Pure Greg Louganis

Mrs. L—it was her party—all dolled up, nipping, one eye on the window, rushed into the foyer when anyone arrived telling whomever to—quick— go into the changing room, slip into their most special get-up then come out and get all loosey-goosey. Ryan, notorious for the inappropriate, for- going his outfit, emerged naked and walking on his hands. Since Mrs. L’s previous shindig, where Ryan was an embarrassment, he’d gotten much better at hand walking. If you didn’t want to stand there looking at Ryan’s flopped over unit you had to get down on the floor for a face-to-face, or ignore him. Holly, a freshly minted invitee was the first person Ryan approached, and to Holly’s ankle’s, Ryan said, “How dooo you do?” Holly smacked him in the nuts. That same weekend, Mrs. L got herself stung by a man-o-war to which she was allergic and to which she succumbed. Allen, sensitive in matters of honoring the dead, suggested an odalisque be constructed and commemorative plaques depicting scenes from Mrs. L’s rambunctious middle years be carved. Then time—as it sometimes does— went unaccounted for. When I got a call saying the odalisque and plaques were finished, it was October. Not long after the commemorative celebration, Goodie, Mrs. L’s daughter, called informing that a significant number of plaques had gone missing. When I told her not to worry because we had reproductions, she wept. Ryan was visiting me for the weekend and, again naked, he padded over wanting to know what was up with Goodie. I got down on the floor and told him. He padded off in the direction of the pool and dove in, toes then the rest of him breaking the surface without much of a splash.