Neighborhood Watch: A story of two voyeurs

He had photos of Betty Page on his wall, he opened car doors for women, and he slicked back his hair. He did this with a wide-tooth comb and clear gel that he bought at the corner barber shop, that was almost out of business. He drove a standard, loved the smell of his authentic, vintage brown leather jacket, weathered from, well, weather, straight off of his grandfather's back, and he whistled while he worked. The funny thing was, as old-fashioned as he seemed, he loved technology.

He blasted oldies in his state-of-the-art headphones, as he tinkered on his computer, which was of the highest quality. He used electronics as though they were second nature to him. Plugging in and plugging out, turning on and turning off, staring at the blaring neon screen, animating figurines, turning numbers and codes into visual structures. Larry was a conundrum, a juxtaposition; he was a perplexing puzzle to those who knew him.

He puffed on a cigar, as he twiddled on his i-pod, marked his schedule in his i-pad, and calibrated the colors on his mac monitor. He was stuck between generations - intrigued by the fast-pasted, numerical, coldness of the age of technology, and held together by the warmth and simplicity of the 60's.

I don't know much about Larry. I can safely say my assumptions about him are correct though. I tend to be good at reading people. But I know he is only my neighbor. Sometimes I peer through my blinds, and I see him pacing around his room, or lying face up on his bed. I assume he must be thinking or listening to the radio - sometimes I hear voices coming from his speakers. I press my ear up against the glass, but I can't discern what they are saying. Sometimes I see him laugh, and his entire body shakes and his smile takes up his whole face. Sometimes I see him cry. I don't think he'd like that.

Once I came home from work, grabbed a bag of potato chips out of the cupboard, and stared out my window. Larry was huddled in a corner of his room, hugging himself, and sobbing. He kept fogging up his glasses with tears, taking his glasses off, cleaning them, and putting them back on. After about 10 minutes, he stood up, with a quiet calm, and punched his closet door. I dropped my bag of potato chips.

Larry was aggressive. I hadn't known. He smashed a huge hole into the door, and he shook his hand, and pressed his knuckles into his lips, because the blow was harder than he'd expected. But his expression was soft. I wanted to run over and ask if he was okay and tell him to settle down and to take a sip of water or maybe a walk or a cold shower and to clear his head, but then I remembered that I'm his neighbor, a girl he's never met. I thought I should respect him, so I walked away from the window.

Larry's outburst got me worried, so I decided to take a walk myself. I grabbed my keys and my walkman - I still listen to cassettes, myself, and I left. As I was walking along the pavement, counting the cracks, reading the graffiti, and tree-engravings scattered along my street, I heard a noise.

I turned around, and, of course, it was Larry. He'd fallen on the ground. I was paralyzed - this was the moment I had been waiting for, and yet, I couldn't move. I slowly approached him (after much personal coaxing).

"Are you alright?" I asked meekly. He nodded, ashamed. "Just stubbed my fucking toe, and tripped like an idiot". His language was vulgar. I kind of liked it. I had expected him to be charming or dazzling, like a Fred Astaire or maybe a strong, silent, intense type like Marlon Brando. But he was neither of those. He was just a kid. A guy who'd had a rough night, went for a walk, and stubbed his toe. He was real.

I was going to ask if he needed help, but I knew that would insult him. I didn't want to laugh for fear of mocking him. So I just stood, towering above his broad, manly body, and smiled. "Okay," I said. I turned around and starting walking.

"Hey," he said. "I know this is a stupid way to meet someone. But I've seen you. You live across from me, right? In that building?" He pointed directly to my apartment. I nodded, and blushed, hoping he couldn't see my red cheeks in the dark. "I'm Larry. Nice to meet you, Sh-". He stopped himself. He had started to say my name. He knew my name. He knew my name.

He knew my name.