It was hard to say when he started calling himself “Zimmersett.” Most have forgotten his real name by now—I haven’t. We are all convinced that he changed his moniker around the same time that he discovered that he was naked… He hated it. To him, it was a shameful, horrible thing, the worst thing. It was certainly from that point on that he started behaving so strangely… We all miss him to some extent or another—I miss him; I do.
I remember my first encounter with him after he moved into our small, farming town. It was only a couple of summers ago, but it feels so much longer. I had just finished paying for a tank of gas at the Corner Station (the only one in our town, owned by Pat, who also owned the bar across the street) and strolled out the door only to halt after two steps, face to face with a striking individual. Rather, he was normal in every way. It was his appearance that caught me off guard: the man was… Well, he was stark naked! No lie! Though we came to accept it later, we were all uncomfortable initially, and for awhile after. This instance was no exception. I wondered how in the world I should greet him. Should I address his naked state? Dare I speak to him at all?
He chose to address me first, extending his right hand and giving me his name. I stood stunned. His obliviousness to his nudity caused a strange sensation in me, like a cold finger sliding up my spine. The 89-degree temperature was not the cause of the shiver.
“You cold?” he asked, concerned.
“I’m Mark,” I spurted.
“I’m sorry?” He tilted his head, curious.
“My name is Mark.”
“What? Oh, well, it’s a pleasure to make your acquaintance, Mark! I’m new to town—and you’re the first person I’ve met! Just finished moving in yesterday, in fact.”
My mind finally caught up with the situation. “No, no, no.”
“What?”
“No, I’m—I’m not cold.”
His eyebrows lowered in curiosity and rose again in understanding. “Ah, okay. Glad to hear it,” he smiled. After a discomfited silence, he added, “Well, it was nice to meet you, Mark. Hopefully we’ll meet again!”
I hurried away without a word and pulled out of the parking lot, admittedly disturbed. Probably the strangest interaction I’d ever had with any person. It won’t be forgotten.
We all talked. We did. The first and most palpable suggestion was that he might be European, but he had no accent and no obvious ethnic appearance. Whenever one would ask where he had come from originally, he would only ever say “from up north.” Yet he was like any one of us, in so many ways. He looked like us, talked and even walked like us. Could’ve been born to any one of the families here, we thought. He had a love for the soil like us—in some ways, it seemed, a greater love. He didn’t own a farm, but he asked to work our land for free, if any would allow him. We cared deeply for one another in our little community—and he held that same compassion. We were afraid of and bewildered by him at first, but once we let him in, we found more than expected. No, no matter how hard we tried, we couldn’t make him any different: it was only that nakedness. It had shocked us—and honestly, no one could fully explain why. We said we were concerned for the children’s wellbeing, but they were let to run around naked so that we couldn’t explain why it was permissible for them, yet not for this one man. Of course, by this point, there was no convincing them suddenly that they should keep their clothes on all the time; they brought the argument of bath time into consideration and it became a fruitless effort.
We all wanted to bring it up to him plainly, but none of us seemed able to summon the forthrightness to do so.
Eventually, we had all more or less warmed up to him, despite his candid, yet unspoken naturism. He became just another part of our small community, a bona fide member of our town. He banked at the local credit union, shopped at the local grocer’s market, and was a member of one of the local congregations—his freedom in praise was inspiring, too. He lived no differently than any other person I’ve known: he owned a car, he listened to music, and he read the daily paper. Truth be told, he was a fantastic cook, as well. Word spread round of his culinary abilities and, well, I sheepishly queried about a meal at his home. Since then, my family was invited to his home in frequent occasion, and not one dinner was a disappointment. Oh, and the children! They loved him. He was so good with our kids—I am speaking from experience, but I know our town stands in one accord on this matter. It was unexplainable how… how like a child he was, as if he lived in the bare (no pun intended) experience of childhood while still attaining the insight of adulthood. He came to know them so well, and they enjoyed him so well. And he cared for our kids like any of us would. He was a regular member of our intimate body. Honestly, we all came not to notice his nakedness. It certainly didn’t “catch on,” if you follow my meaning, but we accepted him completely as he completely accepted us. It was a veritable nonissue. I must confess though I was even guilty of envy. It seemed that there was something deep and alive in him that caused his blissful ignorance. Faintly though, living in the back of our heads, there was a question which still lives there now—in my head, at least. What would happen if I asked him about it? And now, I wonder if it would have been better to ask right away. Would things have turned out differently, or was it all simply inevitable? It’s hard to say with confidence.
Now I wasn’t there when it happened, so I can only provide hearsay for this portion of the story. Though I must articulate, the town is generally in unanimous agreement with one version of the tale, the one I plan to tell.
I can’t say if it was because we had all become so comfortable around him—it was a harmless statement, assuredly. It may have been the opposite. Maybe the faint question living in our heads had put up with our disregard for too long. Perhaps in our negligence of the one question concerning him, we had never completely accepted him as we thought.
In whatever way it came about, the account goes that he was at the Corner Pub (across from the Corner Station, both owned by Pat) with a handful of people. Most say that it was Gordon the butcher, Reverend Eliot, and ole Charlie Harrison (who writes for the paper) with him—now, Charlie is the crux of the situation here, so I’ll supply a brief background on him.
Charlie is a Vietnam veteran, one of many in town. However, Charlie came back on account of an amputated leg and Purple Heart—the rest of our boys came back unscarred. So ole Charlie became a little embittered, to say the least, and took to drinking pretty hard. Through a series of lows and timely encounters with Reverend Eliot, Charlie got saved, as they say, and says the Good Lord freed him from his drunkenness. He’s been clean for years and can proudly handle a drink without temptation—that, I can attest to. Every so often though, Charlie pushes his limits a little bit and has often wound up letting things spit from his lips that would have been better left un-spat. A lot of blame gets placed on Charlie for what happened, and I can understand why—I just don’t see it that way. Ole Charlie should know better to hold his tongue, but I don’t believe he should be held responsible for all that followed. We all have our own cross to bear. There’s no sense in piling them all on one man’s shoulders…
Anyway, Charlie’s had a few drinks in him and he starts ripping on everybody like he does. It’s all in jest, of course, but Charlie somehow has a way of picking your least favorite sections of your heart, the ones that you’re most ashamed of, and hanging them for public display. He doesn’t know he’s doing it, but I’ve often found myself shocked at the things he sees in me, afraid he’ll use it against me somehow. Now Charlie’s never done this, but when your ugly parts are exposed, you start to think a lot of things that maybe aren’t true.
“So what’s the deal with the birthday suit, friend?” Charlie bursts through childish giggling. Gordon and Reverend Eliot stare, stunned, probably wondering if the words they heard were Charlie’s or their own ever-living question.
“What do you mean?” he responded, still ignorantly blissful, as if he had never heard the expression before.
“Oh, come on,” Charlie continued, his mouth sticky with saliva, “why the hell are you buck naked all the time?”
“Um, forgive me, but I don’t think I follow…”
“Are you kidding me?” The giggling almost became cackling. “Friend, I don’t know if you are pulling my leg or what, but you are as naked as the day you were born!”
They say that the music stopped and everyone in the bar began listening intently, all with their nagging question, desirous to be quenched. Strange how the silence can amplify.
Charlie began pulling on his red, flannel shirt. “You see these? These are clothes, friend! We’ve all been wearing ‘em since Adam. Don’t you get cold, fool?” Charlie reached across and began groping at the skin of his clueless sufferer. “It’s honestly indecent, friend. Why don’t you just cover up?” Charlie’s spittle strewed across the table. The clueless sufferer gawked at his own body, horrified.
I don’t blame Charlie for what he said. He didn’t say anything I wasn’t thinking.
After that day, things had noticeably changed. I pulled into the Corner Station and saw him filling up, muttering indistinguishably to himself. I called his name only for him to whip around and snap, “Call me Zimmersett! Zimmersett the Naked Slave!” His eyes were erratic and foggy, leaving me astonished and puzzled, without response.
“Are—are you feeling well?”
“The seed is not bad,” he replied coldly. “Nor is the fruit bad. It is the soil.”
“What?” I entreated.
“The soil is bad.”
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