Friday, 27 January 2012

• The Return of the Full Nelson

  It's come to my attention (thanks to this lovely post) that today is Nelson's birthday, and he is, once again, dancing in his birthday suit.  So I feel obligated to re-post this entry from last year, wishing Nelson a very happy birthday.
  
  

  The Full Nelson
  

  
  I am struck by the number of people who are familiar with Nelson’s habit of appearing in the nude at social events.  I never realized that what started as a dare ten years ago had become an all-consuming part of Nelson’s social life.  And I am embarrassed to admit publicly, my role in Nelson’s naked ambition.
  
  You see, it was ten years ago, the first and only time that I saw Nelson, with or without clothes.  He was a strapping young lad, with dreams of becoming a landscape engineer.  When we met, he was sitting in a Cedar of Lebanon, in Prospect Garden.
  
  

      

  It is a lovely garden, an ever-changing display of seasonal color, just the sort of place where an aspiring landscape engineer would spend his free time.  It bordered on an equally lovely old stone and brick building.  And though it didn’t truly fit with the design of the main building, a back room had been added, jutting out over the garden, with three exterior walls of floor-to-ceiling glass.  You could stand in that room, dressed in your tuxedo, sipping your cocktail and almost believe you were in the garden itself.  And that’s what I was doing when I first noticed Nelson perched in the tree, looking like an egret that had lost its bearings.
  
  Ten years ago, my friend was getting married in that lovely old building and I was his best man.  My friend was not a black tie and cocktails kind of guy.  He was more the shot-and-a-beer type, more comfortable in a t-shirt than tux.  But it was his wedding day and his bride was firmly in charge.
  
  His bride was nice enough, not my type, but then I wasn’t the one marrying her.  He was my best friend and he loved her and, under the circumstances, I had promised them both that I’d behave.  But I hadn’t counted on the bridesmaids.  At the risk of being indelicate, let me just say that they were each born, not only with a silver spoon in their mouth, but with a silver broomstick up their butt.  They needed something to loosen up those broomsticks.
  
  That’s when I spotted Nelson.
  
  Slipping outside, I offered him a case of champagne if he would streak the wedding.  Nelson climbed down out of the cedar tree, tugging at his shirt as he made his descent.  I hid a case of champagne in the tall grass.  Nelson arranged his clothes in a neat little pile atop the case.
  
  And then, without warning, he took off in a mad dash, plastering his naked body up against the plate glass window.
  
  The bridesmaids shrieked in four-part harmony.  My friend looked on, howling with delight.  His wife, to her credit, handled the moment with grace.  Nearly two years elapsed before I realized I had not seen my friend since his wedding, another two years before it sunk in that I never would.
  
  And Nelson?  I never saw that young man again either.  But I understand, ever since that fateful day, if you invite Nelson to a party, you get the Full Nelson.  

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