By the time he got home, Walter was consumed with guilt. He felt flustered, exposed, and too embarrassed for words. He couldn’t believe what he had done, prancing around the lot in nothing more than a loincloth, crashing into the producer’s trailer offices. He had punched out Chris Carmichael! Then, after jumping through a window with Desiree, he had somehow whisked her off to a rooftop and kissed her! He was the very definition of the word “mortified.” To make matters worse, Walter had gotten dressed again, called in a friend to finish clearing out the warehouse, then slunk off the lot, taking Jungo’s loincloth with him. He could justify this, since Carmichael had made it clear that the props could be thrown into a dumpster.
He sat miserably in his empty apartment-without Shirley-and wondered how he could possibly make it up to Desiree. He didn’t much care about Chris Carmichael. The man was a cad, but Walter himself had stolen a kiss from Desiree, practically ravished her! Considering the power the loincloth had worked on him, he could easily have gotten carried away. In the process of saving Desiree, he had proved that he was no better than that jerk of a producer.
And Walter had just left her stranded there, on the roof of the movie set. No, no, that wasn’t Walter Groves. That wasn’t who he really was. Though he wanted nothing more than to crawl under a rock, he knew what he had to do for the sake of honor. He had to go find Desiree and beg her forgiveness.
For a long time he stood in the shower under a pounding stream of hot water, rehearsing what to say until he knew he couldn’t put it off any longer. Every moment he avoided her was another moment she could think terrible things about him. He dried his hair, dabbed on some aftershave, and put on his best dress slacks, a clean shirt, and a striped blue necktie. This was going to be a formal apology, and he wanted to look his best. Pulling on his nicest, though rarely worn, sport jacket, he rolled up Jungo’s loincloth and stuffed it into the pocket. Though it didn’t make any sense, he would try to tell Desiree what had happened, explain how the magic had changed him somehow into a wild man, someone he wouldn’t normally be.
After dialing information, then searching on the Internet, he tracked down a local street address for D. Drea. He knew it had to be her. Gathering his resolve, he marched out to go face her. He didn’t need the crutch of a loincloth or some imaginary witch doctor’s spells to give him courage to do the right thing. He would do this himself.
On the way to her apartment, he didn’t let himself think, forcing himself onward before the shame could make him turn back. He had to be like Michael Douglas in Romancing the Stone, not Rick Moranis in Little Shop of Horrors. Nothing should disrupt the apology. Leaving his cell phone in the car, he walked to the door of her apartment, raised his hand to knock, then hesitated. He wasn’t thinking clearly. He really should have brought flowers and a card. Why not go to a store now, buy them, and then come back?
He heard shouts coming from the other side of the door, followed by a scream-Desiree’s scream!
He froze in terror. What should he do? Desiree was in trouble. Maybe he should run back outside, get his cell phone and call 911. He could bring the police here, or, better yet, pound on her neighbors’ doors and find someone who was big and strong. She screamed again, and Walter knew there could be only one solution. He tried the knob, found the door unlocked, and barged in. He found Chris Carmichael already there, reeking of cheap cologne and bourbon.
“Leave me alone,” Desiree said. She held a lamp in one hand, brandishing it like a club.
Carmichael let out an evil chuckle. “Now that you no longer work for me, we can have any sort of relationship I want. There are no ethical problems.”
She raised the lamp higher. Walter stepped forward, outraged but quailing at the idea of a fight. When Desiree saw him, her eyes lit up.
Carmichael turned.
Walter blurted, “Hey, what-what’s going on here?” He wished he could hide or, at the very least, run back out of the apartment and return to do a second take of the scene. He needed to be a tough guy, like Dirty Harry in Sudden Impact-“Go ahead, make my day”-and the best he could come up with was a Don Knotts-worthy “Hey, what’s going on here?” He groaned.
Carmichael recognized him, and his eyes grew stormy. Ignoring Desiree for the moment, the larger man lurched toward Walter, grabbed him by the shirt, yanked his tie, and drew Walter closer to him. “You’re that little freak that sucker-punched me in my office, aren’t you? Where’s the spotted underwear?”
“I-I-I don’t need it.”
“You’ll need an ambulance is what you’ll need.”
Indiana Jones would have done something different. He would have punched the villain, starting an all-out brawl, but as Carmichael lifted him and twisted his tie, he could only make a small “meep” sound.
“You put him down,” Desiree cried, and Walter’s heart lurched. She was actually defending him!
Carmichael laughed again. “You can’t even save yourself. How do you expect to help this mouse?” He pushed Walter up against the wall, clenched his fist, and drew back his arm, as if cocking a shotgun.
Walter was sure his head would go straight through the drywall. “Wait. Wait, please.” He swallowed and drew a deep breath. “If you’re going to do this, let me face it like a man. I… I’d like to use the rest-room, please.”
Carmichael blinked, then gave him a knowing smile. “Oh, afraid you’re going to wet yourself, eh?” He let Walter slump to the floor. “Sure. Why not? Desiree and I were just enjoying an intimate conversation. We can wait.”
He glared at her, and she sat down on the sofa, not sure what to do. Walter scurried into the bathroom and closed the door, his mind spinning. Maybe Desiree kept a gun in the bathroom, perhaps taped behind the toilet tank, like in Godfather. But he found nothing there, and a quick search of the drawers and the medicine cabinet revealed no other weapons he could use to save the day.
He stuck his hands in his jacket pockets and his fingers brushed a patch of sleek fur. The loincloth. It was his only chance.
Walter burst out of the bathroom wearing nothing but the scrap of leopard-skin. Barefoot and barechested. His mind filled with the thoughts of a hunter. Testosterone and adrenaline pumped through his veins, and he let out a wild yell, pounding on his chest. His hair was a mess, his eyes on fire. Seeing his enemy, the producer, he lunged toward him like a hungry lion attacking a springbok. Walter felt total confidence and did not hesitate.
Chris Carmichael, who used his position of perceived power to intimidate people, faltered. When he saw Walter leap toward him, he suddenly reconsidered what he’d been about to do.
Walter let out another roar. His lungs seemed to have twice their normal capacity. “My woman!”
Carmichael had probably never been challenged before. A producer, even a bad producer of second-rate movies, could boss people around in Hollywood. But Walter the ape-man, wearing nothing but his loincloth in Desiree’s apartment, had no doubt that he himself was king of the jungle. Carmichael turned, took several steps in retreat, then paused. Through his hunter-focused gaze, Walter watched his prey, preparing to throw himself on the man if he made a move in the wrong direction.
Desiree decided for both men, though. As Carmichael started to turn back, she lifted her lamp, and smashed it on his head. He crumpled to the carpet like King Kong falling off the Empire State Building. The rush in Walter’s mind drained away, and he found himself standing naked in Desiree’s apartment, except for the ape-man’s loincloth. He shivered, and goose bumps appeared on his arms. “What did I do this time?” he said, looking down at the producer with dismay.