Naked was my first published story. I wrote it in March - April 2014 when I was twenty-four years old and living in the South of France. (This was not a standard writing retreat: my girlfriend at the time was going to school there, and I tagged along to chase literary ghosts.) It was relatively speedily accepted for publication by Grain magazine for their Winter 2014 issue. Reading the acceptance letter was both an exciting and soul-crushing experience, as it also included the guest editor’s notes/corrections. My original draft was 3600 words long: she asked me to cut it down to 2090 words—over 30% of the text! She also asked that I change the name from “The Habit of Indecency” to “Naked”. My twenty-four-year-old ego could barely handle it. But I wanted to get published, I was too afraid of not getting published, so I swallowed my pride and killed my darlings. In retrospect, I agree with a majority of the changes—including but especially the title. (“The Habit of Indecency”—who did I think I was, Edith Wharton?) What you read below is the word-for-word story as it was eventually published.
The man who had just moved in across the street was standing naked in his living room, gazing out the large bay window. Eight feet high from floor to ceiling, the window mounted him in all his full-frontal splendour. He looked like a hairy Renaissance figure posed behind the glass.
Chelsea Peterson called the police.
“9-1-1. What’s your emergency?”
“There’s a naked man,” she stammered.
“Remain calm, ma’am,” the operator said. “Tell me what’s happening.”
“He’s standing naked in the window of the house across the street.”
“Is anyone in any immediate harm?”
“I am.”
“Ma’am, this line is for emergencies only. I’m going to transfer you to the police station, and somebody will assist you there.”
“But this is an emergen—”
“Hello, Corning Police, how may I assist you?”
“My name is Chelsea Peterson. I’d like to report an indecent exposure.”
“And when did this happen?”
“It’s happening now.”
“It’s in progress?”
“Yes.”
“I’m going to transfer you over to 9-1-1.”
“They transferred me here!” she cried.
“My apologies, ma’am. Could you please describe the situation for me?”
Chelsea told him how she had poured milk into the individually labeled bowls for her cats and, afterward, boiled water for tea. Then she explained how she had hastened to her living room window to wave to the handsome Mr. Tomlin, who drove by her house every morning at a quarter past nine. It was then that she had first seen the naked man.
“Might he have just come out of the shower?” the officer asked.
“I didn’t see a towel,” she said.
“Did the man move sensually in front of the window or touch himself in any way sensually or provocatively?’
“He did rotate from side-to-side once.”
The officer said he did not consider it reason enough to dispatch a squad car.
When she went back to look, the man in the window was gone.
***
The next day the man was there again, naked in front of the window. This time he was doing Pilates.
Chelsea was afraid she might never be able to wave to Mr. Tomlin again. If she didn’t act soon, he would forget about her as had Geoff the dog walker and the man she had taken too long to reply to on e-Harmony.
She changed out of her muumuu and into a pilled pink sweater and matching sweatpants. She found a black towel with a large bleach stain in the centre. She put her lime green Crocs on and, with eyes lowered, ran across the street.
In the front yard of the naked man’s house, Chelsea turned around and waited for Mr. Tomlin. As usual, he rounded the corner at a quarter to nine. She waved. He waved back, but when he saw through the bay window behind her a hairy naked man doing Pilates, he immediately sped off.
Chelsea stormed up to the door and struck it three times hard.
The man opened the door. “Hello,” he said.
“Here.” She thrust the towel into his chest with her eyes closed.
“Thank you.”
The naked man looked at the towel. The fabric was rough; in the centre was a pink stain. He folded it and placed it on the sofa. He said, “I appreciate the gift.”
“It’s not a gift, you pervert! It’s for you to cover up.”
“Then I must refuse it.”
Chelsea lunged into the house, grabbed the towel and held it in front of her. She adjusted it until it blocked from sight everything below the man’s waist except for his feet, like a censor bar.
“It’s nothing personal,” he said.
“Your body is very personal,” she said. “I demand you keep it that way.”
The man retreated into the living room; Chelsea raised the towel. She peeked around it to examine the inside of his house. The rooms were almost empty, with unpacked boxes here and there. Then she saw a black and white poster of a naked man, and gasped.
“Richard Ungewitter,” he said. “Do you know who he was?”
“No, and I don’t care to know.”
“He was one of the first Naturists and wrote some of the movement’s foundational works. Die Nacktheit. Nackt.”
Chelsea sighed. “Who’s there?” How a knock-knock joke had anything to do with this was beyond her.
“Pardon me? As you can tell I am a follower of the Naturist philosophy.”
“Does that entitle you to expose yourself?’
“I prefer nakedness where and when it is legal, including and especially on my property.” He crossed his arms over his chest. “Nothing I do is in any way indecent.”
“What you do is incredibly indecent,” she said.
“If you don’t want to see, then don’t look.”
“How can I when you’re at your window from dawn to dusk!”
Seeing him glance at the raised towel flapping in her tender hands, at her curly auburn hair pulled tightly back behind a face turned orange from misapplied foundation, at her pink outfit falling like a circus tent over an ample yet desirable body, she thought she had nothing worthwhile in and of itself. She felt sorry for herself then.
“Would you like to come over for dinner this Saturday night?” he asked.
Chelsea blushed. Other than one occasion with Mr. Tomlin eight months ago, she hadn’t been out to dinner with anyone in over two years.
“Would you wear clothes?”
“No, and I would ask that you do the same.”
She dropped the towel and ran back home.
***
The next morning Chelsea woke up, stripped herself of her nightgown, and tip-toed across the cold floor to the washroom for a bath. She brushed her teeth in the nude while waiting for the tub to fill. Her body swung and shook, playing itself like a chorus of djembes.
She had never been unnecessarily naked. Naked to change clothes. Naked to bathe. Naked to climb beneath the covers for sex. But never naked to brush teeth. She felt exhilarated, but ashamed too. She contemplated her smooth, well-rounded shoulders in the bathroom mirror. To think she had thought them ugly.
After her bath, Chelsea dried off, selected the clothes for work and dressed in her muumuu. In the kitchen, Mistoffelees and Munkustrap lounged by their bowls, waiting for their morning milk. Jennyanddots and Bustopher were still asleep. “Wake up you two,” she said, tipping over the lazy cats’ beds and spilling them out. Mistoffelees and Munkustrap rubbed up against Chelsea’s thighs. Jennyanddots meandered over to her empty bowl and slumped down beside it. Bustopher curled up where he had been dumped out of bed.
Chelsea poured each cat an exact cup of milk and, after boiling the water, poured herself some tea. Then she proceeded into the living room to wait for Mr. Tomlin.
The man was naked in the window again. She courageously endured the sight of him, having resolved that he would in no way disturb her otherwise decent routine. Then Mr. Tomlin’s car came around the bend. She waved as he drove past her house. He waved back and continued on his way.
In the window across the street, the naked man waved at her. Had he thought she had been waving at him?
Chelsea tore out of the living room, picked up her phone and dialed the community liaison. Under the pretense of welcoming him to the neighbourhood, she acquired the naked man’s telephone number. She dialed it and returned to the window.
“Hello?”
“This is Miss Peterson from across the street.”
“How are you?”
The man returned to his window, and waved.
“I am just phoning to make sure you know I was waving at Mr. Tomlin,” she said.
“Okay.”
“I would appreciate it if you refrained from looking in my window. Otherwise, I will call the police.”
“Waving to a neighbour is not a crime.”
“Spying is.”
“In that case, you are equally guilty.”
She hesitated, seeking a rebuttal.
“Teriyaki chicken stir-fry with brown rice.”
“What?”
“That’s what I will be making for our dinner this Saturday.”
She hung up the phone. Then she snapped at Jennyanddots for lapping up Bustopher’s milk while he slept as if he were comatose beside his overturned bed.
***
Chelsea had met Mr. Tomlin eight months ago at a party arranged by the community. She had seen him around the neighbourhood before while on her strolls, but had yet to be introduced. He could always be spotted meandering in the nearby park with a white plastic bag, picking up garbage and doggy poo. This noble pastime was what first drew her to him.
At the party, Chelsea flirted with Mr. Tomlin and, as far as she could tell, he flirted back. They sat beside each other for the speeches and for dessert. When it was over, she suggested they get together for dinner the following week. He agreed to a dinner date Tuesday at his place.
Like every other house in the neighbourhood, Mr. Tomlin’s was a one -story bungalow with a large bay window. A giant crucifix hung on the far wall of his living room, and icons of the saints, with an eponymous rosary hanging around each holy neck, lined the bookshelf. Chelsea was excited by what all this implied: she had heard that Catholics only dated with the intention of marriage.
While Mr. Tomlin prepared supper, Chelsea told him about the four occasions she had been to mass. Over dinner, they talked about the neighbourhood. He complained about the doggy poo and garbage, and she agreed with him that people these days were inconsiderate about waste.
By the end of the evening Chelsea felt she had known Mr. Tomlin all her life. He walked her to the door and gave her a hug goodnight. She wanted a kiss, but had heard that Catholics waited for the fourth or even fifth date. Before she left, she made it clear that he should call her if he wanted to have dinner a second time.
Eight months later Chelsea was still awaiting his call.
***
On Friday the temperature rose from fifteen to twenty-five degrees Celsius.
Chelsea jolted awake at the witching hour with an acute need to pee. Her covers and gown were damp, and her curly hair was a tangled mess. Returning from the washroom she stripped her wet gown and fetched another from the closet. She collapsed back into her bed. The covers made a squishing sound like boots stepping through a marsh. The fresh gown absorbed the sweat from the sheets in her landing, so she tossed it into the laundry basket with the other one.
Chelsea awakened at eight o’clock feeling she had had the best sleep of her life. She perched on her elbows and realized she was naked. There was nothing really the matter with her body. She was overweight, yes, but the fat was well distributed. She had no stretch marks or moles. There were no veins visible on her breasts. Even the trail of hair running from her pubis to her belly button was light and thin. She looked surprisingly fit and firm, lovely.
Chelsea carried on her routine in the nude, with this newfound confidence in herself. She brushed her teeth in the nude and bathed, but instead of going back to her room to dress, she dried off and proceeded straight into the kitchen—in the nude.
Mistoffelees and Munkustrap paced around their bowls, meowing. When the cats saw her approaching, they dropped their tails and hissed.
“Good morning!”’
The cats raised their tails in the air and rubbed up against her legs. When she poured the milk, Jennyanddots and Bustopher flopped down beside their bowls.
“What are you two doing up so early?”
Chelsea glanced at the clock on the kitchen stove: 9:16!
She dropped the measuring cup into Bustopher’s bowl, splashing milk all over his whiskers. She ran into the living room and was relieved to see Mr. Tomlin pass by her house.
She waved at him.
Mr. Tomlin steered his car onto the parkway. It bounced up over the curb and stalled. Chelsea clutched herself like Botticelli’s Venus. He put his car in gear and pressed down on the gas pedal. The wheels peeled back last season’s sod, flinging dirt and grass in all directions. Finally, the car crashed down off the curb and sped off.
Chelsea laughed. She felt no shame at her nakedness.
She looked across the street at the naked man in his window. She waved at him, and he waved right back.