Naked in the Tub with Vera

By A Paul Bergen

A. Paul Bergen has writter a clever, philosophical, irreverent, wicked little comedy about love, lust and religion in the small town of Masonville. From the masturbatory tub of the wealthy, aging and seemingly pious widow Vera Klaussen, devious plots are conceived manipulating the unsuspecting victims of her strange desires. Caught in the web of her intrigue is an ensemble cast of wacky characters including a fearless, teenage witch; a bully she is determined to slay; a gay minister with a straight but kinky wife; a race car mechanic who knows a few things of his own about lust and
manipulation; a voluptuous hair dresser who rides more than a red Cadillac; and the unforgettable Rev. Browner who likens himself unto the image of God.

From this indelible human circus, swirling in a stew of unexpected twists and turns emerges a status quo of strange, sexual couplings that
vexes even the intents of the puppet mistress herself. Both the raveling and unraveling of this conundrum of events is to the reader’s delight.

• Language: English
• Publisher: R. J. Buckley Publishing
• Release date: May 12, 2011
• ISBN: 9781452478777

A Paul Bergen

Education B.A. Philosophy, Westmont College, Santa Barbara CA M.A. Phil. Of Religion, U.S.C., Los Angeles CA Mr. Bergen has been a professional singer since 1960. He has performed and/or recorded with John Williams, Norman Luboff, Roger Wagner and Fred Waring. Movie soundtrack credits include Close Encounters of the Third Kind, Choir Boys, Damien II, and Ironweed. As a southern California studio singer, his voice has been recorded on over 8,000 commercials for radio and television. He has also been nationally recognized as a narrator and voice-over artist. Paul and his family moved to Encinitas CA in 1980.

Book preview

Preface

Naked in the Tub with Vera is the author’s first novel and is a comedy with an edge, for beneath the surface of farce and hilarity serious philosophical, religious and social questions are raised for deliberation and debate. A perspective is proposed, and though the reader may or may not appreciate the view, cause for thought will ensue.

Mr. Bergen has written a unique, comic morality play in which the reader is treated to the author’s creative process throughout the development of the novel. Author’s comments, scattered randomly within the text, provide a view into both the author’s influence on the characters and also of the characters influence upon the author, as at one point he poignantly admits even authors are not omnipotent.

Join a very naked Vera in her tub and in so doing, discover the wildly wicked and wondrous characters of Masonville. You will need a clean towel when you emerge.

A. Paul Bergen

Included as a bonus

The Flight of Harley Peters

Dedication

For Linda, who prefers showers.

1

If you come with me, I'll let you see me naked. That's what she said, exactly what she said. We were both thirteen at the time, standing across the fence from one another in our backyards.

You would like to see me that way, wouldn't you, she added after my moment of wonder and silence.

I thought perhaps I was dreaming and didn't want to do or say anything to wake me up.

Yes I would, I finally replied.

Well, come on then, she said and headed toward her house.

I jumped over the fence and followed her.

Don't worry; my folks aren't home, she said as we went upstairs to her bedroom. She closed the door and told me to sit on the bed.

One thing though, she said. You have to promise not to touch me. You promise? You just get to see, nothing more, all right?

I promised, still not believing this could possibly be happening, but it did.

She undressed in front of me, confidently, not much to remove, just jeans and blouse. Then she seemed to hesitate, and I thought she would lose her nerve, but no. First her bra, and then her panties; and she stood before me naked as the day she was born, but she didn't look that way the day she was born. She modeled herself, turning and posing slowly and gracefully, staring me straight in the eyes, as if to see what she could find there. I knew she had rehearsed this, possibly many times.

She said nothing, and neither did I. I wanted to touch her more than I had ever wanted anything in my whole, young life. She was more beautiful than any fantasy I had ever had or ever would. And then she dressed and sat down on the bed opposite me.

Why did you do that, I asked.

Because I wanted to, was all she said.

Will you let me see you that way again?

I don't think so, she replied, and she never did. Her name was Jenny Tuner.

Jenny's mom was Mildred Turner. Most folks called her Milly, which she thought was a trivial, silly sort of name for an adult, but since she also didn't like Mildred, she went with the silly derivative. She lived in Oklahoma City, taught music in an elementary school, played violin in the Oklahoma City Symphony and on the weekends got knocked around a lot by her husband, Fred.

Fred was a mechanic who owned his own garage; well, he rented the garage, but he owned the business. He tended to drink a lot on the weekends and mostly liked to watch ball games, go bowling, or country western dancing, and beat up on Milly.

On Mondays, when Fred was sober and could see the results of his handiwork, he would always weep and wail and promise never to do it again, and for a long time, anyway it seemed like a long time to her, Milly tried really hard to believe him.

Then one day, she was pregnant.

So Jenny, before she was Jenny, floated blissfully about, suspended in this warm, liquidly stuff, mostly hearing these muffled, glowing kinds of sounds that later she would identify with heaven. On the other hand, every once in a while she would hear a darker kind of sound, often accompanied by a distinctly unpleasant jerking and jarring, followed by a shaking and different, softer sound that later she would associate with the darkest part of night.

And then suddenly there was this horrendous commotion, inexorable pushing and pulsing and squeezing and God knows what all else, and Jenny came popping out of the mushy cave with her eyes wide open and howling at whatever it was that might be out there.

She couldn't believe how easy it was to move in whatever it was that had replaced the soupy stuff, but everything also was a lot heavier now; her first lesson in having to give up something good to get something better, without ever knowing if you wanted the better in the first place.

Milly thought the being knocked around might end with motherhood, but she should have known better.

The weekend-drunk Fred just had more to get agitated about, which in turn gave him more to be remorseful about on Mondays; but the added remorse was small consolation for poor Milly, who in turn began to think that maybe it wouldn't be too long before Jenny might get clobbered too, and that took care of that.

One Saturday, when Fred was out bowling and drinking with the boys, Milly packed her bags and Jenny's too, and headed west. She had a friend in a place called Bakersfield who played in the symphony there, and that's where she went.

Have you ever been there? This is no paradise she went to. It's hot as hell in the summer, cold as dead bones in the winter with fog covering everything like a burial shroud, and it's very flat; I mean flat like a mastectomy. It's also the last place Fred would have thought to look for her, so it suited Milly just fine.

She filed for divorce in absentia with nothing asked of Fred except to leave her the hell alone. She found a job teaching music at a school in a little town called Masonville, about twenty miles from Bakersfield and considered her and Jenny safe; Milly was that proud of herself, and I guess she had a right.

She could have gone back to using her maiden name, but it happened to be Schmidt, a most unfortunate sound. She certainly didn't intend to stay a Turner, so she compromised in a musical way, dropped the r and became a Tuner instead. Little Jenny Tuner, she said and liked the sound of it.

2

About thirty years earlier, further north in the valley, in a suburb of Fresno, California, a son was born to the family of the Reverend George W. Browner. They named him Mark after one of the Gospels. He was gay. Mark Browner, I mean. I don't know about the one in the Gospel.

Now Mark didn't want to be gay, but it didn't take a genius mentality to figure out that he was. He got erections thinking about little boys rather than little girls, and later he got erections looking at big boys rather than big girls. That's a fairly good indication of what's going on inside.

When he was about ten, he was playing nasty with a cousin of his from out of town and wound up getting buggered. He pretended not to like it, but in fact had to admit it was about the most exciting thing that had ever happened to him, and that was the end of that, if you'll pardon the pun.

Dad, I think I might be homosexual, he bravely announced one day.

Don't be ridiculous, son. It's a heinous sin to be queer, and if you've been having dirty thoughts about it, I suggest you do some serious praying for forgiveness. And the next time you feel tempted, you just open your Bible and get straight into the Word. There's nothing like the Word to send old Lucifer packing.

Yes sir, said Mark, without mentioning that his favorite part of the Word was the story of a perhaps too intense friendship between two men named David and Jonathan. He also harbored some serious and equally heinous doubts as to the veracity of some of the stuff he was reading in the Word, particularly after discovering a man named Darwin in a high school science class.

Although Mark could properly be described as intelligent, perhaps even precocious in some ways, he was not inclined toward rebellion.

Why struggle upstream when you can float down, might have been his motto.

He dated girls for show, even went steady for a time with one of the professional virgin types Baptist churches sometimes produce.

The good Reverend George wanted him to become a minister, and Mark figured it as proper a career as he was likely to manage, so after attending a local evangelical college, he went to seminary, Baptist of course, where he was buggered on a regular basis by an equally devout roommate. They felt some powerful guilt about it, for a time at least, but handled that by praying for forgiveness after each sinful occasion. They wound up spending a lot of time on their knees.

His first job in the ministry was in Visalia, just south of Fresno, where he was hired as youth director by a minister friend of his dad. Mark did very well in Visalia. Guess where his second job was? That's right; he was called to be head pastor of the First Baptist Church of Masonville. Milly Tuner played the organ there.

When pastor Mark Browner got his call, Jenny was seven, and Milly was in her late twenties.

Milly was doing well in Masonville, established as a teacher, a proud member of the Bakersfield Philharmonic and organist at the church just a few blocks from her apartment. She was liked in the town, though considered a bit reclusive for such an attractive, young woman. She obviously was not into men at that time of her life, and some folks correctly surmised that whoever had been Jenny's father had exacted some sort of negative toll. Other folks thought different things.

The single males in Milly’s environment came to understand that their advances were akin to mixing oil with water, so they gradually stopped stirring.

However, Milly did take a second look at the new pastor person, and after that did some even further scrutinizing, discerning, calculating and scheming, which in turn led one fine day to a truly amazing discussion between them.

What can I do for you, Milly, asked a smiling young pastor of his sweetly smelling organist.

Well, pastor, what I have in mind is more like what we can do for each other.

And what might that be?

First of all, I need to know if you are aware of being homosexual, which I know that you are. I mean, I assume you must be at least as aware of it as I am, and by the way you're blushing, you've already answered the question.

Indeed, our poor minister was not only blushing but trembling like a leaf in the wind.

Whatever makes you think that I'm a . . . that I'm gay, he stammered.

The Oklahoma Symphony was full of gays, and the Bakersfield has a bunch too. Seems like I've been around homosexuals all my life, and I know, that's all. There's no point in denying it if it's true.

Well, I can think of some reasons for denying it, true or not. What do you intend to do about it, if it is true, asked an obviously dismayed pastor Browner.

I intend to marry you, she replied, like she was telling the time of day.

You what?

Now don't get upset. You just haven't thought about it yet, but I have, and it's perfect. To start with, don't think there haven't been whispers about your masculinity over the past year, and the longer you go without a wife, the worse it will get. I happen to know the selection committee was concerned about your not being married to start with, but Mrs. Klaussen wanted you in, and since she basically pays your salary and also owns the parsonage you live in, you got the call. Believe me, a proper marriage would be the best move you could make, and I'm the best deal you'll ever find, considering your somewhat delicate situation.

What would you get out of it? Pastor Browner was calming himself and beginning to enjoy a strange and novel sense of conspiratorial intrigue, somewhat akin to the deliciously sinful sense of adventure between him and a certain roomie of recent yore.

Money for one thing. Neither one of us makes all that much of it, but combine our incomes, and in this town we're part of the cream. You also would give both Jenny and me a social position we don't enjoy now, and you come with a house to boot. In fact, if we were married, I'll bet Mrs. Klaussen would let us buy the parsonage, and we could put a second floor on it. I could have a music room and Jenny her own bath room, and I'll tell you something else I would get out of it; I wouldn't have to worry about turning down men for dates or about whispers that might someday start about me, if they haven't already. And here's the perfect part; Fred, that's my first husband, would use me as a punching bag one day and then apologize and want sex the next. I came to hate it, and in your case, I don't imagine you'd be exactly demanding in that regard, would you?

They both giggled.

You have given this some thought, haven't you?

Oh yes, Pastor Browner, that I have. And after the honeymoon, the first time I have my hair done at Claire's Dippidy Do Salon, I'll slip in a comment or two about your truly amazing bedtime facility that will initiate an entirely new set of whispers concerning our Reverend Browner. May I call you Mark? suggested the prospective, not so blushing bride.

What about the sanctity of marriage? I am a minister of the Gospel, you know, and we're talking about holy matrimony as if it's a common business arrangement. Have you thought of that too?

Oh yes, I've thought of that too. Let me make a second observation about you no less shocking than the first, at least it would be shocking to your devoted congregation. You don't think Jesus is coming back any more than I do, do you? You're good at being a minister, but being a minister doesn't make you a believer, does it? It just makes you a professional, trained to do something probably your family wanted more than you. Am I right again, Mark?

We already know that she was.

How in God's name did you figure that out? Are you psychic or some kind of witch, he blurted, immediately regretting the demeaning reference. Clearly this was not a lady to be antagonized, at least not by him under the circumstances.

Well, I might be a little psychic, I mean not as much as I think Jenny's going to be, but things seem to come to me sometimes, and I don't really know how or why. Maybe it's just intuition, and maybe some people just have more of it than others, like with intelligence. Or maybe it's something else; maybe that's what being a witch is all about. I don't know. I'm right about you though. I'm sure of it; like I'm sure you and I are going to wind up getting married, so you'd best get used to the idea.

And as a matter of fact he already had.

3

At the very time this wondrous conversation was unfolding, the widow Klaussen herself was preparing for her late afternoon, before-dinner bath and thinking of how good it was to be herself, the widow Klaussen. Well, after all, it was.

Vera, as she was known only to her closest friends, had married Elmer T. Klaussen Jr. two years after graduating from high school many years before; she did not like to dwell on how many, but she was perhaps approaching, or maybe even upon sixty by the afternoon we now review. For her this was not a union of passion, though certainly of choice. Vera Kleinsaucer would not be voted prettiest in her class, nor even a distant second, third, or fourth. She was not ugly, mind you, but pretty was not the word to describe her visual virtues. Perhaps better put, she possessed a kind of equine handsomeness, a manly sort of woman you would rather ride than pet.

The boys of passion for her were far removed from her vicinity, preferring the cheerleaders and majorettes so popular in every age. This did not prevent Vera from maintaining an overly active, romantic imagination, in fact probably contributed to it, but it did limit the possibilities in terms of actualizing her dreams. Fortunately for her, she was as realistic about, as she was resigned to her fate. She would be a force in a more fitting way, a more lasting and significant way than the ephemeral, fragile, and fleeting charms of youthful attractiveness would allow. Her choice in this regard, though somewhat disheartening in some respects, was certain. Elmer T. Klaussen was the proper man for her.

Elmer T. would rather ride than pet any day, particularly if the mount involved one Vera Kleinsaucer. Elmer was a good head shorter than her, but what he lacked in height, he more than made up in girth, bulk, and lust. No, surely not the man of her dreams, but young Elmer had one enviable attribute that carried the day in this particular matrimonial selection.

Elmer T. Jr.'s father, that's right, Elmer T. Sr. just happened to own the only gypsum mine in all of Kern County. Elmer Sr.'s father had been swindled into owning this legendary piece of property by a land agent swirling through the Midwestern dust bowls of Oklahoma and Kansas, promising farmers deeds to supposedly lush farmland in California for a veritable pittance of what it’s worth, and the likes of Grandpa Klaussen could not resist this secular salvation, even though any fool should have been able to figure out that land agents are not generally into acts of kindness and generosity.

So Gramps and the clan came west to find that they had title to a glob of alkaline, desert wasteland, like a bunch of other desperate fools, out by a dry place on the earth called Devil's Den. The other fools either committed suicide on the spot or moved on to more likely places if they could, while Granpa-to-be took another, though despairing look around.

The western end of his designated land merged into a large hill that in turn had a larger hill behind it, one side of which was a bluff, eroded from top to bottom, that for some reason was more white than dirty brown. It turned out that both hills were his too, including all mining rights, and the white stuff was pure, unadulterated gypsum.

Now almost the whole of Kern County is farmland that has been reclaimed from sage-brush, alkaline desert. The reclaiming part starts by clearing and plowing the land. That just takes you and the boys and maybe a mule or two. Of course, you have to irrigate it, but in those days the underground water level in the San Joaquin Valley was little lower than a common grave. Again, just you and the boys and you don't even need the bloody mule. As to the alkali, well, a nice leaching with gypsum is just what the good Lord appointed for that task; hallelujah, praise the Lord! And that's just what the Klaussen's would do for generations to come.

Not only was Elmer Jr. primary heir to that glorious, white mound, he also had a definite primal lusting for Vera Kleinsaucer. I think it may have had something to do with his unfortunate lack of height and her generous portion of it. He was always the shortest boy in his class yearning to be the tallest, and since he couldn't be that, he would settle for nothing less than having the tallest girl. No female in Masonville even came close to young Vera’s height at any age along the way.

For Elmer, for Vera to first say yes and later I do was pure joy. For Vera, it was pure contrivance. After high school they both attended Bakersfield College for two years; after all, it did seem appropriate that future civic leaders like themselves should be at least nominally well-educated, and two years of college in that time and place was quite impressive to the masses. During those two years it should be noted that Vera, ever grateful for her size and strength, held the ever eager Elmer at proper bay; well, perhaps a proper hand job now and then both to temporarily lessen his urge and at the same time reassure the promise of pleasures to come, but nothing more to be sure. Vera would tower over him at the altar in pure and pious virgin white.

And where is Elmer now? Underground about six inches lower than his height, alack, alas. What was the cause? It's hard to say. Not ten years after the marriage, he was hale and hearty one day and, poof! like that, gone the next. Perhaps it was his heart; he ate too much and smoked a lot, but then he wasn't alone in that. Perhaps it was something else. Vera would not hear of an autopsy.

What? Cut up my poor, beloved Elmer? Never!

No one could ever say that Vera did not enjoy being the widow Klaussen. She had no children, nor to anyone's knowledge did she ever consider remarrying. She was and continued to be a pillar of Masonville society, bastion of morality, beacon of light to unfortunate unbelievers, marginally charitable to those less fortunate in the community, scourge against perversity and perversion, a virtual army of one against little or big foxes that might in any way seek to spoil her vine. Did I say her vine? She did tend to possess what she controlled, and she did control a goodly portion of Masonville by virtue of owning it.

As I said, we find her just now sliding luxuriously into her bath, all