Highway Stripper

The cars traveling behind our pickup truck dodged the clothes that had landed on the yellow dots painted on the black asphalt. As they drove, they would first see my jacket, a grey zippered hoodie with black striping, then the shirt I had worn underneath, a purple T-Shirt with a picture of a yellow dinosaur on it, made to fit a 10-year-old boy, and then my dark yoga pants, that had been oh-so-comfortable at one point in time. But as I sat in the pickup earlier, I felt so uncomfortable, and I couldn’t bear to have a single thing touching my body. It was as if my clothing had been covered with itching powder, and every time it touched me, a thumbtack tickled the skin beneath, itching and hurting my hyper-sensitive skin. My friend in the passenger seat beside me looked oddly at me, as I tried to hold my sleeves off of my arms, but nothing was working. It seemed that anything even hovering near the hair follicles that were layered on my skin would burn away and destroy that bit of skin. I knew that nothing could be done, except to take everything off. I had to heal myself, my skin, my body. I pulled to the side of the road, and looked at my dear friend. Silently, I step out of the car and walk to the passenger door, opening it, and point to the driver’s seat, telling them to scoot over and drive. I shut the door, and walk to the back of the truck bed. I pull open the hinges, and step up, closing the gate on my way. I unzip my hoodie, and knock on the window, telling them to drive the bastard, but slowly, giving me time to adjust to the speed. Sitting down, I brace myself, and as the speed gets to what must be about 30 mph, I rise. I pull my body upwards, and begin to strip.

My arm slides out of the sleeve of my hoodie, and it flies, like a flag, in the wind, attached to my other arm, which acted as the flag pole. I raise my left arm, allowing it to fly higher, until it soars through the wind, hitting the pavement with a soft thud. I open my arms, and feel the breeze. I let the wind wash the grub and lint of the clothing off of my skin, and poke my head through the small window, to tell them to speed up. I let the wind wash the pins and needles off of the skin that was covered by the sleeves of my sweatshirt. Still, I feel the extreme discomfort of my shirt. I carefully move my arms to avoid touching any part of my body that can be avoided, and tug at the bottom seam of my shirt. I slowly pull it up over my head, the wind ripping at the sail created by having this shirt open to it, and feel the cold rush of air upon my stomach. The shirt covers my face, and for a moment, I am completely blinded, and begin to lose my balance. I blindly brace myself on the back window of the cabin, the cotton of the shirt whipping in the wind, and I struggle to pull it off, over my head, without more contact than necessary. It flies in the wind, and I watch the ripples in the freed fabric, waiting to see it hit the ground. It hits the windshield of a small car in the other lane, who angrily flips their windshield wipers and middle finger at me, but still I know I have not completed my healing process.

I stand in the wind for a moment, the skin on my upper torso bared-save for the pale, soft skin of my breasts. My small, thin, fabric brassiere, the kind most pre-pubescent girls wear when they like to think they’re about to become women, perfectly fits my tiny supplements, but still, even the softest fabric could not comfortably touch me today. I reach behind my back, and unclip the most uncomplicated hatch that has ever been put on such a harness. The straps begin to ripple, as the wind finds the freed, loosened lace, and I slide the silk ribbon down my arms, releasing another bit of my imprisonment to the wind. I now have my complete upper body freed, and the wind beating upon myself was forcing the discomfort from my bones. I close my eyes, feeling the cold rush, trying to enjoy my freedom, but I still feel encased in the pants that cover my lower extremities.

As I feel the strong breeze freeing my body, I begin to see a bright flashing, coming from a car not too far back. I suppose someone must have called the cops, because the red and blue lights are most definitely not trying to pass us. I poke my head through the window, and tell my friend not to stop. I can’t let this end before I need it to. Knowing that my time has lessened, I begin to hurry my process. I slide the thin fabric down my legs, stepping out quickly, and I throw the pants towards the windshield of the copper, taking that small bit of advice from the previous driver of the windshield struck by my shirt. The officer turns his sirens off, and his loudspeaker on, the voice of a man hidden behind a thin, glass shield now pouring through the airwaves. I cover my ears at first, but slowly release the pressure of my hands as I get used to the volume behind the car. I try to block out his words, but something in his voice draws me to listen. He has this lilt, this soothing voice, and I can manage to ignore the meaning behind the things he’s saying, but not his voice. I hear something in the manner with which he speaks that fills me with a strange sense of desire, and I realize that that’s what it is that I hear in his voice. It’s a desire, one that he is trying desperately to cover, and I am the only one that can decipher it. It’s an encrypted code, a computer program that only I can hack. I decide to use this weakness to my advantage. I slide the elastic of my flowered briefs past my hips, completely baring my naked body to the world. I stand strong and proud in the wind; I have overcome the antsy disruption to my life. I allow even the smallest hairs on my body to flow in the wind, with my bare feet planted about a foot from each other, and my arms raised to the sky. I know that nothing matters right now, other than this sensation that I hold throughout my whole body. So often, we allow ourselves to use only a small bit of our senses, and ignore the whole of the feeling that is given only by embracing all of your senses. I sniff into the pollution filled air, the dirty smog of the factories nearby reminding me that some bits of life will always try to grey out the other bits, but I can see the yellow of the baby daffodils beginning their spring lives, and I can hear the deafening pleasure of the wind roaring through my ears. Nothing can take away the hope of new life brought by the spring. I feel my short hair, cropped close to my head, wisps flipping in the wind, the grease of the last week that I had gone without washing it allowing a mold to be made on my skull. I know that nothing can change this moment that I have created.

The voice from the loudspeaker behind me blares more words, but all I can hear is the wanting and wonder that fills his boyish imagination, as if he were a 5-year-old who has just discovered legos. I listen to his lust-filled song, and know he will not be trying hard to stop me. I move slowly and carefully in the bed of the truck, stepping towards the handle to release the gate. I tell my friend to speed up, but whether or not I was heard is questionable. I stand up tall, allowing the momentum to build itself, and before the physical forces take over, I dive off the edge of the truck, my toes touching the last bit of metal as the force of my jump leaves my body flying quickly towards the pavement, the cop car, anything that gravity considers to be larger than myself. My body braces for the impact instinctively, and I feel my hands hit first, onto the hot, rough asphalt. My knees are next, the burning sensation from both the heat emanating off the road and the lacerations that now covered what had so recently been even and monochromatic skin. I hear the screeching tires of the trooper’s car trying to brake and swerve and not hit me, and he must have left the loudspeaker on, because his curses at the inevitable accident are loud and clear for all to hear. “Fuck! Shit shit shit shit. Oh my fucking god. Get out of the way!” A weak smirk rises to my lip, a mumbled laugh forcing my mouth open slightly. I roll my naked body over to lay on my back, and hear car horns and somehow the sunshine beating on my face makes it okay. I may be naked and half-lucid, but I feel alright. The grass just past the edge of the road’s shoulder has a sweet smell to it, and I scoot my body over to get a better look. I want to feel the blades of grass with my fingertips. I hear large boots coming towards me though, and I don’t have the time to enjoy this moment the way I had hoped to. I hear the questions coming towards me, I hear the angered voices, I hear the other voices of the EMT’s, who sound more concerned than angry, but I keep my eyes and lips closed. I don’t want them to ruin my moment right here, in the sun, with the warmth and the scent of old car parts and fresh leaves oozing with the smell of life and photo-synthesis. I feel someone touch their hand to my forearm, assessing my injuries and my mental state, and I flip my eyes open, glaring angrily. I am soon lifted to a stretcher, strapped down, unable to move my arms. I feel those thin, cheap cotton blankets typical of hospital ER’s and rescue rafts with the Coast Guard layering themselves on my body, and I try not to listen but I hear the voices of them, the strangers who are taking me, and they talk of thorazine and haldol and ativan, and they just won’t let me be. I feel a small dissolvable wafer being placed in my mouth, and I soon fall asleep.

I wake up in a bed, wearing a hospital gown, in what appears to be a psychiatric ward. The rooms are all one-person only, and the security seems hyped up; there are three uniforms with cuffs walking around. I see a fellow patient walk past with cotton punching-mitt-like hand coverings, presumably to stop them from hurting themselves. I lay back for a moment, observing my room. Plain white walls, shatter-proof windows, and those ratty pieces of fake mirror that they like to think can give you a decent reflection, or at least enough of one to feel human. Not even a pulley for the blinds was there, it was replaced by a small rod that you were supposed to twist. I push myself forwards and realize that there's a big cast on my left arm, which I automatically assume was the arm I landed on. I think about this, and realize that I don't remember very much of what happened. But I know I landed? I think a little harder, and I know that my clothes are nowhere to be found. I try to think back to what I was doing. I was with my friend, going to get some lunch. I was driving. Was I in an accident? Is my friend okay? I wonder what I did to end up in a psychiatric ward. I feel that tingly urge going to my neck, and as I reach my right hand to my neck to scratch it, I notice the self-induced scratch marks all over me. And then it hits me. I was itchy. I was itchy and had to take off my clothes. And the only way to rid myself of this almost-incurable itch was to push my body into the wind. I leapt into the wind to free myself, but it looks like I ended up in a cage. I really did like that shirt, too. I don't think I'll be able to find it though. I want it. I want the comfort of my own belongings. A cage such as this requires, in order for it to remain a cage, a lack of personality. These people like to figure you out without the help of your personal items. I slowly bring my sore, damaged legs to the edge of the bed and step down onto the ground. I realize that my feet are bare, and the ground is cold, and I slide my tail-end onto the bed again, resting my feet just a few inches above the floor.

A white-coat walks into the room, seemingly surprised to see me sitting. She asks me some generic nurse questions, and I respond with my generic patient answers. I know I'm supposedly sick, if I'm in here, but really, I'm rather apathetic about it. I'm just as happy here as I was at home, and I was pretty happy at home. The way I see life isn't with long-term goals and wants and dreams or any similar thing. I just let life happen as it may. Tomorrow will come tomorrow, and I'll deal with it then. Today, I'll deal with now, and yesterday is over. I don't bother with wants, it's hard enough for most people to deal with needs. I need to move around, and I remember that the generic nurse had handed me some generic socks and I put them on my cold and dingy-pale feet. I step onto the floor again, this time feeling the rest of my body, and not just my feet. I ache, but it's nothing I can't handle. It's nothing I haven't handled before. I look at the bland tiles on the floor, and chuckle to myself, realizing that my socks blend in perfectly with the tiles. I imagine patients walking around with no feet, their socks not only disguising their feet, but making them unnecessary. The legs blur into the air, and the floating cattle wear their hospital gowns without shame, but also without pride. The blank expression on each face is precisely the same, each head emptied of its usefulness, lacking the control it once had over the neuro-transmitters. The drugs fill the receptors, leaving no room for the instincts of each naturally-unbalanced brain chemical. The errors have been removed, but not fixed. When I glance back out to the hallway, I realize that my vision was accurate, minus the lack of feet.

As I take my first step into the hallway, I look left and right, like a small child about to cross the street. I see nobody coming, but still, I hesitate to make a move. I point my right foot forwards, letting my toe test the senses, poking at the floor. I finally give myself permission to take a full step, and just as my feet close together, I feel the heavy, unrelenting wind push me over, and I roll back onto the grass, my naked body laying just where I had first landed. I feel the cars drive by, their high speeds making wind that would not have otherwise been there, their engines roaring loud enough to shake the soil on which I lay. My arm aches, and I look over to see the damage, which was bad, but not urgent. Nothing’s urgent anymore. I see no sign of my pick-up, my clothes, or anything that could be of use. But I don’t care. I lower my head back into the grass, resting in the nook that had presumably been formed by my skull when I landed. The soft soil has a bit of give, and I use it as a pillow, the soft grass comforting me with its light brushes across my face. In this moment, there is nothing else that I need; no reason to be dismayed or alarmed or angry. In this moment, I am calm and collected – even more so than I have been in years. I take the comfort from these thoughts, and bask in it, closing my eyes to the bright sun, and I let myself float freely through the universe. I have freed myself.