Naked

by David Sedaris

  I collected my bags and entered a low, clapboard building where five fully dressed senior citizens sat hugging themselves against the cold and watching the local news on a color television set bolted to a high shelf. On the screen a weatherman pointed to a map studded with frowning suns, his arm positioned as though he were drawing a heavy curtain. The inhabitants of the room leaned forward in their chairs, biting the ridges of their clenched fists and groaning when confronted with the words cold front. They booed the weatherman. They cursed him and then they pounded on the tabletops, much like prisoners unhappy with their food. The room was filled with the rhythmic thuds of protest when I set down my suitcase and approached the front desk.

  “He did this!” An elderly man pointed his crooked finger in my direction. “Brought this nastiness with him down from the lakes!”

  “You from the lakes?” the woman behind the counter asked. The corners of her mouth hung so low, they grazed the line of her jaw. She narrowed her eyes upon my suitcase as if expecting it might bluster across the floor, packed as it was with storm clouds and unseasonable winds.

  “I don’t know anything about any lakes.” There was a rising panic in my voice. “It was hot and sunny when I left New York this morning, really, it was. It turned cold around Scranton, but I didn’t even get off the bus. It’s the truth, you can ask the driver.” It was ridiculous to stand before a group of strangers denying my responsibility for the weather, but surrounded by their stern accusatory faces, the charges seemed frighteningly plausible.

  “Well, it’s supposed to clear by tomorrow afternoon, but if it doesn’t, I’ll know where to find you.” The woman pointed out the window. “It’s that trailer there with the orange trim. Front bedroom, that’s what I’ve got you down for.”

  “You mean the one with the rust-colored band?”

  “You call it rust, I say it’s orange, but you get the idea. It’s the one with the picnic table in the front yard. Can we agree that that is, in fact, a picnic table?”

  Without meaning to, I seemed to have offended her.

  “I painted that trim myself and the can distinctly identified it as ‘burnt orange.’ If it had said ‘rust’, I never would have bought it. It only looks rusty under those clouds you brought. Sunny day comes, you’ll see that color for what it is. I’m sorry I can’t rush out there and repaint it to suit your needs, but I’ve got other things to do, other duties.”

  I asked where I might find the key to my trailer and heard a round of muffled laughter coming from the far corners of the room.

  “Key!” She acted as though I had requested a prayer rug or a life-sized statue of Buddha. “We don’t believe in locked doors, not here we don’t. Maybe where you come from, people barricade themselves behind closed doors, but here we have no reason.” She placed her elbows upon the counter-top and framed her face between her fists. “We don’t lock our doors because, unlike certain other people, we have nothing to hide.”

  The clubhouse was furnished with tables and chairs. Beside the front desk was a small kitchen, its serving window framed with packages of freeze-dried beef and bags of potato chips. There was a grill, a deep fryer, and a menu board offering possible choices for breakfast and lunch. This was clearly the snack bar, but where was the restaurant?

  “Snack bar by day, restaurant at night,” the woman said. “But only on Saturdays, when nothing else is planned.”

  Why hadn’t they told me this earlier? I’d been led to believe the restaurant was open every night. All I’d brought with me was a salami and a box of crackers. What was I supposed to do, with no car?

  “I can fry you up a hamburger if you want, but you’ll have to make up your mind. Snack bar closes at one P.M. on week-days unless it’s good weather or a holiday, then we’re open until three-thirty. There’s a little restaurant on the road into town, but they close at three.” She studied her watch for a moment. “If you start now, you can probably make it before they close, but you really should have brought a car. A person needs a car for this kind of lifestyle. You need a car and plenty of towels.”

  My only choice was to take a taxi into town and buy myself a week’s worth of groceries. Where might I find a pay phone?

  “It’s out on the deck.” The woman waited until I reached the screen door to add, “But it doesn’t work. Storm knocked it out last Thursday and hasn’t nobody come to fix it yet. We have a devil of a time getting repairmen out here. I guess our money’s not good enough for them. Most things we just patch up ourselves, but not that phone. Tricky thing, a pay phone. I can let you use my phone, but you’ll have to make it quick, I’m expecting a call.”

  The taxi driver said he could pick me up in an hour, and I wondered what he might charge to drive me all the way back home. This wasn’t what I had in mind at all. No key, no restaurant, just a handful of cranks moaning about the weather.

  I walked up the gravel lane to my trailer, which had been sprayed with so much insecticide that it curled the hair in my nose. Raisin-sized flies lay gasping on the countertops, their upturned legs signing the words “Get out of here, quick, while you still have a chance.” I set down my suitcase and fled, trotting past the clubhouse to the soggy volleyball court. The same pool I had seen in the brochure was now covered by a tarp, as was the hot tub. Even the flag was at half mast.

  My trailer’s main room is paneled with artificial walnut planks, and the low, fiberglass tiled ceiling is stained with water marks. A linoleum floor separates the kitchen area from the carpeted living room, which is furnished with a worn gold velvet sofa and two matching easy chairs that face a low table bearing the scuff marks of a now absent television set. Two of the walls are lined with windows, and the other supports a large, ornamental carpet picturing a family of polar bears occupying an ice floe. My bedroom, like that of my potential roommate’s, is cell-like in both its size and simplicity, furnished with only a bed and a small chest of drawers that easily accommodates the little I brought with me.

  By the time I’d unpacked and put away my groceries, it was early evening and the rain had stopped. After staring at the spot where the television used to be, I took a walk past the clubhouse and up into the park’s more established neighborhoods. These were mobile homes that had been soundly grounded upon carefully manicured lots, many with built-on decks made of pine and redwood. Some of the trailers had been sided to resemble log cabins, and others were fronted by shingled, A-framed entrance halls. The homeowners’ names were displayed on wooden plaques along with slogans such as “Bare with us” or “Smile if you talk naked!” Flowerbeds were marked with wooden cutouts of bare-bottomed pint-size children and silhouettes of shapely, naked women were painted onto the doors of tool sheds and nailed like FOR SALE signs onto the trees. Most everyone seemed to have a golf cart parked in the driveway, and these, too, were personalized with bumper stickers and hand-painted slogans. I passed a sign reading SHEEP CROSSING 20 FEET and came across a trailer whose lawn played host to a flock of artificial sheep tended to by an oversized, bonneted doll equipped with a crooked staff. Time had not been kind to the shepherdess, nor to her charges, whose waterlogged wool was stained with the evidence of a long and unforgiving winter. Farther along the road these homes gave way to tents and campers equipped with pop-up roofs and jury-rigged awnings made of plastic and fronted by mosquito netting. The lack of space had forced both the kitchens and bathrooms outdoors, and the yards were home to outhouses and picnic tables surrounded by coolers and grills that sat positioned beneath festive paper lanterns. A trailer door opened and a young woman stepped out, leading a child who beat upon her legs with a wooden spoon. The woman was topless, and her breasts hung like two kneesocks, each stuffed with a single orange. I knew when I signed up that I would encounter exposed breasts, but this being my first pair, I reacted with alarm. She wore her hair in a neglected shag and scolded the child for a moment or two before gathering him up in her arms and burying her sharp-featured face in his stomach. Topless. She was topless, walking the st
reets of what amounted to her neighborhood. The boy howled with pleasure and then rapped her over the head with his spoon.

  “He’s at that age,” the woman said, and I nodded in agreement, pretending to recall the first time I had tweaked my mother’s nipple while standing in the front yard of our trailer. I looked into her face, trying my hardest not to stare at her breasts. “Well, all right,” I said, “OK then.”

  On the way back to my trailer, I caught sight of various nudists through lit windows, washing dishes and enjoying a quiet evening at home. Curtains wide open, doors unlocked, and there they were with their legs spread apart, chuckling along with the situation comedies. A car came up the lane in my direction, driven by a shirtless man smoking a pipe. As he passed I glanced down into the front seat and saw that he was naked. He raised his pipe in salute and proceeded down the road. Where, I wondered, was he going? Was he driving in circles in order to blow off steam? Or did he plan to leave the grounds and take to the highway?

  It took a few drinks before, drawing the curtains of my double-wide, I was able to remove my shirt and shoes. The table was littered with beer cans by the time I finally stepped out of my briefs and started to prepare my dinner, trying hard to convince myself that it’s natural to broil pork chops in the nude. As they sizzled away, I pretended that my room-mate had just arrived. “You’re just in time,” I said, taking two plates from the overhead cabinet. “Have a seat, dinner will be ready in a couple of minutes. Say, don’t mind those beer cans, I pulled them out of the neighbor’s trash thinking I’d carry them down to the recycling bin the next time I head into town. Never touch the stuff myself, but then again, that’s just me, ‘the health nut.’ Let me give you a quick look around.” I was showing my invisible guest the back bedroom when the smoke alarm went off. The searing, high-pitched squeal sent me into a panic, and before I had time to think about it, I was standing with the door open, brandishing a dishcloth in an attempt to clear the air. Naked. I was drunk and naked for all the world to see. It was a sobering thought that continued to haunt me as I sat down to my blackened dinner.

  It’s begun to thunder and rain is beating down upon the metal roof of my trailer. Ten o’clock and, from what I can see, everyone’s lights are out for the evening. I’ve been reading over the list of rules handed me this afternoon by the matron behind the front desk.

  Conduct — We are a family park and expect your conduct to reflect the moral standards of a family campground.

  Towels — Carry a towel with you at all times and please SIT ON YOUR TOWEL FOR SANITARY REASONS.”

  Towels. It suddenly made sense. Noticing the wide range of short curly hairs beside me on the sofa, I leaped up and fetched a towel that, from this moment on, would never leave my underside.

  Photography — Cameras and camcorders are permitted only by special permission of the management. ANY PHOTOGRAPHY EQUIPMENT NOT APPROVED BY THE MANAGEMENT WILL BE TAKEN FROM YOU. Prior written permission MUST BE OBTAINED from any person being photographed.

  Pets — No pets are allowed in common sunning areas. They should be under your control at all times. You must clean up after your pet and dispose of all feces.

  Alcohol — Alcoholic beverages may be consumed only in moderation. Intoxication will not be permitted on the grounds.

  Pool Etiquette — Take a SOAP SHOWER before entering the pool or hot tub. NON-POTTY-TRAINED CHILDREN ARE NOT ALLOWED INTO EITHER THE POOL OR THE HOT TUB.

  Dress — We dress or undress for comfort. When using our recreational facilities, YOU MUST BE NUDE. INTIMATE APPAREL, BATHING SUITS, AND INTIMATE BODY JEWELRY ARE INAPPROPRIATE ON OUR GROUNDS. YOU MUST BE NUDE IN THE POOL, HOT TUB, AND SHOWER.”

  What, I wonder, is intimate apparel and body jewelry? Doesn’t the word lose meaning when everyone is nude?

  I know it’s probably against the rules, but I can’t shake the hint of sexual excitement I’m feeling. It’s not an erection, just a tingling sensation in the tip of my penis. Outside of the bathtub or an occasional doctor’s visit, the only time I’m naked is when I’ve talked someone into having sex with me. Sitting here with nothing on, I keep expecting some guy to walk out of the bathroom saying, “So what are you planning to do with the prize money?” It feels silly to wander about my trailer this way, and I realize that it has long been my habit to stretch my T-shirt over my knees while sitting alone at a table. I’m also used to pulling my pants above my navel and tightening my belt to diminish my gut. Jangling the keys in my pocket, thoughtlessly gnawing at the collars of my shirts: these things are lost to me now. It feels dangerous to drink a cup of hot coffee, and twice in the last hour I’ve hopped up to brush glowing cigarette ash off what I once considered to be my private parts.

  I awoke this morning to a fog so thick, I couldn’t see the picnic table in my front yard. From the sky to the ground, everything was the exact same shade of gray. It wasn’t until early evening that the weather finally cleared. At six o’clock I looked out my window to see a naked couple strutting across the grounds with a pair of tennis rackets in their hands. The man wore his hair long in the back and carried himself as though he were dressed in a fine suit, his stride confident and purposeful, while the woman trotted along behind him wearing a sun visor, kneesocks, and sneakers. These were the first active, out-of-door nudists I had seen, and I threw on my clothes and followed them to the pavilion, where I pulled a book from my pocket and pretended to read. The man had an ample stomach and a broad, dimpled ass that jiggled and swayed as he leaped about the court, attempting to return his partner’s serves. They played for no more than five minutes before he placed his hands on his knees, released a mouthful of bile onto the grass, and called it quits. They left the court and I followed them into the clubhouse, where the man stepped into the bathroom, returning ten minutes later with a bright red ring around his ass. Here, I thought, was a real nudist. There was a tuft of toilet paper, just slight, clinging to his bottom, and when the woman pointed it out to him, he ran his hand along his crack and casually shrugged, as though it were no more significant than a dab of mayonnaise on his lip.

  I tried to start my day naked but made it no farther than my picnic table before returning to my trailer and throwing on a T-shirt that covered me to midthigh. Walking out past the pavilion, I came upon a group of elderly men and women gathered around a gravel court. It was midmorning, and I got the idea that something important was about to begin. A woman stooped to rake the stones. She wore a short-sleeved shirt but no skirt or pants, and her ass was a landscape of pocks and wrinkles, the blue veins crossing her thighs like a topographical map of creeks and rivers. Seated on a nearby bench were two other women, each dressed in T-shirts. One wore a visor, while the other favored the type of bonnet I associate with the milkmaids of old. This was a broad-brimmed, ruffled contraption tied in a bow beneath the lowest of her several chins. “Howdy,” she said. “Hey, look, everybody, we’ve got ourselves some new blood!”

  “Aah, a fresh face, that’s just what we need to keep the game interesting.” The speaker was a deeply tanned gentleman, naked except for a golf hat upon which he’d pinned the key to the equipment locker. “Have you ever played pétanque before?” He placed his hand on my shoulder and led me to the court. “It’s the French cousin to the Italian game of bocci. Stan Friendly and his wife used to play it down in Florida, and when they brought it up north, we all said, ‘What the heck kind of game is that?’ We were all playing volleyball and thought these pétanque players were a pair of cuckoo birds, didn’t we, Frank?”

  “We thought they were a couple of loons,” Frank said. Scratching his mosquito-bitten buttocks, he joined us on the court. “Now we say, ‘To hell with volleyball,’ and we’re playing pétanque three times a day. It’s a great game, you’ll see. Hey!” he shouted. “Somebody give our friend here a pair of balls. We’ve got ourselves a new player.”

  It was curious to see the various states of undress and the way clothing was shed over the course of the game. Like me, Jacki and Ca
rol had arrived wearing T-shirts, while Bill, Frank, and Celeste wore nothing but hats. Phil and Millie drove up in sweatsuits, which they immediately discarded and placed in a heap on the picnic table. A man named Carl wore a shirt and vest, which, coupled with his black socks and sensible street shoes, suggested he was just passing time while his pants and underwear tumbled in the dryer.

  Bill, the man with the golf hat, had a long scar running from the center of his back to his right underarm. The wound was once level with his skin, but now the tight, slick scar tissue resembled a narrow road surrounded on either side by barren, amber hills. Frank’s body, on the other hand, was a regular ATM machine, with surgeons making routine withdrawals from his back, chest, and stomach. He tossed a small wooden ball onto the court, explaining that this was to be our target, and then handed me what appeared to be a croquet ball made out of metal that looked like something a person might fire from a cannon. Taking another for himself, he mounted a flat concrete slab at the edge of the court, closing one eye and holding the thing much like Hamlet reflecting on the skull of his deceased jester. Because he was naked, his stance seemed strangely heroic, as if he were posing for a statue used to commemorate the geriatric wing of a hospital devoted to sports medicine. Then, without warning, he reared back, swung his arms a few times for practice, and released the ball, which sailed through the air, landing with a thud two inches from the target.

  “Now you give it a try, Dave.” My ball missed the mark by a good six feet.

  “Good throw!” Frank said. “Say, Bill, did you see that? Looks like we’ve got a natural on our hands. Try it again, young fella.”

  My second ball missed the court entirely and landed in the damp grass. It was clearly bad, as was my next shot, and the one after that. Yet, each attempt garnered the same response: “Good throw!” Either their eyes were clouded with cataracts or these were indeed the best sports I had ever met.