Rear Window redux

It's just like The Real World, but without the stupid conversations

by Kris Frieswick

I just moved into an apartment building that's practically on top of the one next door, and when I look out my kitchen window, sit at my desk, or walk through my dining room, I can see everything that goes on in every room that faces my building. Since I'm a child of a rural (middle of nowhere) upbringing, a clear view into the lives of the boys and girls next door is a novelty for me. I know that the guy on the second floor gets up at 6:30 a.m., makes coffee but doesn't eat breakfast, and leaves the house at roughly 7 a.m. I know that the guy on the first floor hardly ever comes out, and when he does, it's only at night. The young couple on the third floor must be newlyweds, if you catch my drift. The other night, they had a romantic dinner with candles and wine. It was so sweet. Unfortunately, it seems to have ended in a big fight.

I am not proud of the fact that I look into their kitchens, their living rooms, and their lives. But, come on, it's right there in front of me. It's a live-action movie every time I open up a blind and look over. It's impossible not to watch my little anonymous buddies next door when I'm washing dishes, or setting the dining-room table, or sitting in a darkened room with a pair of binoculars . . . relax, I'm kidding. I never do dishes. While I eschew such television shows as Survivor, The Real World, and Road Rules, I must admit that I'm fascinated by these harmless glimpses into the real lives of real people. What I like best is that rather than hearing the kind of mundane conversations to which we are subjected by reality shows, I can make up my own interpretations of what I see going on behind those other walls. I am Jimmy Stewart in Rear Window. And since it is apparently now unacceptable to meet or say hello to your next-door neighbors, I have no fears that my carefully constructed plot lines will be disturbed by the facts.

In my made-up version of their lives, the couple on the third floor face a fundamental problem as old as love itself. They are devoted to each other, but they fight about money. She makes it and he spends it, and he won't tell her what he spends it on. But I know. He's buying bad velvet paintings. Puppies, Elvises, dogs playing poker, Raggedy Ann and Andy, you name it. He's got them all. He keeps them in the closet in their office. I see him in there late at night rustling about. He puts on a CD, then sits on the floor, just out of my line of sight, and opens the closet door slowly. I can never see specifically what's going on, but I know he's just running his hands over the soft black velvet, and across the cherubic painted smiles of the doe-eyed children playing in the field of painted daisies. It's all so . . . sick. My heart breaks for the girl; but she doesn't suspect a thing. And it's not my place to say anything.

The guy on the second floor, the one who leaves for work at 7 a.m. every day: he's running to escape the unrelenting sexual demands of his wife, who just hit 35 and is experiencing that remarkable phenomenon known as a sexual peak. He's just not safe in that house anymore. He's gotta be exhausted. She just roams around the house all day in her bathrobe like a terry-cloth-covered tigress, waiting for her mate to return to satisfy her carnal desires. Maybe she leaves around 3 p.m. to buy some dinner and vitamin E. He doesn't come home most nights until very, very late. But she's always awake, waiting. I don't know how much longer he can hold out. It seems the circles under his eyes are getting darker by the day.

First-floor guy: almost never see him. In my version of his life, he's got severe light sensitivity, like those little kids they profiled recently on 60 Minutes who walk around with every square inch of their bodies covered by clothes and who can't get insurance. In my movie of his life, he's also a hacker. Remember when someone hacked in and rearranged the Department of Defense's Web site? My little friend next door seemed to be particularly active around the old apartment that night. Coincidence?

Okay, so my version of these people's lives reads like a bad made-for-TV movie. But it's my bad made-for-TV movie, and I tune in every night that I'm home, even if it's only for a few minutes. The problem is that I think they may be on to me. Lately, when I stand at my kitchen sink, ostensibly to do some sort of kitcheny thing, I notice that a window blind across the street will snap closed. Or a light will flip off. I'm trying not to take it too personally, but it occurs to me that perhaps I have crossed the line from casual, friendly next-door neighbor to nosy freak. I'll obviously have to alter my routine a bit. Perhaps I'll lay off for a while. Keep things a little more subtle. If things continue the way they're going, who knows, maybe I'll even say hello the next time I see one of them outside. But I don't know . . . do you think that might be a little too intrusive?

Kris Frieswick can be reached at krisf1@gte.net.

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