ross.”

“So, it’s stolen,” he said with a nod. “I’m going to need to confiscate that shirt. And then I better give you a good looking-over… to make good and sure that he didn’t hurt you.”

I began to protest, but in a well-practiced move, he spun me and gave me a shove, and I ended up with my hands resting on the roof of the police car. He placed his forearm between my shoulder blades to keep me from moving.

“Now you just take it easy,” he said. “I’m going to search you; I have to make sure you’re not carrying any weapons or drugs or any other stolen goods.”

I began to point out that I obviously wasn’t carrying anything, but he cut me off by saying, “I’d hate to have to arrest a pretty young girl like you for assaulting an officer and resisting arrest -- to say nothing of indecent exposure. Do you understand me?”

He slid his hands slowly up my right leg, stopping before he reached my crotch. He did the same with my left leg. It was agonizingly slow. Clearly, he was going to take his time and make this grope session last as long as possible. He drew a big, slow breath as he ran both hands over my butt, caressing it, touching it, lifting it, grabbing it. His hands moved up my sides, over my breasts, and then he lifted my shirt completely off me. He tucked it into the light rack on the roof of his police car.

“Keep your hands on the car,” he instructed. “For now.”

Now that I was naked, he touched every inch of my skin all over again, this time starting from the neck on down. I felt his breath on my shoulders and back. As he fondled me, he made lots of noises: heavy breathing, sighs, exclamations. He hadn’t yet put his lips on me or come near to touching my pussy. He was clearly saving that for last. I’m glad to say that something happened before he ever arrived there.

He cupped my breasts for a long time, then he pressed his hips against my buttocks and rested his chin on my right shoulder. “Oh, God,” he said, “your hair smells fantastic.” His hands slowly worked their way down my stomach, heading for my crotch, when suddenly -- headlights appeared from the east, heading away from town, moving fast. Even while they were far off, I could hear music from inside the car -- the volume was cranked up way past eleven. It boomed and thudded like a concert or a club. From this distance, all I could hear was the thud of the bass. As it came closer, other sounds filled in the mass of noise. It took me half a minute before I finally was able to recognize the song: It was (of all things) Aerosmith’s Dude Looks Like A Lady.

The headlights came up and over a low hill. On the downside, when the lights dipped and no longer hid the vehicle, I saw that it wasn’t a car; the moonlight made it clear: it was a van, a white service van. The van was tearing up the road. It came up on us with frightening speed -- it had to be going at least 90 miles an hour -- and the driver clearly wasn’t in full control. The van lurched and swerved all over the road, straying off to the shoulder and screeching back to the asphalt.

“God damn it!” the trooper shouted, and then, “WATCH OUT!”

As he shouted, he wrapped both of his arms around my waist, and threw himself backwards with all the force in his legs. His leap carried both of us well away from the road. He grunted as he landed heavily on his back. I fell with all my weight directly on top of him, and his arm squeezing my waist hurt me badly. But his move saved us both: the van barrelled into the police car, knocking it three feet sideways. If the trooper hadn’t jumped, the police car would have hit the both of us.

With the sound of metal grinding metal, it took two tries for the van to back away and free itself from the crumpled police car. We heard cackling laughter over the music, and the van took off, heading west.

“Shit!” the trooper shouted. He shoved me off him, dumping me to the ground. He jumped to his feet and started for his car. As if he’d forgotten and suddenly remembered, he looked back at me and called, “You hurt?” I shouted NO -- I had to shout over the music. The commotion was fading, but it was still pretty loud. He nodded and made a gesture with his open palms that I think meant Hang on, I’ll be right back -- which of course didn’t reassure me at all. He ran around to the other side of his car and swore. Clearly, the driver door had taken the impact of the crash. I got to my feet and watched him put one foot against the side of his car as he pulled with both hands to try to open it. At first, the door didn’t move at all. Before his second try, he took a big deep breath, then bellowed like a weight-lifter as he tugged with all his strength. The metal screamed and banged as he struggled. When the door abruptly gave way, it fell completely off the car, and cop landed hard on his ass, just missing being hit by the heavy door. He got up, swearing, and managed to dig deep down inside for some fearful oaths as he picked up the door and hurled it off the road on the other side. He jumped in, swearing nonstop.

I ran to the car and tried to open the passenger door. He looked at me, startled, as if he had no idea where I’d come from. The door didn’t open; it was locked. “Take me with you!” I shouted. “You can’t leave me here!” He looked at me, his face in turmoil, and he said, “I’ll be back! I’ll be right back!” I had to jump out of the way as he pulled a wild U-turn. He very nearly fell out the door-hole, and struggled to keep upright by clutching the steering wheel. Then he grabbed his radio and stomped on the gas pedal. He took off like a shot, chasing the van.

“HEY! Hey, you jackass! What about me? WHAT ABOUT ME!” He turned on his siren and lit his roof lights. There was my shirt, flapping next to a red beacon. “My shirt! MY SHIRT, God damn you! You asshole! You asshole! MY SHIRT!”

There was no way he could have heard me, I know. By the time I started yelling about the shirt, he was already well out of earshot. Great.

And then, a small miracle! As I watched, fuming with anger, my shirt unfolded itself, ballooned, and freed itself from the light rack. It fluttered a moment before dropping into the road. It wasn’t too far from me; maybe 60 yards. So I started walking. What else could I do? I was intensely conscious of my nakedness. The sensation of that sleezebag’s hands on me lingered unpleasantly on my skin. I shuddered and twitched in disgust, and realized I was shaking as I walked: it was my adrenaline kicking in. I’d just have to wait for it to pass. Why did I ask him to take me with him? What a stupid thing to say! I no more wanted to go with him than to live in that smelly alien zoo. I was just desperate. It was my fear talking. Clearly, what I really needed to do was to get the hell and gone out of there before he came back. Or else I’d have to find a place to hide until he passed, but where? There was nothing around me as far as the eye could see: just desert, low hills, a road, the moon. And me, a tall, naked girl, walking on tiptoe. Why was I walking on tiptoe? Was I trying to be quiet and not attract attention? Maybe there was some muscle memory in Mayda’s body. Would Mayda’s muscle memory know how to play soccer, even if my stupid brain had no idea? And speaking of muscles... I felt my stomach and sides gingerly. I knew I was going to have some bruises where he held me when he jumped. I suppose the trooper saved my life, or at least prevented some serious injury, but if he hadn’t felt the need to grope me; if he’d simply given me a ride like he was supposed to, we wouldn’t have been out there at all! He’d have been sitting behind the wheel when the van approached, and he could have swerved to avoid it. I’d be on my way home, instead of walking in the moonlight.

After I’d gone about halfway to my shirt, another headlight appeared in the east. Another car leaving town. I knew that I should run to grab the shirt and put it on, but I didn’t have the energy, and when I tried to run, the effort hurt my abs and sides.

For that reason, I was still naked when an old beige pickup truck pulled up next to me. Thankfully, there was a woman driving, and the first thing she said was, “Get in! Get in! Hurry! Come on!”

Once I climbed in and shut the door, she pulled a blanket from behind the seat and gave it to me. “Wrap yourself in that,” she told me. “Cover yourself good and warm. Are you hurt? What happened? Do you need a doctor, the police, a telephone?”

“No,” I told her. “I’m fine. I had a fight with my boyfriend and he left me out there without a stitch.”

“He didn’t rape you or hurt you did he?”

“No. He just… left.”

“Men are bastards, honey,” she said, shaking her head. “They have their moments, but they’re all bastards.” She glanced at me, then asked again, “You sure he didn’t hurt you?”

“No, he didn’t hurt me. He just left me.”

“Cause if he hurt you--” she looked at me, nodding “--I’ve got a couple of guns. We can go hunt for him.”

My jaw dropped in astonishment. “You’re not serious, are you?”

The woman smiled, then guffawed, throwing her head back as she laughed. “No, hon, no -- I was just kidding! But you shoulda seen the look on your face!” She imitated my expression so comically that I had to laugh, too

She introduced herself as “Lemon -- like that girl on 30 Rock.” She looked about sixty, a wiry, outdoorsy sixty. She had short gray hair and was dressed in tight jeans and a gray t-shirt. She asked me what I needed.

“I just need a ride to town,” I told her. “I know you’re going the other way, but it would mean a lot to me.”

“I tell you what,” she said. “I think that right now what you need more than a ride is a decent set of clothes. You look about my sister’s size, especially up top. Right now, though, I need to get home. I can’t turn around and head back to town just yet. I’ve got some supplies that are needed directly, tonight. If you come with me, I’ll dress you and feed you and give you a bed for the night, and when morning comes, I’ll take you wherever you need to go. How does that sound?”

When I considered the fact that I had no alternatives -- other than waiting for the creepy trooper to return -- it sounded just fine.

“If you don’t mind my saying so, there’s something else you need, and that’s a good bath. You look like you’ve been rolling around on the ground -- not that there’s anything wrong with that!” She laughed again, popping open her eyes and mouth, then throwing her head back and cackling loudly.

Lemon was pretty friendly, and I warmed up to her right away. Soon we were chatting like old friends. I had to give her a somewhat altered version of how tonight had gone. Telling it from Mayda’s point of view made me realize a few things about myself and how I’d behaved with her.

Strangely enough, as we talked, and as Lemon spoke of her own life, I got the feeling that if I told her about the aliens and the brain swap, she’d believe me, and maybe even help me find my way as a newly-minted woman. Unfortunately, and as you’ll soon see, we never got to that point.

I told her about my experience with the state trooper. She listened attentively, and when I was done, she gave me a very serious look, and stopped her pickup in the middle of the road. She put it in park and turned off the engine.

“You mentioned the police. I know it was a very unpleasant experience, but I get the feeling that you’re a girl who lives on the straight and narrow. Am I right?”

“Uh, yeah, I guess so,” I replied.

“Well, then--” she fixed her eyes on mine “--I have to ask you something, honey, and I want you to tell me your true feelings. Do you have any legal or moral objections to meth -- to methamphetamine? Do you?”

“What do you mean?” I asked. “I don’t know what you’re getting at.”

“We’re heading to my house right now. Let’s suppose, hypothetically, that my nephew has a little shed out back where he cooks meth. If you knew of such a thing, would you feel obliged to tell the police? Would it make you loathe to accept my hospitality tonight? Or, if you accept my hospitality, would you feel obliged to lead the police back to my place, so they could arrest me and my family and friends?”

Again, considering my utter lack of alternatives, I told her that it was all fine to me, as long as I wasn’t involved. I assured her that I was perfectly capable of seeing nothing and noticing nothing, and that I was sure I’d forget everything immediately after.

“Good!” she exclaimed, and with a big smile she started the truck, put it in gear, and stepped on the gas.

Even if I did want to tell the police, I doubt that I’d ever be able to lead them back to Lemon’s place. After we crossed the desert, to where the trees began again, Lemon turned off on a by-road, and -- in a darkness that the moon couldn’t entirely pierce -- she took one dirt road after another, easing her way over deep potholes, until, after a steep concrete incline, we pulled into her driveway.

By that point, I was expecting a shack or a cabin or a little trailer, but instead she had a cute two-story bungalow. A real house, with a porch swing out front and two gables up top. It was well-kept, at least as far as I could see in the moonlight. The lawn was cut and flowers were planted. There wasn’t any trash around, or a goat tethered in the yard, or a pot-bellied man in a rocking chair, or any of the other stereotypes I was expecting. It was like a suburban home planted out in the woods.

Inside, everything was neat and clean and cozy. She brought me upstairs and showed me her guest bedroom. It was so nicely appointed, I felt I was in a bed-and-breakfast. The guest bathroom (which was in one of the gables) had a clawfoot tub, which I’d never before seen in real life. She was quite proud of it, and immediately opened the taps. She poured in some bubble bath. “You can use any of the shampoos or conditioners. The towels are here: this one’s for your head, and the big one’s for the rest of you. The wash cloths are here, and you can help yourself to the loofahs and brushes and what-have-you.” She set a new unwrapped toothbrush on the sink.

Then, as the tub filled, we poked through her sister’s things, and Lemon picked out some shoes and underwear and a nice dress, but I’m not going to describe any of them (as pretty as they were) because -- as you’ll soon see -- I never got to put them on.

If you’ve never seen a clawfoot tub, I’ll describe it for you: it’s an old-fashioned, free-standing tub. They’re made of cast iron and covered with white enamel. The reason we call them “clawfoot” is because the tub rests on four legs, and each leg is traditionally shaped like a bird’s claw. They’re beautiful and luxurious, and I had my first moment of feeling my femininity when I put my hand on the side of the tub, lifted my leg, and stepped into the soapy foam. It was such a girl thing to do, like a picture in a magazine, and here I was, happily doing it.

After I’d been soaking for five or ten minutes, Lemon came in with two mugs of hot tea. As we chatted, she absent-mindedly took my hair and with an elastic band and some hair pins, she wrapped in up in a bun. I have to admit, it did enhance the soaking experience.

After Lemon left me to soak in the steaming water, I inevitably fell asleep. When I awoke, the water had cooled quite a bit, but that wasn’t what woke me. It was the people yelling outside. Their shouts, as far as I could tell, were quite consistent in their content, and they stressed two points above all: the first was that “It’s gonna blow!” and the second was “Watch out!”

Personally, I’ve never found “watch out!” to be a particularly useful warning, mainly because it’s so lacking in details. In the present case, it was no help whatsoever.

On the other hand, “it’s going to blow!” was quite rich with information. In spite of its terseness, it delivered a key message, and did not leave anyone asking for more. I’m sure that no one was standing in the yard waiting to ask -- or demanding to know -- exactly which it was going to blow. There would be plenty of time to find the antecedent to the pronoun AFTER “it” blew. For the present, everyone who heard the warning would simply run and duck for cover, or both.

Lemon had mentioned the meth lab. I knew that meth labs were highly volatile, so I supposed that this was the it in question.

I heard a soft whump! that vibrated in my body. Some instinct drove me to pull my head under the bathwater. As I did the entire house shook, and I saw a ball of fire pass over the tub. When I raised my head, the roof and walls were gone. The floor seemed to have withstood the blast. I was sitting at the top of the house, with a nearly unobstructed 360-degree view. The gable had been roughly torn away, leaving me in an open-air bathroom. I lifted my soapy head higher, and looked into the woods that surrounded the house. A small tree had caught fire, and several other trees had been knocked flat. I had to turn my head all the way around to get a look at the meth lab. To say that it was on fire is to drastically understate the case. From the size and shape of the inferno behind me, I could tell that the lab had been about the size of large trailer home. It was burning so brightly, that I had to squint to look at it, and I couldn’t look at it for more than a second at a time. If someone had told me that a chunk of the sun had fallen into Lemon’s backyard, well, of course I wouldn’t believe it, but it would be hard to think that anything else could be that bright and that hot. Two stories up, I could actually feel the heat from the blaze. I sank up to my neck in the water and considered my next move. Certainly I’d have to get out of the tub, dry and dress myself, and find Lemon. I’d have to get the hell out of here before the police and fire department showed up. I took another quick look around me. Behind me was the burning meth lab. People were still running around, shouting. In front of me was the woods, dark and silent. I’d probably have to head that way and hope to find a trail.

I swear, I had just taken a glance at Lemon’s sister’s clothes, lying intact on the bed, and I was just about to get up and out of that tub, when there came a cry that rose above the rest: “There’s another one! Run! Run for it!” and two seconds later a second explosion rocked the earth. I couldn’t react fast enough to duck this time, but it wouldn’t have mattered. Nothing blew over or past me. This time, it hit underneath. Something hard, heavy, and fast-moving, struck the tub. I felt the impact jar my backside. The impact was so strong that it tore the bathtub free of its plumbing, and lifted it off the floor.

At first I thought that it was going to hurl me down to the lawn and leave me naked on the grass. I wish that it had done so! Instead, the tub was propelled like a jet ski high into the air. It shot in a graceful arc over the ruins of the house and over the lawn strewn with debris. I clutched the sides of the tub with white-knuckled hands and did not blink for the next several minutes. As I shot through the air, I was sure my life would end with me smashed into a cartoon pancake between a massive pine tree and a cast-iron clawfoot tub. At least a death like that would have been one for the record books.

But no -- my life, and my flight, didn’t end there. The tub veered slightly to the left, missing the massive pine. Still airborne, we ripped past saplings and hanging vines. I wanted to cover my face with my hands, but I didn’t dare release my death-grip on the sides of the tub.

I estimate that we flew 100 yards before the tub hit the ground, and there I expected our trip to end, leaving me walk back through the woods, wearing only suds. But that is not how it ended.

Somehow -- and we will see exactly how -- the tub kept on going, digging a path through the ground, like a mad apocalyptic plow. Miraculously, it missed every tree solid enough to interrupt its forward momentum, so on we went. God knows how far we travelled! We dug through the earth and ripped through the forest until the tub’s propellant finally gave out at the banks of a stream.

I gasped in relief. My eyebrows were stuck in the UP position, high on my forehead; I couldn’t bring them down. A more immediate issue was my hands: I couldn’t peel my fingers off the tub! I’d been gripping it so tightly for so long that my muscles were locked in that position. After several fruitless attempts to work them free, I ended up using my forearms as levers to slide my fingers down past the outer edges of the tub’s rim. Once that was done, I only needed to turn my hand a little farther to pop my thumbs off the sides of the tub. As far as the rest of my body went, I didn’t feel any cuts or bruises. I moved my arms and legs; it didn’t seem like any bones were broken. You might wonder why I didn’t just look down at myself to take inventory, but the strange fact was, that the tub was still full of water and bubbles. Well, there were little branches and leaves sprinkled on the surface as well, but somehow the tub -- like a juggernaut’s car in miniature -- managed to keep both me and the water intact as it tore through the forest, uprooting saplings and ripping apart vines. I submerged my hands and pressed them against the sides of the tub: I needed to work my fingers until they could move again. Then I put my stiff fingers to my face, and brushed away the debris as well as I could. Lastly, I rubbed and tugged at my eyebrows, to try to relax them and bring them down off my forehead.

My eyebrows came down by themselves later, I don’t know when -- as you’ll see, I got pretty distracted soon enough.

Something more urgent seized my attention. The tub itself -- which was, remember, formed of cast iron -- inexplicably and suddenly began to heat up. The temperature rose so rapidly that I leaped from the water, afraid of being scalded. I stood looking at it puzzled, rubbing my derriere. My butt wasn’t burnt, but it did feel a bit tender.

The tub reached such a high temperature that the ground around it, which was a little damp, began to sizzle and smoke. The radiant heat reminded me of a cast-iron stove. I had to back away. The next morning I discovered that the front of my body looked like it was sunburned -- just from standing next to the red-hot tub.

Not to be left out, the water in the tub gently bubbled and steamed, but the bubbles quickly swelled and multiplied until a full and powerful boil was underway. A great steam arose, and a fierce, violent, turbulent boil was well underway.

I bent, almost kneeling, to look behind and under the tub to discover the source of the heat. Keep in mind that I had to keep my distance from the incandescent tub, but I wouldn’t have seen the source at all if a nearby bush hadn’t dried up and withered away before my eyes. Once the bush was out of the way, it became obvious: There were a pair of metal canisters that were hissing and glowing red. They were jammed in and securely wedged between the back legs of the tub. Basically, they were stuck right under my butt for my entire crazy ride. These were the propellants that shot the tub through the air and drove it across the ground! This was the source of all that destructive power! Somehow during the second explosion, the canisters were thrown into my bathroom, where they lodged underneath the tub. Mystery solved!

I realize that you might be wondering what insane chemical madness was housed in those deadly little tanks? If there ever was a label on them, it had long since burnt away, and I wasn’t curious enough to dare a closer look. Whatever rocket fuel was inside, it had finally given out near this stream. It couldn’t push that tub another inch. Careful though: it didn’t look like the canisters were ready to retire for the night. They still had work to do.

The pair of them were hissing ever louder. By now, the water in the tub had completely evaporated, and the white enamel cracked and flaked from the heat. The canisters began to shake, as did the tub. The enamel let off a cloud of black smoke, then burst into flame. The tub and the two tanks bucked and rocked like an insane mechanical bronco. I could tell they were ready for an apocalyptic night on the town -- they were raring to go. In the absence of music, the three metal pieces let off a fearsome banging noise, like Thor’s hammer on a bender.

This time I didn’t need anyone else to shout it’s going to blow! or even watch out! Clearly something drastic was about to happen; something I wanted no part of. I backed away anxiously, looking around me for cover: a big rock or huge tree to hide behind, but there was none. Luckily (!) as I flailed and panicked, my heel caught in a tree root, and I fell backwards, landing on my soapy derriere in the mud. From there, I rolled down the dirty slope toward the water, landing on my back among the rotten leaves and mud.

Still: better there than in that madcap tub!

I didn’t see it, but I heard it. The canisters erupted as one with a deafening blast. The bathtub lifted off in a grand farewell that sent it high into the air. One end glowed an angry spanked red, and while the white enamel burned and smoked like a flaming tire. It flew straight and true, still upright, as it sailed over the creek, but once it reached the height of the tree tops, it began to flip end over end. It kept its trajectory, though, and kept gaining altitude. I could still see the flames and the red-hot glow even after it passed the trees.

At last it flew out of sight. The noise, the flames, the heat were all gone, and I was surprised to hear the gurgle of the creek. Now that the tub had taken its party elsewhere, the woods lapsed back into a quiet and a stillness such that the crickets and the gentle ripple of the water were the loudest sounds I could hear.

And yet I listened, straining to keep still. I felt sure that I’d hear the crash when the bathtub came to earth. Instead, I heard nothing but the crickets and the stream. Oh well. Maybe it never landed. Maybe the tub was destined to never fall. For all I know, it landed on the moon. Or maybe it struck Mr Toad’s spaceship and did enough damage that he’d have to bring Mayda back. We’ll probably never know.

Alright then! Here I was once again, naked in the middle of nowhere. A few clumps of suds still clung to me. My butt was covered in mud and slime. In addition, the explosion had thrown several bucketfuls of dirt, sticks, and pebbles all over me.

I stood up cautiously and peeked over the bank. The canisters were ripped open by the blast. Their salad days were over. Whatever damage they were born to do, they had done it. I had nothing more to fear from them.

Sighing, I tried to brush some dirt off my arm, but it only smeared and muddied. I dipped my toe in the stream to see if I dared to slip in and rinse myself off. It was cold. Not icy cold, but too cold for a sane person. Okay: naked and dirty it is.

Taking stock: Mayda’s clothes (which should have been mine) were on a spaceship flying off to an unknown planet. My plaid shirt was lying on a desert highway, unless that creepy cop returned and picked it up. Lemon’s sister’s outfit, which I could have worn, was probably blown to bits or burned along with the rest of Lemon’s house. My truck was lost in space. The tub -- like Mayda -- had flown off to parts unknown, to have its own adventure.

What was next for me, then? An answer was quick to come: I looked downstream and saw a metal rowboat, caught in the weeds and muck on the opposite bank.

“Anybody mind if I borrow the boat?” I called out loudly, to no one in particular. I didn’t expect a response. No one was there.