There was no promise in the billing outside that admission would buy you a glimpse of Miss Rand or her famous fans or bubble. But twice a week, Sally did visit the rodeo-themed girlie show that bore her name, signing autographs and consoling those exiting gentleman who’d mistakenly believed that the word nude actually meant nude.

With a smile of apology for the lurid spiel of the Nude Ranch’s carnival barker, Nancy led me past a kiosk where a brunette who might herself have been one of the cowgirls was selling tickets. “Hi, Miss Carmack,” she said to Nancy, “how are you today?” I savored that Nancy was no longer Mrs. Parminter, her second married name. Small victories.

Nancy led me through a door behind the ticket booth marked PRIVATE. The dark, hot corridor beyond it had the pleasing amusement-park smell of timber that has sat all summer in the sun. One bare overhead lightbulb offered just enough assistance to guide us past a doorman who was sitting guard by the wings of the stage. We were careful not to wake him from his vigil. We passed a makeshift changing area where dressing tables and wardrobe racks were walled in by sheets hanging from a suspended clothesline. A sheet of paper held in place by a clothespin said: DRESSING ROOM— NO VISITORS.

“Are you sure it’s all right for me to be here?” I asked Nancy. “I mean, isn’t it private?”

She laughed richly at my concern. “Don’t be foolish—they wear more offstage than they do when they’re on.”

We came to a door marked MANAGEMENT. “Just wait here a minute while I see if Sally’s busy,” said Nancy. She knocked on the door, then entered, leaving me alone for the moment.

A woman emerged from the changing area and asked if I had a light. I searched my pockets, knowing I probably didn’t. She was dressed from the waist up in nothing more than a long western kerchief hanging loose around her neck, which covered some but never all of her bosom. She also wore a fringed apron made from fake buckskin, like the abbreviated front of a very short cowgirl skirt. A small holster containing a toy gun was stitched on the apron’s waist just below her navel. She may have had on some sort of G-string, but if so, it was completely obscured by her graciously ample derriere. End of wardrobe.

I apologetically informed her I was matchless. She chose not to challenge my assertion and was about to say something interesting when the door to Sally’s office opened. Nancy waved me in, rolling her eyes at the tableau of me standing there with a half-naked woman at my side. “Boy, I can’t leave you alone for thirty seconds. Get in here.”