The Naked Man Next Door

I sat on the couch, wearing my flowered pajama bottoms, ten-year-old purple t-shirt, and fuzzy pink socks, and basked in the idea of my post-work wallow time. The doorbell rang, and my ever-alert Basset Hound arose from her slumber and approached the door, attempting to bark a hole through it. I wasn’t expecting company, so I was equally as startled as the dog. I walked to the door, stuck my ear to it, and tried to ask, “Who is it?” but the bellowing Basset drowned out the faint whisper of the squeaky, feminine voice on the other side of the door.

I couldn’t figure out what she was saying, but I was sure that the voice I was hearing was not the voice of a threatening intruder. I opened the door and recognized the lady to be the sitter of my next door neighbor. “Is your husband home?” she asked as though in the middle of a life-threatening moment.

“He’s at band practice.  Is there something I can help you with?”

“It’s Mr. Jones. He fell down, and I can’t pick him up by myself.”

“Is he okay?”

“Yeah, he’s fine. I just need help getting him up.”

I told her that I would do my best to help. I went to my bedroom, put on my ugly brown Birkenstocks from 2002, and looked in the mirror at my puny, little arms that would soon be responsible for picking up the dead weight of a ninety-something year old, practically immobile Alzheimer’s patient. I walked across the yard and was greeted at the door by Lisa, the woman who had retrieved me from my comfortable relaxation time. Although the house was immaculately clean and had perfectly arranged kitchen appliances and what-nots, I couldn’t help but notice the distinct scent of a grandparent, much like the scent I associated with the crafted felt owl magnet on my grandmother’s refrigerator, along with the heavy, hot air.

Lisa led me down the hallway and told me that Mr. Jones was in the floor of the bathroom. Fear gripped my throat, and it had the strength of a psychopath. What if he fell down while getting out of the shower and he’s lying there naked? I wondered to myself. I closed my eyes just before opening the door. This was a part of adulthood that I wasn’t quite ready for. I’ve noticed before how nurses are unbothered by nudity or anything else that’s shockingly disgusting, and I’ve noticed how wives are not grossed out when brushing their husband’s false teeth. I think it has something to do with age, being jaded, or possibly being in love; but I wasn’t ready to cross over to the other side this day, not like this, not when I wasn’t even expecting it.

Before opening my eyes and opening the door of the bathroom where the naked man lay naked and waiting on me, I planned how I would react if he was indeed naked. Would it be appropriate to look at him? Should I cover him with an afghan? How does one go about having a conversation with a naked man? Where would I grab him to help lift him off the floor?

When these questions came to a halt, bravery opened the bathroom door, and my eyes opened immediately afterwards. There he was, on the floor, crouched in the fetal position, his bones protruding through the thin layer of skin on his legs. But to my relief, he was not naked. Instead, he was wearing nothing but a large diaper. He looked like a premature baby wearing the diaper of a one year old. He was completely dependent on me. Me. A woman who was too afraid to see him naked only moments before. He looked into my eyes as though wanting to speak.

Lisa walked over his limp body and instructed me to grab underneath his arm as she grabbed the other side. On the count of 3, we hoisted him onto the toilet seat, caught our breath, and then lifted him again to his feet. We walked him to his bed, slowly and deliberately with each step. I’m a hero, I thought. I should have been a nurse or a firefighter or an actress.

We gently slid him into the center of the bed by pulling the sheet that he lay on top of, and we spread his many layers of blankets over his submissive body. I asked him if he was okay, but he lay there silently, still as a dead body, unable to ask me to leave, unable to ask me to stay, staring. Staring with his cold, helpless, watery eyes. I walked away from that hot, dark house and knew that seeing someone naked might have been easier to deal with than seeing an alive but vacant body.

The names of the people mentioned in this story have been changed to protect their privacy.