High Rise

The best stories are the true ones.

*****

Each morning I leave my apartment and walk to work. "Walk" isn't really a good description - it is more like I run an obstacle course. The sidewalk is packed with jostling pedestrians, blaring taxis push aggressively through crosswalks, sirens wail constantly, and the ground itself shakes when the subways pass underfoot. To make it more of a challenge, everything costs a fortune. It costs about $20 just to sit down in a diner someplace and have a cheeseburger.

That's why, even with New York's glamor and excitement at my doorstep, I usually retreat at the end of the day - I need a break. I work crazy hours, and the idea of coming home to a small, cozy apartment is very appealing.

So most nights during the week - when I'm not traveling on business - I come back to my place. I pirouette through the revolving door in my building and enter another world - quiet and clean. I exchange greetings with the doorman, stop at the wall of small mailboxes for my catalogs and bills, and then head up to my apartment on the 20th floor.

I peel off my necktie, shrug out of my suit jacket, and then sit at the table with a drink - or, more often, on the couch with my feet up. The skyline is lit up outside my windows like a postcard, majestic and glowing, and I run through the mail, sip my wine, watch the news on the DVR, and eat some take out - all very old-school, I know, but it works for me, a small private space where I can be myself, far above the chaos.

I was sitting on the couch one night last week after work, going through the mail (junk mail in one pile, bills in another) when I came across a red envelope that must have contained a card - one of those Hallmark kind of things.

When I opened it I saw that the card had a single red rose on the cover. Printed inside were the words "I'm sorry." Handwritten beneath was "I know I shouldn't be doing this, but I can't stop." Inside the card was some kind of symbol - a handwritten grid - a long vertical rectangle, with a waffle-like grid on it.

There was no signature on the card, no return address on the envelope. Nothing. Who was sorry? For what? I kept looking at the envelope, as if I by staring long enough I could force a return address to emerge.

I didn't know whether to be intrigued or freaked out, but after a second glass of wine I decided to stop worrying about it. Whoever it was, whatever they did - well, it was nice of them to apologize. I put the card on and by the end of the week threw it in a pile with some other stuff for the cleaning lady to take care of.

The next one arrived about four days later. This one had a big kiss on the cover, bright red lips, definitely feminine. There was the same grid printed inside, the tall vertical rectangle with a waffle-like pattern, but this time one of the squares in the grid was colored, bright red. The message was different, too - it said: "I'm sorry, I know I shouldn't - but it looked like you needed another card to replace the other one."

Unlike the first card, which seemed kind of fun and whimsical - this was starting to make me uncomfortable. "I needed another card?" What did that mean?

My first thought was that I was being watched...how would the sender know that I needed another card? Or, maybe this was from the cleaning lady - maybe she broke something that I hadn't noticed? New York can be fun...but there are definitely some disturbed people in this town.

I was distracted the next couple of days. Was this some kind of threat? What about the "I'm sorry"? I still didn't know who was sorry, and for what. I found myself watching people on the sidewalk more closely, but with the crowds it was impossible to find a pattern or pick out individuals.

With each passing day it all receded little by little. I had just about put it out of my mind when the next card arrived. The message was simple.

"I want to apologize to you. Can you Skype with me Friday night?" There was a Skype address written on the card, along with Friday's date, and a time - 10pm.

Usually I'm crawling into bed around ten, even though sometimes I stay up for a while and read or surf on my tablet - but this was a call I wanted to take. Sleep could wait - in fact, I thought, I'd probably toss and turn all night if I didn't take this call.

I got home around eight on Friday and ran through my usual routine: I hung up my suit and pulled on a bathrobe, had a bite to eat, sorted through the mail and watched the evening news, but I felt a bit jumpy and kept looking at the clock on the cable box to check the time.

About 9:45 I sat down at my desk, logged in, and dialed up the Skype account I had been given. My call was connected instantly, and I could see someone sitting at a computer just like me, in a t-shirt. Though I couldn't see her face fully - just her chin and mouth - I could tell it was a woman.

"You're early" she said. "Nothing good on TV?"

I tried to play it cool. "I didn't want to miss you. I've been intrigued."

"Ah, yes, I can understand that. I've been intrigued by you, too."

I waited for her to say more.

"I feel like I know you" she said.

"And why is that? I asked.

"Because I've been watching you for a month now. Almost every night. Except those couple of nights you didn't come home in the middle of the month. Hot date?"

I felt my stomach flop once or twice. Watching me? My first suspicions had been correct - I was being stalked! I felt my face flush, my palms grow sweaty, and tried to stay focused. "No, no, I was on a business trip."

"Yes, I thought that might be the case."

I glanced out the windows quickly, a nervous turn of the head. Was I being watched now?

"Where are you?" I asked.

"Two blocks north of you. Do you have the last card? The grid? I colored in my window."

I picked up the card, held it up against the skyline...and counted the streets far below. One, two...there, there was her building! And then the grid...now it was clear...these little blocks in the grid on the card were meant to be windows...I counted...two in from the side...six down...and now I could make it out, just barely. The window opened into a room, lit by the soft glow of a lamp on a desk and a computer monitor, and I could make out the shape of someone sitting at the desk.

My heart slowed down a bit - at least I "knew" who this person was, but I still had a lot of questions.

"So you've been watching me for a month now? How did you find out who I was and which apartment I was in?"

"It wasn't that hard" she said. "The floor plan to your building is online for prospective renters. I counted windows, and then stopped by to tell the doorman I had a card for you - in apartment 20D - but that I wasn't sure how to spell your name right. He said he'd take care of it for me. I still don't know your name - he wouldn't give it to me, he just said that he'd write it down."

I exhaled slowly. She didn't know who I was, and I wasn't exactly being stalked. "So you've been watching me? That's probably a good cure for insomnia - I'm pretty boring and predictable."

"Predictable, yes. Boring, well, usually, but not always. Like, not last night, for example."

I started to think about last night. Not boring? I came home...watched the news...opened the mail...had a glass of wine...turned in early with a book and my ipad...and...oh yeah, that's right...I masturbated as I surfed the web, before I fell asleep.

I felt my face growing red again. I moved into this apartment ten years ago, when the neighborhood was full of office buildings and small businesses. By seven pm it would be a ghost town, and over time I got sloppy with my blinds. I'd become accustomed to leaving them up to see the skyline, watch a storm come in, catch a sunset during the summer, a habit I never changed even as the neighborhood did change and the offices were converted one-by-one to apartments and condos.

So yeah, last night I was on my bed...with a book...and my iPad...and she had watched the whole thing.

I wasn't quite sure what to say to her. "I see. How long did you say you've been watching me?"

"For about a month. I moved in at the end of March, and it took them more than a week to get my cable and internet hooked up, so I started looking out my window to pass the time. It seemed wrong and a bit nosy, but I've never lived in a high-rise before, and I've been fascinated by all the windows and people...and curious. Most of it is pretty boring - people sit in front of flickering televisions all night long, play on their computer, or talk on the phone. Then one night I saw you in bed...I know it seemed wrong, but I couldn't stop watching once I realized what you were doing. And if you want to know something that's really bad...I even ordered a small pair of binoculars to see you better."

She'd been watching me with BINOCULARS?!

She went on. "I know it is wrong... I feel like I've violated your privacy - but, and here's the hard part for me to admit - I can't stop looking, even though I know this is wrong. So I was thinking, if I met you in person I'd be humiliated, almost like a punishment for spying on you, and I'd get to know you as a person, just for a few minutes, and that would keep me from looking in your windows again."

Meeting her? Now that I was talking to her she didn't actually sound crazy, I had to admit, and what she described was pretty natural. New Yorkers are always renting apartments and moving, and most can't be bothered - or care enough - to put up blinds, or curtains. It is kind of natural at night to look out our windows now and then, the whole city spread out, and just take it all in - not really peeking in windows, but just looking. No, she didn't sound psycho - and everything she said made sense. In fact, she sounded kind of embarrassed by the whole thing.

"So I'd like to make it up to you" she said, "and buy you a drink. You know the pub on the corner of Broadway and Reade? It's halfway between your place and mine. Say 5pm tomorrow - there won't be much of a crowd at that hour on the weekend. Please?"

There was something in her voice which almost sounded desperate - and I believed her, that she needed to do this for some reason - I don't know, to bury her compulsion? I thought about it a minute, and thought - really, a drink, at 5pm in the afternoon in the neighborhood pub? Seemed like that proverbial well-lit public place you should meet people for the first time. Totally harmless.

"Sure" I said, "see you there."

We clicked off the video feed and I went into the bedroom to get undressed and lay down - but now I was acutely aware that the blinds were open. I could close them, I thought - but she might think that rude. I decided to leave them open but to keep the lights off, so it would be hard to see much of anything. That night I had crazy dreams that kept waking me up, and every time I woke up I looked out the window towards her building.

The next day I ran my usual errands, the dry cleaner, the grocery store, and as I ran around I kept thinking about meeting her. Now that I was getting over the part about being stalked, I did feel kind of irritated - the mystery cards in the mail, the fact that it had gone on for a month. I decided that I wouldn't let her play me tonight. She could say her bit and we'd return to being strangers in a city of eight million people. Oh yeah, and note to self, I thought: buy some damn curtains!

I intentionally arrived at the pub early to get situated. Pretty much as I had expected the place was empty. I took a booth in the back and sat down and ordered a glass of wine. She walked in right at five, on the dot. She was wearing a white blouse with a jacket and a skirt, stockings and sensible shoes. As she stood in the doorway, her eyes adjusting to the gloom of the bar, I looked at her closely.

I hadn't been too sure what to expect, but this wasn't it. She was about five seven, and probably in her mid forties, with long red hair. She was broad shouldered - I guess that would be the way to put it, or maybe "big boned" would be the phrase - and looked a bit plain, especially dressed that way, and a little on the heavy side. She looked around as her eyes adjusted, saw me in the corner, and came over to my table.

"May I join you?" she asked.

I gestured with an open hand, inviting her to sit.

I looked at her as she sat on the bench across from me in the booth. "I don't even know your name. I'm George" I said.

"Nice to meet you, George. I'm Casey."

I pointed to my glass of wine. "Sorry, but I didn't wait to get started. Can I get you a drink?"

She nodded her head quickly up and down. "I'd love a Cosmo."

It was hard to tell, but I thought I heard a bit of an accent in her voice. The waiter came over, took her drink order, and returned to the bar. We made idle chit-chat while he shook her drink, the ice clattering loudly in the empty bar. When her drink arrived I raised my glass, but still didn't know exactly what to say, so I kept it basic. "Cheers." She raised her glass, clinked it against mine, and took a large gulp.

By the second round of drinks I had learned that she was from Ireland, worked for a company based in Dublin, and had moved to New York to take a job in a branch office. Installation of her cable television and internet wasn't the only thing that had gone badly - in fact, nothing had gone right with her move. Her furniture was on a ship and was a month late in arriving. She said she felt like she was back in college living in a dorm.

I told her my own stories of moving to New York - it can be a nightmare finding an apartment, not getting ripped off by building superintendents and moving companies, and I had made some pretty silly mistakes when I moved here. By the time we finished the second round of drinks we were both deep into trading tales of misfortune related to moving to new cities.

The bar was starting to fill up and was getting loud. There was a basketball game on the television and a lot of cheering and yelling, and it was hard to be heard, even in a booth in the back. It seemed as if it was time to move on, and I think she sensed it too.

She looked at me. "You've been so nice and understanding about this - I mean, having some unknown woman tell you she was peeping in your windows is pretty strange."

"Yeah, well, this is New York. Nothing surprises me anymore."

"I still feel like I did something really wrong. Maybe it is the Irish Catholic guilt thing. I bought you a bottle of Irish Whiskey - the kind you like." She took a lovely wrapped bottle from her bag.

"How did you know I like that?"

We both realized it at the same time and blurted out our versions of the same line: "Because you were watching me drink it at the kitchen table," and at this point it all seemed kind of funny and silly, and we started laughing.

"That's what really got me interested in watching you" she said. "When I saw your good taste in whiskey I knew I had better keep an eye on you!" We laughed again, and with a smile I challenged her.

"What do you know about whiskey?"

"Are you kidding me? Any Irish girl knows more about whiskey than you'll ever know!" and we laughed again. "And besides - your whiskey is me own personal favorite - that's really how I knew it was so good."

"You know," I said, "your accent comes through after a couple of drinks. 'Me' own favorite."

As I said that I watched her blush - she seemed self-conscious about it - and I instantly regretted teasing her. And then, on the spur of the moment - it just came out of my mouth. She didn't seem so scary after all - in fact, she was bright and a lot of fun.

"Instead of staring through my windows, would you like to actually see my apartment the way it is supposed to be seen - from the inside? And we can crack open this bottle of whiskey and see if we got a good batch."

"Aye, that would be nice" she said, and I paid the bill and we left.

We walked around the corner and down the street. The doorman recognized her as we walked into the building, and as we got on the elevator she punched the button.

"The twentieth floor, right?"

"Right." The elevator lifted us up and then opened on my floor, and as I led the way down the hall she asked if she could use the bathroom in my apartment.

"Sure - I take it you know where it is?" - and we laughed again, sort of a running joke now between us. As she walked down the hall to the bathroom I held up the bottle of whiskey.

"How do you take yours? Rocks? Neat?"

"The way it was meant to be had - a splash of water, nothing else."

I poured us two glasses of whiskey, put a couple of peanuts in a dish, and brought everything over to the couch while she freshened up. When she came back we toasted again and sipped at our drinks.

"Does it look much different from the inside?" I asked.

"Well" - she looked at me to see if I was teasing her again about watching me - "it looks nicer, though I can tell that you don't vacuum very often. From here I can actually see the art you have on the walks, your books, your furniture, and get a sense of the layout. Listen, I still feel bad about watching you. I don't want to ever be tempted to look in your windows again. I'm going to get rid of my binoculars."

"And I'm going to get curtains. That should take care of that, don't you think?" I smiled at her.

"No, I don't think so" she said.

I looked at her, and wondered what just happened.

"You don't think so?"

"No. I mean, I've been very, very bad. And I've violated your space. And I've learned one of your most private secrets - that you lay in bed at night and masturbate."

For some reason I wanted to cringe when she said that. "Well, I guess that's a secret, but it is probably the same secret that every other guy in this city has, except for those who masturbate in the shower instead of bed. Or, both in the shower and in bed."

"Well, nobody has seen you but me."

"True."

"So to make us even I want to tell you a secret of mine." She looked at me.

"A secret? Like what, you were mean to your little brother growing up? You stole some pencils from the office?"

"No, not exactly."

I sipped at my scotch. "Then what, 'exactly' is your secret?"

"I got very turned on by watching you." She continued to look at me with those green eyes.

"That's probably very natural."

It was then that she asked me if she'd made it all up to me - it seemed as if she was fishing.

"So is all forgiven?"

I raised my glass. "You know, just about. Bring me another bottle next week and I'm sure things will be just fine by then."

She looked at me. "Did I make you angry with the cards I sent in the mail?"

Funny question. Of course she had, and I had told her that, repeatedly.

"Yes, you did, you know that" I told her.

"Were you more upset or angry?"

I wasn't sure where she was taking this.

"I was upset at first. More freaked out than anything. The first time I got past it pretty quickly, but after that it started to get to me."

"So I made you angry?"

"Yes, once I realized you were watching me in my own bedroom." In fact, she was starting to make me angry again, and I could feel the beginning of the tension in my body, my muscles.

"I understand that, and I'm sorry. You should be angry with me."

She looked at me with a funny expression - not "ha ha" funny, but something I couldn't quite place.

And then, in a single fluid move she almost slid off the couch, kneeled next to the ottoman, and while on her knees laid across the ottoman face down, turning to look at me.

"You should punish me."

My mind was spinning, and I felt like a deer in the headlights - but kept my face still.

"Punish you?"

"Please punish me - I deserve it."

I just looked at her, and thought to myself "What the hell?"