“JaVale, could you please put some clothes on?” asked a visibly annoyed Wilson Chandler. “Ain’t nobody want to see that stuff.”
JaVale McGee made no move to clothe himself. “Some of us are comfortable with our bodies, Wilson. We all see each other naked in the shower, and as a man of maturity, it neither amuses nor disgusts me to see the nude male form.”
“Yeah, but this isn’t the shower. You’ve been walking around the locker room with your ass hanging out for the past twenty minutes. All the media guys are getting an extra-large helping of your little JaVale.”
“There is nothing wrong with a nudist lifestyle,” JaVale reiterated, sitting down at his locker with his endowments on full display. Above him was a hand-drawn sign reading, “JaVale’s Love Shack” in curly, Edwardian letters. Wrapping a vibrant red feather-boa around his neck, he took out his phone and perused the latest events of national and international import.
Wilson wasn’t done with their conversation. “And another thing. I know they pay you a lot, man, but why is your locker so…” Wilson paused, looking for the right word. “Fancy-lookin’?”
JaVale looked down at the lush purple carpeting, over at the red damask wallpaper, and up at the mini-chandelier. He smiled as a cantata composed by the genius Alessandro Scarlatti played in the background. “A lower-class man might look at these fineries and see nothing but condescension. What that man would fail to understand is that some men in this world have a true appreciation for luxury. Not just fast cars and loose women, but true luxury.”
“Whatever, dude. See you around,” Wilson said, shaking his head and leaving JaVale alone in the locker room. Not two minutes later, Kenneth Faried, still in his game jersey, came in from signing autographs.
“You didn’t have to wait, Java Bean,” Kenneth said, eying JaVale’s naked body up and down. “But I’m glad you did.”
JaVale stood up and walked sultrily towards his teammate. “We’re going to see if you live up to your nickname…Fa-Reak!”