David Sedaris - Naked

Copyright 1997 by David Sedaris

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without permission in writing from the publisher, except by a reviewer who may quote brief passages in a review.

Back Bay Books

Hachette Book Group

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www.twitter.com/littlebrown

First eBook Edition: May 2009

Authors note: The events described in these stories are real. Other than the family members, the characters have fictitious names and identifying characteristics.

ISBN: 978-0-316-07362-2

BY THE SAME AUTHOR

Holidays on Ice

Barrel Fever

For my sister Lisa

Im thinking of asking the servants to wax my change before placing it in the Chinese tank I keep on my dresser. Its important to have clean money not new, but well maintained. Thats one of the tenets of my church. Its not mine personally, but the one I attend with my family: the Cathedral of the Sparkling Nature. Its that immense Gothic building with the towers and bells and statues of common people poised to leap from the spires. They offer tours and theres an open house the first Sunday of every October. You should come! Just dont bring your camera, because the flash tends to spook the horses, which is a terrible threat to me and my parents, seeing as the reverend insists that we occupy the first pew. He rang us up not long ago, tipsy hes a tippler saying that our faces brought him closer to God. And its true, were terribly good-looking people. Theyre using my mothers profile on the new monorail token, and as for my father and me, the people at NASA want to design a lunar module based on the shape of our skulls. Our cheekbones are aeronautic and the clefts of our chins can hold up to three dozen BBs at a time. When asked, most people say that my greatest asset is my skin, which glows it really does! I have to tie a sock over my eyes in order to fall asleep at night. Others like my eyes or my perfect, gleaming teeth, my thick head of hair or my imposing stature, but if you want my opinion, I think my most outstanding feature is my ability to accept a compliment.

Because we are so smart, my parents and I are able to see through people as if they were made of hard, clear plastic. We know what they look like naked and can see the desperate inner workings of their hearts, souls, and intestines. Someone might say, Hows it hangin, big guy, and I can smell his envy, his fumbling desire to win my good graces with a casual and inappropriate folksiness that turns my stomach with pity. Hows it hanging, indeed. They know nothing about me and my way of life; and the world, you see, is filled with people like this.

Take, for example, the reverend, with his trembling hands and waxy jacket of skin. Hes no more complex than one of those five-piece wooden puzzles given to idiots and school-children. He wants us to sit in the front row so we wont be a distraction to the other parishioners, who are always turning in their pews, craning their necks to admire our physical and spiritual beauty. Theyre enchanted by our breeding and want to see firsthand how were coping with our tragedy. Everywhere we go, my parents and I are the center of attention. Its them! Look, theres the son! Touch him, grab for his tie, a lock of his hair, anything!

The reverend hoped that by delivering his sermon on horseback, he might regain a bit of attention for himself, but even with the lariat and his team of prancing Clydesdales, his plan has failed to work. At least with us seated in the front row, the congregation is finally facing forward, which is a step in the right direction. If it helps bring people closer to God, wed be willing to perch on the pipe organ or lash ourselves to the original stainless-steel cross that hangs above the altar. Wed do just about anything because, despite our recent hardships, our first duty is to help others. The Inner City Picnic Fund, our Annual Headache Drive, the Polo Injury Wing at the local Memorial Hospital: we give unspeakable amounts to charity, but youll never hear us talk about it. We give anonymously because the sackfuls of thank-you letters break our hearts with their clumsy handwriting and hopeless phonetic spelling. Word gets out that were generous and good-looking, and before you know it our front gate will become a campsite for fashion editors and crippled children, who tend to ruin the grass with the pointy shanks of their crutches. No, we do what we can but with as little fanfare as possible. You wont find us waving from floats or marching alongside the Grand Pooh-bah, because that would only draw attention to ourselves. Oh, you see the hangers-on doing that sort of thing all the time, but its cheap and foolish and one day theyll face the consequences of their folly. Theyre hungry for something they know nothing about, but we, we know all too well that the price of fame is the loss of privacy. Public displays of happiness only encourage the many kidnappers who prowl the leafy estates of our better neighborhoods.

When my sisters were taken, my father crumpled the ransom note and tossed it into the eternal flame that burns beside the mummified Pilgrim we keep in the dining hall of our summer home in Olfactory. We dont negotiate with criminals, because its not in our character. Every now and then we think about my sisters and hope theyre doing well, but we dont dwell upon the matter, as that only allows the kidnappers to win. My sisters are gone for the time being but, who knows, maybe theyll return someday, perhaps when theyre older and have families of their own. In the meantime, I am left as the only child and heir to my parents substantial fortune. Is it lonely? Sometimes. Ive still got my mother and father and, of course, the servants, several of whom are extraordinarily clever despite their crooked teeth and lack of breeding. Why, just the other day I was in the stable with Duncan when

Oh, for Gods sake, my mother said, tossing her wooden spoon into a cauldron of chipped-beef gravy. Leave that goddamned cat alone before I claw you myself. Its bad enough youve got her tarted up like some two-dollar whore. Take that costume off her and turn her loose before she runs away just like the last one.

Adjusting my glasses with my one free hand, I reminded her that the last cat had been hit by a car.

She did it on purpose, my mother said. It was her only way out, and you drove her to it with your bullshit about eating prime rib with the Kennedys or whatever the hell it was you were yammering on about that day. Go on now, and let her loose. Then I want you to run out to the backyard and call your sisters out of that ditch. Find your father while youre at it. If hes not underneath his car, hes probably working on the septic tank. Tell them to get their asses to the table, or theyll be eating my goddamned fist for dinner.

It wasnt that we were poor. According to my parents, we were far from it, just not far enough from it to meet my needs. I wanted a home with a moat rather than a fence. In order to get a decent nights sleep, I needed an airport named in our honor.

Youre a snob, my mother would say. Thats your problem in a hard little nutshell. I grew up around people like you, and you know what? I couldnt stand them. Nobody could.

No matter what we had the house, the cars, the vacations it was never enough. Somewhere along the line a terrible mistake had been made. The life Id been offered was completely unacceptable, but I never gave up hope that my real family might arrive at any moment, pressing the doorbell with their white-gloved fingers. Oh, Lord Chisselchin, theyd cry, tossing their top hats in celebration, thank God weve finally found you.