I was driving down Fairmount Avenue, rocking out to my '80s Norwegian prog-metal mix tape, when I it occurred to me that I was naked. Whether I wandered out of my apartment and into the car in this state or if my clothes had spontaneously vanished after getting in the car, I'll never know, but there I was, in my Beetle, wearing only the skin God gave me. A crowed gathered while I was stopped at an intersection, so I reached into the back seat for something--anything--to cover my pasty white shame. All I found was a SpongeBob Square Pants beach towel. It would have to suffice. I wrapped it around my size 12 frame, feeling the rosy embarrassment in my cheeks cool down. Once the crowd had thinned out, a punk couple sitting on the front porch step of a lavender four-square bungalow caught my eye. They were waving at me like they were stranded on a desert island and I was the only person who could bring them back to civilization. Not far down the porch from them was a not-so-punk brunette in a plum business suit and a scraggly guy with a head full of wavy, inky black hair and paper-white skin in a Europe t-shirt and skinny jeans. I parked by the curb and stepped out, clutching the SpongeBob beach towel tightly around my body. The not-so-punk brunette waved me over, while the punk rock couple sucked on cigarettes, looking a little frazzled.

"Welcome!" the non-punk-rocker greeted. "Are you lost?"

"No," I said, "just confused. I'm not sure where my clothes went, or if I was even wearing any in the first place. And was one of y'all waving at me?"

"Do you know your name?" she asked.

I think she misunderstood; I was confused, not retarded.

"Vera," I said. "Vera Goude."

"Well, Vera, I'm Lisa Randall, and this," she pointed to the gentleman in the Europe t-shirt, "is Nick. Perhaps you and Nick have something in common?"

A love of Swedish glam metal?

"You need help," Lisa Randall answered. "Am I right?"

"I just need help finding my clothes," I said.

"I think yellow's your color," the unidentified female half of the punk couple said. Her hair was short, black and spiky, and thick, black kohl framed her silver-blue eyes. If I didn't know any better, I'd say the punk couple and Nick were having a contest to see who had the whitest skin. Not that I'm one to judge. My pallid complexion could give all of them a run for their money.

"See Nick here," Lisa said, disregarding everything I'd said, "Nick was wandering. Lost. Alone. But Ericka and Brian here--" She motioned to the punk couple "--are taking him in. It's part of my Homeless People Placement Program. It's new and still in development. Vera, are you homeless?"

What had I walked into? And why was I naked?

"Just say no and walk away," Ericka advised between cigarette drags.

"The woman's totally lost it."

"No," I said. "I live half a mile from here. In an apartment. I just need to go back there and find my clothes. But thank you." I wasn't sure what I was thanking her for. I started to walk away, but Lisa's hand wrapped around my arm and pulled me back towards the bungalow. I almost lost my grip on the SpongeBob towel.

"There's no reason to leave just yet," Lisa said. "Perhaps you'd like to be a Homeless People Placement Program host."

"My apartment's only got one bedroom."

"But you have a couch, right?"

"It's very uncomfortable," I said. "One of those Wal-Mart special futon contraptions."

"A sleeping bag?"

"No."

"Give it up, Lisa." That was Ericka again. Apparently, Brian was mute.

"Pack your crap and go back to the halfway home." She flicked ashes into an empty beer can. "Sorry Vera. My cousin Lisa thinks she's a social worker. And she thinks my brother Nick here is homeless because his entire wardrobe consists of '80s band shirts from Goodwill." Nick smiled meekly. I smiled back. His eyes were a lovely grass-green.

"'The Final Countdown' is one of my favorite songs," I said. A smile curled his shrimp pink lips. Now that he wasn't a random bum of unknown origin, he was cute in an adorable-slacker kind of way. "Wanna go for a drive?" I asked, breaking the awkward silence that had followed my proclamation of "The Final Countdown" being the greatest song known to humankind. "I have a Norwegian prog-metal mix tape in my stereo."

"Sure." He stepped off the front porch. "Maybe I can help you find your clothes," he offered.

I shrugged. I wasn't too concerned about finding them anymore.