Randy Jimenez washed the suds off his body. The milky color clung to one of his chubes, or “chest pubes” to the layman.

He rubbed his furry pecks under the shower water but this chube shined on; glossy, untamed, headstrong as all goddamned hell. He dug his forefinger and thumb into his tangled web of wet chest pubes. It took him three tries, but he finally got a hold of the grey hair, and it popped right out. Clean as a whistle. With a rub of the fingers the evidence of age swept under the drain and into the sewer.

Thirty-one showers later Randy noticed grey chubes nestled up to each nip. He made quick work of them, snagging both chubes with one attempt each. The dismay of the greys was quickly offset by his plucking accuracy. It felt good to possess skills like that, and the ego boost transformed into an erection, which the ol’ rascal took full advantage of. The colossal privilege that is masturbating in a hot shower was lost on Randy that day, and so were three more pubes that fell out during the hoopla. One of the them clung to the tile, but not for long. Not with Randy at the helm. He filled his mouth with water and squirted the pube off in a tremendous display of accuracy and control. The whole double grey chube thing had turned into a smashing triumph.

Winter came and Randyland was steamrolled with work and social obligations. He didn’t have time to think in the shower, much less worry about the color of his pubes. So when spring came and he finally got some time to breathe, it came in the form of a discouraged sigh. All hell had broken loose on his brisket. The grey spread like beetles on pine and it was now equal parts salt and pepper on his sternum. Randy knew this would take some doing.

A long overdue lazy Sunday later, Randy stood in front of the mirror with a pair of tweezers and a dogged determination in his eyes.

For the next two hours he preened his chest pubes and plucked out the greys. Chube after chube after chube after chube twirled down to his toes like pubey snowflakes. Steadfast in his mission, he got in the shower and stood for another twenty minutes, taking care of the silver stragglers he’d missed on dry land. And then, finally, with one last yank, youth had returned to Randy Jimenez once more. Jubilant, spry, and virile again. Strong like bull, without a hint of over the hill on him. A rush of enthusiasm fled to his undercarriage, and well, you know Randy, the yanking resumed until the hot water ran out. As far as he was concerned, turning back the hands of time was worthy of a celebration.

But after that, Randy’s discipline fell off. He got too busy, he got too lazy. Keeping up with the chubes felt like pissing in a windy shower. Deep down he knew he couldn’t keep up with such an unrelenting force and he finally accepted it. No more pushing, no more pulling. He’d pluck a chube or two now and again, but it was mostly out of habit, sometimes nostalgia.

Decades passed and Randy stood hunched over in the shower. His milky gaze locked onto his body. It was covered in frost. Randy had been defeated. He reached his shaky, wrinkled, arthritic fingers into his snowy white chest sweater, and pinched onto the last brown hair of the bunch on the very first try. Randy smiled to himself. After all these years, he still had it.

He looked at the lone dark, handsome chube with a tear in his eye. “Where’d it all go?” he whispered to himself. Then he plucked the last sign of youth from his silver shag. As the last brown chube root exited his body, so did his last breath.

Investigators ruled it a suicide on the spot.

The last brown pube between the fingers was all they needed to see. It was an open and shut case, one the department had seen plenty of times before. Another naïve bastard falling behind on his chubes and then pulling the pin when he got in too deep. The lieutenant at the scene put the brown chube on ice and had it rushed to the hospital for an emergency transplant. The 12-hour surgery at St. Andrew’s Pube, Chube, & Spine wasn’t without its fair share of complications. But in the end Randy’s chube would last another 3 years on Davie Montoya, before ultimately fizzling out and wilting. But during that borrowed time, 88-year-old Mr. Montoya got to experience the happiest moment of his life: his granddaughter’s wedding.  

In an emotional toast at the reception, Davie didn’t forget his roots. “To my granddaughter who I love so much. And to your new husband, Antonio. I know you’re a good man, you’ve at least passed my bullshit detector. Pero, I hope you’re also the type of man… that’s willing to give your last chube for my hita,” the old man said pointing at the transplanted hair underneath his tux. “I hope you’re a man… like Randy Jimenez.” There wasn’t a dry eye in the room as Davie raised his glass up. Then with a smile, 73 guests followed his lead and honored the shortest, curliest, unlikeliest hero imaginable.

“Salud!”

CREDITS: MUSIC

Setuniman: “plucked 0Z42”

Bopping: “Electric cello_demo”

Jus: “cellos down down”

Zagi2: “fiddle and timpani loop”