Then…the alarm goes off for the third time in my Manhattan apartment, signaling that I’m really late for work, so I roll out of bed and sneak into the kitchen shower.
Yes, our shower is in the kitchen.
There is a red door in our tiny kitchen that opens into a cupboard-sized space containing a tub with shower and a toilet that are so close together you literally have to put a leg in the tub when you sit on the toilet. There is no sink. To brush your teeth or wash your hands, you have to get out of the “closet” to use the kitchen sink.
But we count ourselves lucky because this is a 2-bedroom apartment in New York City, and as young 20-year-olds fighting for their careers, my roommate Stacy and I can afford the rent!
Granted, it’s a fifth floor (as in, no elevator) and there are some shady, lurking creatures that slither down the pipes from time to time, but hey, it’s next to Gramercy Park, for crying out loud!
(At the open house, I still vividly remember the superintendent opening the door at 6:00 am as dozens of us pushed through the door in hopes of taking the apartment. As we crowded into the small space, a naive young woman pointed He turned to the red kitchen door and asked, “Is that the pantry?” The whole room of hardened New Yorkers erupted in laughter. Even I, a sweet Southern transplant to the city, had to admit that it was pretty optimistic of him to think this Space-constrained New York apartment would have room for a kitchen pantry, most likely a bathroom, and yes, I was right. And one without a sink at that.)
So I go into the kitchen to open the bathroom door, but I hear running water, so I realize that Stacy must be in the shower. I knock loudly to tell her how urgently I need to clean up to get to work on time, but she doesn’t answer.
So I open the door, and there, in the shower, is a naked man.
Now, normally I wouldn’t object to a naked man in the shower, but this is not my naked man.
I had never seen this man before, naked or clothed.
Washes hair with shampoo.
I pause. I frown, trying to make sense of this sight.
He continues washing.
If it’s a rapist, it’s certainly a clean and hygienic one.
Using my keen communication skills, I say, “Umm…?”
He says, “Oh hi, I’m a friend of Stacy’s. I met her at the bar last night.”
I quickly closed the door.
Naked Guy certainly has a quick and loose interpretation of the word “friend” if the duration of your relationship has comprised less than 24 hours.
Although, I guess if he spent the night in his room having a hot-crazy-sexy moment, then I guess that would qualify as pretty “friendly.”
I walk over to Stacy’s bedroom. We have a strict “no one-night stands in the apartment” policy: if you want sexy, crazy and sexy, you have to go to the guy’s house.
So I open the door to make a fit, but she’s not there.
She is nowhere.
My god I think. He killed her and dumped her body in the garbage chute. And now he’s taking a quick spray, then he’ll kill me too.
I pick up the phone and call his office. Before she even says, “Hi,” I whisper, “Where the hell are you? There’s a naked guy in the shower!!”
“Yeah, that’s Rick.”
“Stacy, why is Rick here and you’re not!?” He yelled through clenched teeth.
“I’m sorry, but I had an early meeting and he didn’t want to get up so early, so I told him to leave when he’s ready,” she says.
“But we said no one-night stands in the apartment! And certainly don’t leave when the one-night stand is still here! There’s a stranger walking through our apartment while you’re at work and I’m sleeping.” Next room? That’s not right, Stacy!
She says, “Well, when you put it like that…”
“Okay, and now I have to go to work, what if the naked guy isn’t ready to go yet? Were you thinking he’d hang out at our apartment while we’re out, a guy you met at a bar last time?” ?” What if he steals something? What if he’s here when we come home from work? What if he moves out and we can’t force him to leave? What if he’s a professional squatter? My voice rises with hysteria.
“Excuse me,” a deep male voice says from behind me.
I turn to see the naked guy wrapped in a towel. I’m mortified that you heard me impugn his reputation.
But then I think, Wait, why do I feel guilty? He’s the one who stayed longer than expected!
Then he says, “Well, I don’t want to stay any longer than I should…”
And I think, Shit, he’s a psychic! He Is A Psychic Killer Rapist Naked Guy!
I just look at it.
He walks into Stacy’s room, gets dressed, walks out to say “Have a nice day” and leaves.
It would be great to end this story by saying, “And that’s how I met my husband.”
But in fact, neither Stacy nor I see Naked Boy again.
I mean we’ve seen naked guys ever since, but not that particular naked guy.
With my nerves on edge and a nagging fear that he might turn the doorknob again, I quickly undress, shower, put on my clothes, and head to work.
When my boss asks why I’m late, I give her an exasperated look and say, “Weird guy naked in my shower.”
She nods knowingly and gives me a jaded “what are you going to do” shrug, as if such a visit is commonplace in bathrooms all over the metropolis.