THE BEST PART OF ME

THE BEST PART OF ME

By:  Randy Gillis

 

I was standing in my bedroom, in front of the usually covered full-length mirror, naked.  So naturally Patricia picked that time to waltz in (without knocking) with a basket full of laundry.  At this point I’m done with the whole ‘please knock before you come in’ game we’ve been playing.  I mean, my god, if a closed door stands between us, not only do I knock, I make her swear on Melissa Ethridge’s life that she isn’t naked.  She’s been warned, so now whatever psychological damage she incurs is all on her.

I slowly turned around, giving her the full-Monty and back again with a brashness that was somewhat liberating. “What do you think?” I asked.  She put the basket down on my bed and stared at me in a detached way, like a meat inspector.  “Do they always just hang there like that?” she asked like some alien queen militant lesbian thing who’s never seen one before.  “Only when you’re around,” I jabbed.  “Be serious, really, what do you think?”  “The walking has sure helped,” she said.  “But then, a wad of gum would have helped to plug the Titanic.” I looked at her as I raised my leg and perched my foot on a chair (I can be cruel too).  “It’s your inhuman honesty, you know, devoid of all compassion that makes me….hate you,” I replied.  She walked over and put her arm around me, which was pretty impressive all things considered, and turned me toward the mirror.  “Honey, you know you can’t lose with me.  If you were a walking wart I’d still love you,” she said as she patted my behind and walked back to the basket on the bed.  “Now, what are you doing?” she asked.

I was searching you see, looking for one part, that one great part.  I got the idea from my friend George in L.A.  He told me you could make a fine living as a body double.  I thought body doubles were only used for sex scenes that high paid actors were too chicken (or ugly) to do themselves, involving body parts that my generation was raised to be ashamed of.  Apparently that’s just the tip of the iceberg.  It turns out that Gwyneth Paltrow in reality has the hands of a linebacker.  That’s right, she uses a body double.  Every image you see of her has the hands of Gladys Middlebrook from Baraboo, Wisconsin CGI’d right on.  And thanks to excellent representation, Ms. Middlebrook pockets a handsome residual every time Ms. Paltrow appears in print or on film.

 Patricia started to carry my socks to the dresser.  “You really don’t have to do that,” I said.  “Oh, no,” she replied, “you won the bet fair and square, laundry for a week.”  “I’m sorry,” I chuckled. “I really thought you knew Adele was white.”  Patricia grabbed up a pair of my underwear and tossed them to me.  “You have no idea the fantasies you crushed for me,” she complained.  “Now, if you don’t mind, I’ve seen enough of the ‘little sizzler’ to last a lifetime.”

“I’m leaning toward my calves,” I said as I returned to the mirror to examine them.  “From just below the knee to just above the ankle.  What do you think?”  Patricia glanced down.  “They’re okay I guess, for 50 year-old calves,” she said.  I whipped around.  “Yeah, well Clint Eastwood ain’t getting any younger and with the new Dirty Harry re-boot they’re no doubt working on as we speak, he’ll be looking for parts that are just this side of believable for his love scene with Helen Mirren.  And he’s not the only one.  Sean Connery, Ian Mckellen, Patrick Stewart, they could all do worse than my calves!”

“Honey, honey,” Patricia said, trying to calm me down, “I think maybe your target market is a wee too focused.”  “Oh, don’t worry,” I said.  “The calves are just the beginning of this body-part bonanza.  Just take a look at these.”  I held up my foot, giving her an unobstructed view.  “What do you think?” I asked as I wiggled my toes.  “You can’t seriously be considering using those,” she replied.  “What’s wrong with them?” I demanded.  “Well, in addition to those gorilla-like knuckles sprouting out beside your big toes, you’ve never had a single pedicure, which goes against everything gay I’ve ever heard of.”   “Exactly!” I screamed.  “These are virgin toes.  Can you imagine how much they’re worth?”  “Maybe you’re right,” she said.  “Maybe SyFy can do something with them.”

                                                                                                         

Patricia sat on the bed and listened politely as I went through the entire ‘body of Randy’ inventory, including a speculative price list.  I saw a bright future not only for my calves and feet, but also for my thumbs, third and fifth fingers, earlobes and one nare that’s not too shabby.

“Of course my ultimate dream is to be a stunt butt for Harrison Ford,” I said dreamily.  “But realistically I have to accept that that may not be practical.”

 

Patricia stood up, picked up the now empty laundry basket and approached me calmly.  “I appreciate the effort you’re putting in to this, but the very best part of anyone...” she whispered, as if telling me a secret, “...can’t be photographed.” 

I hate it when she does that.