She shrugged, mystified. “I don’t know where the damn things come from. Got ourselves a bunch of horny cats, I guess. Duke here drove one of the mothers out into the country and booted her out once he came to a nice-looking farm-house. Thirty miles he took her, but one week later the little bitch was back shredding up the furniture as if nothing had ever happened. What can you do?”
A blackened mushroom dropped from my hostess’s mouth and settled onto her breast.
There was with Roberta, and with everyone else I’d met, something larger and more definitive than her nudity. People were stamp collectors and gardeners, ham radio operators, registered nurses, and big-time pet owners. It was no different than anywhere else, except that while describing their passions, these people just happened to be naked. They lived in cans rather than houses and considered themselves fortunate when a warm, sunny day allowed them to leave their homes and walk among people who shared at least one of their interests. It’s not too much to ask for, and if they’ve accidentally dropped some cat litter into the omelette, then so be it.
Nudism didn’t cause me to love my body, it simply allowed me to accept my position in what is clearly the scheme of things. Take a seat beside an eighty-year-old man and you can see the sagging, age-spotted body that awaits you. Rather than inciting panic, this truth seems to have a calming effect. Marching toward the clubhouse with a multitude of naked strangers, I felt the proceedings should be narrated by one of those hushed, scholarly voices commonly used for television nature programs.
I’d planned to take a cab to the bus station but was offered a ride by Jacki and Millie. This was the first time in a week that I had to get dressed. Clothing was no longer optional. Now it was mandatory, and I found myself resenting it. Turn your back on a pair of pants and things can get nasty. We rode into town, each of us tugging at our clothing. Jacki had a bumper sticker on her car that read, “Nudist on board!” and I noticed other motorists follow closely before pulling up beside us, their faces registering profound disappointment. Had we been naked, they probably would have vomited blood. It is ironic that nudists are just about the last people you’d ever want to see naked.
During the ride into town Millie reflected upon the up-coming sunbathers’ convention set to take place next week in Massachusetts. “That’s where I married Phil,” she said, referring to her second husband. “My four sons gave me away, just as nude and beautiful as they could be. They used to be so much fun, my children. We’d go to all kinds of nude parks and beaches, but then they got older and married clothes-minded girls who won’t have anything to do with my way of life.” She shook her head and scowled at the passing landscape. “Why did they have to go and marry girls like that? You try to raise them right and look what happens.”
This was the lament of any parent. You try to raise your children right, and look what happens. Jacki had the same problem: the children she had raised naked now spent all their money on clothes. They’d never even seen her new trailer. How had it happened? When had they decided it was wrong to see their mother naked, standing beside the sink or kneeling to wipe out the inside of a garbage can? Was it a specific event that had set them off?
“Beats me,” Millie said. “Maybe I’ll ask them that question the next time they call asking for money.”
The women dropped me off at the bus station with twenty minutes to spare, and I raced up and down the street, passing college students in baggy, knee-length shorts and bank tellers wearing navy blue suits. For the first time in what felt like years, I saw stockings and handbags. Bodies, fat and thin, were packed into slacks and pleated skirts. Every outfit resembled a costume designed to reveal the aspirations of the wearer. The young man on the curb would like to make the first Olympic skateboarding team. The girl in the plastic skirt longs to live in a larger town. I found myself looking at these people and thinking, I know what you look like naked. I can tell by your ankles and the tightness of your belt. The flush of your face, the hair sprouting from your collar, the way your shirts hang off those bony hips: you can’t hide it from me.
It was as though I’d received the true version of the X-ray specs I’d ordered as a child. The glasses were advertised in the back pages of comic books and promised the ability to see through clothing. I’d counted the days until they arrived and was clinically disappointed to discover that I’d been cheated. These were black plastic frames supporting cardboard lenses. The eyeballs were rendered to appear bloodshot, and the pupils were tiny peepholes backed by plain red acetate. The glasses, when worn, gave me the look of someone both enthused and exhausted by what he saw. They suggested the manic weariness inherent in their promise, capturing the moment when the sheen wears off and your newfound gift becomes something more clearly resembling a burden.
David Sedaris, Naked
(Series: # )
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