Clothing Optional (3 page)

Letters from an Annoying Man

For the most part, writers are not famous. Even the most successful ones fail to turn heads or grace the covers of tabloids unless they happen to marry or do something terrible to somebody who
is
famous. No matter how expansive their body of work or how highly regarded their contribution to the culture, they are an anonymous bunch whose celebrity may, at best, be limited to name recognition or familiarity with something they've written. This is hardly a new phenomenon, as legend has it that even Shakespeare himself had trouble getting laid without a name tag and sixteenth-century photo ID.

Personally, I've come to accept my lot in public life. I learned early on that acknowledgment from strangers would have to come secondhand when my words are spoken by actors. If my words hold interest and receive laughs, the best I can hope for is that people will make a point of remembering who wrote them. And if I happen to be in the back of the theater shouting, “Hey, I wrote those words!” the chances of my being recognized are likely to increase accordingly. Shy of that, people tend to leave me alone. Except, that is, for a man named Kevin Traverson.

Dear Mr. Zweibel—

I just read your book,
The Other Shulman.
Could you please autograph this copy and send it back to me in the enclosed self-addressed stamped envelope?

Sincerely yours,
Kevin Traverson

Dear Mr. Traverson—

Thank you so much for your kind words about my book—which I am returning with the autograph you requested. I'm so pleased that you enjoy my work.

Your pal,
Alan Zweibel

Dear Mr. Zweibel—

While I appreciate your prompt response, I must say that I was terribly disappointed when the copy of your book arrived and I saw the inscription. Sure, I can understand how you'd think that “To Kevin, This book is really good” is a cute thing to write but, quite frankly, I didn't think that your book was really that good. In fact, I thought it was just okay. So I am returning that copy with the hope that you will send me another one that merely has your signature on the title page.

Thank you,
Kevin Traverson

Dear Mr. Traverson—

Sorry that it has taken me so long to get back to you, but I've been on a 31-city book tour promoting my novel (the one you think is just “okay” despite all the great reviews it's been getting) and have fallen behind on my correspondence. Enclosed is a personal copy of my book with a new autograph. I hope it's to your liking.

Sincerely,
Alan Zweibel

Mr. Zweibel—

Couldn't help but notice that you signed your last letter “sincerely” as opposed to “your pal.” How come? Because I didn't like your book? One would think you'd have a thicker skin by now, as I see that not all critics gave it the raves you referred to. I've enclosed a handful of those less than “great reviews” along with the book you sent me. I'm returning it to you because the copy I sent you was a first edition; the one you sent back was a second printing. Was this an oversight? Or a subtle way of telling me that your novel has actually sold enough copies
to have a
second printing despite what I think of it as well as the picture of you on the inside cover? I saw you on TV and couldn't help but notice that you've either aged dramatically since your book came out (are you sick?) or your publisher decided to print a picture of a young man who looks like he could eventually look like you.

Kevin Traverson

Kevin—

Enclosed please find an autographed copy of a first edition of my book. Funny thing—I almost sent you a signed copy from the third printing. It's a good thing I double-checked!!!!

Alan Zweibel

Mr. Zweibel—

I received the copy of your signed first edition and was relieved to see that you finally got it right.

And I guess congratulations are in order—I just read that
The Other Shulman
was nominated for the Thurber Prize for American Humor. I'm speechless. One can only conclude that this has been a slow year for the comic novel.

But I'm proud to say that I'm letting your good news inspire me. A few years ago I started writing my own novel but had to put it aside when my aging mother took sick. Eventually, she stopped aging and died. It was hard at first but I now feel ready to resume writing, and that's where you come in. Enclosed are the first 247 pages of my book. I think it's real good (I'm about a third of the way through the story) but really need a pair of fresh eyes to read it, give me detailed notes, and help me figure out how the remaining twenty-three chapters should go.

Thank you very much.

Sincerely,
Kevin

P.S. When you go through my manuscript, please pay particular attention to the character named Van Cliburn. I thought it was a great name since he works for a moving company (get it? Van? Moving van?) but I'm now wondering if people would get confused with the real Van Cliburn, who's a pianist. Do you think they will? Should I change the character's name? Or do you think it's okay because everyone knows that the real Van Cliburn is 73 years old and would never work for a moving company?

Dear Mr. Traverson—

Thank you for your kind words about the Thurber nomination. I consider it quite an honor to be in the company of the other nominees—all of whom are widely considered to be among the greatest comic minds of this generation.

And thank you for your confidence in thinking that I can be of help with your novel. As a fellow writer, I know how precious our material is to us and how much trust we must have to show it to someone while it's still a work-in-progress. So I'm flattered that you have such faith in me.

However, I'm afraid that I must decline. At the moment I am incredibly overwhelmed with my own workload and I don't think it would be respectful to you or your material if it's relegated to a back burner where I won't be able to get to it for a few months, at the very least.

Again, I appreciate your thoughts and wish you the best of luck with your book, which I am returning unread.

Sincerely,
Alan Z.

Dear Big Shot—

So you have no time for me, huh? Have so much work of your own that you can't read the first 247 pages of my novel, do you? Well, then how do you explain that piece you wrote for Sunday's
NY Times
Op-Ed page? Where you said that when you ran the New York City Marathon, at the starting line you purposely stayed toward the back of the pack of 33,000 runners “for pretty much the same reason that cowboys, if given the choice, would prefer to be behind the horses during a stampede.”

Sound familiar? No? Well, it should. I'm referring to page 64 of the manuscript you claim to not have read. Where I say, “When Van Cliburn was a young boy, before he decided to become a professional mover, he wanted to be a wrangler even after his father told him all about stampedes.”

Still say you haven't read my novel? Or, in the very least, the third paragraph on page 64? I find that hard to believe. Almost as hard to believe that someone of your supposed stature would stoop so low as to steal from me.

I demand an explanation.

Kevin Traverson

Dear Thief—

Still
waiting for an explanation.

An Impatient Kevin Traverson

Hey Shithead—

My attorney's name is Elliott Throneberry. Don't say I didn't warn you.

You Know Who

Dear Mr. Throneberry—

I am in receipt of your registered letter and, given the letterhead on your stationery, can only assume that you are indeed a lawyer. And it's a rather generous assumption at that, given the caliber of client you appear to be representing.

That being said, allow me to set the record straight with the sincere hope that this matter continues no further. One: I did not read your Mr. Traverson's manuscript. Two: To the best of my knowledge, Mr. Traverson does not own the word
stampede.
It is in the dictionary, and last I looked, his name was nowhere to be seen near its listing. However, on the off chance that I am mistaken and that word
stampede
is indeed his, and his alone, to use; may I suggest you forget about me and give serious thought to suing John Wayne's estate, as they have a lot more money than I do and he used the word more than anyone I can think of?

Sorry to cut this letter short, but I just heard an ambulance drive by and I suspect you have to get ready to go chase it.

Shysterly yours,
Alan Zweibel

Dear Mr. Zweibel—

Congratulations on your book winning the Thurber Prize for American Humor!!!! It is so richly deserved and has already been a boon to me as I sold the copy you sent me on eBay for a price that should go even higher with the holiday season quickly coming upon us. Toward that end, can you please autograph these twelve copies and send them back in the enclosed carton? My attorney says it's the least you can do given all the stress I've suffered at your hands, and I tend to agree. I feel it can serve as an excellent first step in the healing process.

Your Biggest Fan,
Kevin Traverson

Dear Kevin—

Enclosed please find the copies of my novel that you sent me. And while I did not sign them as you requested, please note that I did enclose a jar of petroleum jelly, which should no doubt make it that much easier for you and your attorney to take turns shoving all twelve books up each other's ass. And though I don't know it firsthand, I can only presume that it will also help in
your
healing process.

Your pal,
Alan Zweibel

Clothing Optional

Let me just say at the outset that as I write these words, I am fully clothed. Shirt. Pants. Shoes. You know the look. Now, this is a point writers rarely feel the need to make. Traditionally, they simply go about the task of setting down words with little or no mention as to which parts of their anatomy are covered or exposed. I envy those writers. I used to be one of them. Allow me to explain.

About a month ago, the pressures of script deadlines made the task of arranging dialogue between characters running around on a movie screen an all-consuming one—to the extent that any distraction was deemed so intrusive, I was absolutely livid when pulled out of a rehearsal to take a call from this magazine.

“Alan, would you ever give any thought to spending time at a nudist club and writing about it?”

“Yes.”

“You can go there whenever you—”

“Yes.”

“And you can write the piece whenever you—”

“Yes.”

“Any idea when you might be able—”

“Now.”

“I mean, you're extremely busy, so—”

“Now.”

“But all of your other projects—”

“They can wait. How much do I owe you?”

“For…?”

“Letting me do this.”

A CALL TO MY WIFE

“Hello?”

“Hey, Robin! Guess what? I've been asked to write about a nudist club in Palm Springs.”

“I'm not going.”

“Who invited you?”

Reaction from the rest of my family ranged from my son, Adam, fourteen, begging me to take him along, to my youngest daughter, Sari, seven, who giggled at the thought of “Daddy seeing lots of tushies,” to my embarrassed middle daughter, Lindsay, eleven, who—as I left in the third inning of her West L.A. softball game—found it easier to tell her teammates I was going to the hospital for minor back surgery.

There were other reactions as well. The most asked question: Are you going to get naked? The least asked: Where are you going to insert your room key when playing naked volleyball? (My dad lost sleep over this one.) The person with the most questions: me. And I started asking them as I turned onto I-10 heading east toward the desert: Why am I doing this? Did I bring enough sunblock? Why am I doing this? When was the last time I was naked in front of a nude woman whom I wasn't married to and with whom I shared a hamper and three children? What if I run into someone I know? Like Siskel? Or Ebert? Or one of my mother's friends? What if I get an erection? What if I get an erection in front of one of my mother's friends? Why am I doing this? And why in God's name am I sweating this much?

The air-conditioning in the car was on full blast, yet as I got closer and closer to the exit that would lead me to the land of naked people, my pores were involuntarily soaking every stitch of fabric associated with my forty-four-year-old body, and I was now sort of hoping that somewhere between my daughter's softball field and all of those windmill things, I'd contracted malaria and would have to call my editor with my regrets and suggest she send a non-Jewish male to research this article.

The place I was driving toward? The Terra Cotta Inn, which according to the brochure was a “clothing optional” resort. So with the distinct possibility that it was nerves and not a rare tropical disease that was causing me to sweat like a fountain, I began to hang on to the word
optional
the way that actress in
Cliffhanger
hung on to Sylvester Stallone's hand.

THE TERRA COTTA INN

I can't remember ever knocking more gently than I did on the big gray doors that separate the Terra Cotta Inn from the traffic on East Racquet Club Road. But after a few seconds, the door opened. A woman, dressed only in a romper unzipped to her navel, greeted me. Standing beside her was a completely naked man.

“Alan?”

“Yes.”

“I'm Mary Clare.”

“Hello.”

“And this is my husband, Tom.”

“Hi, Alan.”

“Nice to meet your penis, Tom.”

Rendered mute by their unique brand of desert hospitality, I obediently followed Mary Clare and Tom around a half wall, which gave way to a courtyard. With a pool. Bordered on three sides by attached rooms. And swimming in the pool, lying on the grass near the pool, reading books and Sunday papers on lounge chairs that surrounded the pool, and walking around, casually sipping drinks nowhere near the pool, were them—the naked people. Two-eyed, four-cheeked naked people, who obviously didn't know the meaning of the word
optional.

My hosts couldn't have been nicer. They explained that this was strictly a couples resort, where people come with their significant unclothed others to enjoy the sun and relax. The last thing they want is for anyone to feel pressured into walking around in any way that would make them uncomfortable.

But as much as I appreciated the inherent logic of this policy, anyone who has ever been the only sober person at a party knows how it's possible to feel like the only one who's drunk under those circumstances. I, for one, had never felt goofier than when I was unloading the car.

The fact that I brought luggage to a nudist resort is, in itself, worthy of some discussion. But how I felt carrying three suitcases and a hanging garment bag through a maze of lounging naked people on the way to my room on the far side of the pool is a topic Talmudic rabbis could debate for centuries. Suffice it to say that Robin had done my packing, and it took me close to forty-five minutes to determine what I was actually going to wear to a naked tea. My decision? Gym shorts and a Yankees nightshirt that extended just below the knee. My thinking? Hard to say. But for some reason, it felt just right.

THE NAKED TEA

The office of the Terra Cotta Inn is not dissimilar to the office of any typical resort that happens to have thirty-six stark-naked adults and one large Jewish man in a Yankees nightshirt having wine and hors d'oeuvres on a Sunday afternoon. Husbands. And wives. Girlfriends. And boyfriends. Youngish. And oldish. Blackish. And whitish. Chitchatting about the weather. The Dodgers. Clinton. And Dole. Conspicuous by its absence was any overt acknowledgment of one another's overabundance of exposed flesh. They were all so natural. And casual.

Could I possibly be like that? So cool? So nonchalant? I went outside to where everyone had drifted back to their previous locations in and around the pool. I took off my gym shorts. No big deal—courtesy of my Yankees nightshirt—but a start. And then? Oh, what the hell. Off came the nightshirt, and into the pool I dove. Butt naked. Like the day I was born, only larger and more immature.

Under the water I swam. Eyes open, mindful of any exposed body parts that might be dangling in my path. At the other side of the pool, I came up for air, and right before me was a rather plump, elderly couple sitting on the edge, minding their own business. I turned around, took a deep breath, and headed underwater back to the other end, where I surfaced only to find myself, God help me, looking into, God help me, the nether regions of a beautiful woman sitting with her legs, God help me, apart. And then…well…it happened. The
e
word. Right there, in the pool. Well, let's just say I had no choice but to swim back (now with the aid of a rudder) toward that plump, elderly couple whose very presence, God bless them…humbled me.

A CALL HOME

“Are you naked right now, Daddy?”

“No, Sari. Can I please speak to Mommy?”

“Okay.”

“Thanks, honey.”

“Hey, Dad, you take any pictures of the naked folks?”

“No, Adam. Can I please speak to Mommy?”

“Okay.”

“Thanks, kiddo.”

“Dad?”

“Hi, Lindsay.”

“Dad, when you come home, could you limp in front of my friends? The way you would if you actually had minor back surgery?”

“Fine. Can I please speak to Mommy?”

“Okay.”

“Thanks, sweetheart.”

“Hello?”

“Robin?”

“Yeah?”

“Could you drive out here?”

“When?”

“Now.”

“Now?”

“Please?”

“Why?”

“Because I'm hornier than a toad.”

“Alan, the kids have school tomorrow.”

“Robin, I was around naked people all day, and now it's night, and I'm alone, and I'm ready to burst.”

“Alan—”

“Please. It's only a two-hour drive. You can come out, stay seven minutes, then turn around and go home.”

“You gotta be kidding.”

“You're right. Six minutes.”

I hung up, got undressed, went outside, and was aware of the fact I had never done those things in exactly that order before.

         

The Terra Cotta Inn doesn't have a restaurant. (If it did, I wondered, would the chef have to wear two hairnets?) But meals ordered in arrive in no time at all, as the delivery boys from all the local restaurants race through the streets so they can get to see the home where the naked people roam.

I heard voices and walked in their direction. Much to my surprise, I now had no inhibitions about my nudity. Sure, I was conscious of it, but there I was. Under the stars. Four couples. And me. At a naked pizza party. A couple from L.A. whose children knew where they'd gone for the weekend but weren't told about the clothes part; a middle-aged CEO from Michigan and his wife of twenty-seven years; a kindergarten teacher and her husband, a retired cop, who've been coming to places like this since 1987; a couple from San Diego, both attorneys and both thirty-two, and me.

I realized I liked these naked people. They were without pretense in addition to being without clothing. So the next morning, when I saw a number of them pass my window holding coffee mugs and doughnuts, I took off my bathrobe and dashed outside to join them. Not only did I spend the entire morning naked, but by noon, I found the very concept of clothing an absurd one.

A CALL TO A FRIEND

“Garry, it's Alan. Look, I'm calling because I just felt the need to tell someone that I'm forty-four years old, and about an hour ago, for the first time in my life, I put suntan lotion on my ass. I'll explain later. Bye.”

What else can I say other than that I was now one of them? I swam naked. I read
American Pastoral
by Philip Roth naked. I ate a chef's salad naked. I played naked foosball. I started using my laptop for reasons other than to just cover my lap. And I was quickly becoming more and more intoxicated with my new-found freedom.

“Hi, Tom.”

“Hi, Alan. Where you headed?”

“Carl's Jr. The one on Palm Canyon. Want anything?”

“No, thanks.”

“Catch you later, Tom.”

“Alan?”

“Yeah?”

“Do you think you should put some pants on?”

“What for?”

“Well, the Palm Springs police have rules when it comes to naked men and fast-food chains.”

“What about the drive-thru?”

“Also the drive-thru.”

“Those bastards.”

ANOTHER CALL HOME

“Well, then how about taking a plane?”

“Alan…”

“I'm serious, Robin. The airport's only a few miles from here, and—”

“But you're coming home tomorrow.”

“Exactly. So I say fly out in the morning, I'll pick you up, bring you here, then we'll drive back to L.A. together.”

“We'll see.”

“Really?”

“Yeah, yeah.”

“Great, because I really want you to see this place and meet my new friends.”

“Jesus…”

“Hey, guess what? Remember when I told you that years ago, this place was where President Kennedy and Marilyn Monroe used to come together?”

“Yeah…?”

“Well, local legend has it they used to stay in room thirty-four, and I went in there today.”

“Yeah…?”

“Naked.”

“Yeah…?”

“So think about it, Robin. This very afternoon, I was naked in the same exact room that a president and Marilyn Monroe were naked in.”

“Yeah…?”

“So the way I see it, in some strange, mystical way, this afternoon I had sex with Marilyn Monroe and…”

“Here, speak to the kids.”

“What kids?”

GOING HOME

Since I had a 114-mile trip ahead of me, I planned on leaving Palm Springs no later than eleven in the morning. This would allow me more than enough time to stop off at the Nike outlet store on the way, maybe grab a little lunch, and still make Lindsay's softball game, which began at three. This was a very workable, very well-intentioned plan, but…

I've seen a lot of prison movies where inmates, when their terms are up, are so comfortable with the routine that they prefer to remain in jail for fear they won't be able to adjust to life on the outside. And while this is by and large a feeling they have after fifty years in Alcatraz or Shawshank, I felt exactly the same way after two days at a clothing-optional resort. And since I had no idea when I'd have the opportunity to be naked outside again, I savored my last few garmentless hours, and before I knew it, it was noon. No big deal. Nike won't go broke without my business. So I took another naked swim, finished Philip Roth's book, noticed that a very attractive woman was checking in, started reading
To Kill a Mockingbird
(because I hadn't read it since eighth grade), and the next thing I knew, it was almost one o'clock. Oh well, I've always felt lunch was an overrated meal. And I still had two solid hours to travel the 114 miles, so all I'd have to do is maintain a 65-mph pace, and I'd get to the field for the start of Lindsay's game. I packed, got dressed, said good-bye to Tom and Mary Clare, noticed that the very attractive woman who'd just checked in was now emerging from her room completely naked, put down my luggage, read a few more pages of
To Kill a Mockingbird,
marveled at how much I'd forgotten about this fine piece of writing, and, when I finally pulled out of the parking lot at two o'clock, wondered aloud how it would actually feel to drive a car 114 mph.