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Loris
On the day of the hurricane, in Brainard, Alabama,
I'm eating a sandwich in the group house kitchen on
the grounds of the H and H (Happy and Healthy) Natural
Community. The H and H sits in Frank's path and everyone
has been nervous for the past few days. But we'd all
made it through the first part of the storm without
any major damage. In one of those sudden moments, as
precise as a rice grain, I wonder how my parents in
Opel had fared.
I wipe some mayo from my chin, then step up to the
big window to look out over Skin Pocket's Green, where
the H and H members are holding a quick group meeting
while the hurricane's eye passes through. It's a pretty
stupid thing to do, but for some reason the nudists
feel like nature is on their side, like they wouldn't
be hurt by her fury. I don't quite buy this. And even
though I'm the manager of the H and H and advised against
it, they decided to hold the meeting anyway, to appreciate
the beautiful, complete, dazzling calm that had spread
over the land.
I can see a few of them through the big window. I wave,
but they are intensely concentrating on the conversation.
I see Beau and Pinky and Little Peanut, nice people
who think that the only difference between themselves
and their neighbor is a preference for nudity. They
are talking about different types of grass, whether
Pensacola Bahia or Buffalo grass is softer on the feet
and behind. They are really passionate about grass.
This calm outside is smeary and unnatural, like a tender
sigh in a courtroom right before the guilty verdict
is read.
I return to the kitchen for another sandwich.
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