LOOK AND LISTEN

Morning has taken its first tremulous steps into the dark night sky. An almost buried thought comes to my mind just as I remove my nightgown. I freeze, open the linen closet and remove two large yellow terry towels. One I wrap around my nakedness. The other I hang on a door hook. I’ve been testing the sink water that takes much too long to reach my shower. It is just beginning to get warm. I let it run until it is good and hot. The sink tap goes off, the shower head is ready to spurt. But a chill comes over me. I’m not going to remove my towel.

Using what I believe to be good reasoning sense, I feel someone looking at me thru a telescope, someone like Jimmy Stewart. He watched a murder across his apartment’s courtyard, one almost like mine. Hitchcock and Jimmy are long gone but the premise still lives. Can there be another murderer, maybe two? I ask myself, look in my mirror and say, ‘If he is coming after me, sneaking peeps, getting his jollies, No more, Fella!’

To cut the sneak’s chances of seeing me, I lower the dimmer before my robe falls to the floor. He won’t see me. I can hardly see my lufah, my shampoo. My shower is a disaster. I do what I have to, wrap myself in my handy towel before I take a step out of my dressing area, dry off, try to relax. Ray must be frustrated, missing his kicks.

I get mine from in the sky. A dragon, stands on his hind legs, long, strong talons ready to devour a hook nosed old lady, wearing a white pleated cap that has caved in on top. A baby pussy cat sits inside the cap. Its whiskers flutter and fly away. My eyes are there so I mis-button my blouse and have to start again at the bottom. It is only July but Santa has a pack on his back. I think he has been taking statins as he looks too thin to me. His white beard remains long and keeps a baby elephant from falling to earth.

The red sun starts to turn yellow. Clouds evaporate. From the 3rd floor across the courtyard, something shines. The sun makes it glitter. It must be a telescope. It has to be a telescope. This may be my imagination, but maybe not. From my kitchen what-not drawer I find the list of condo residents, done in building sections. There is no listing for Jimmy Stewart. But in building H, across from D ( my building) there is a Jimmy McLagen. Could that be Victor’s son, a mean, tough man if I ever saw one in the movies? I dial. 452-2901. A child’s tiny voice answers on the third ring. ‘Daddy is in the bathroom. Please call back.’ I don’t bother. Mr. McLagen has not been watching me.

But maybe someone else has. Tomorrow I’ll leave my dim light off, stay cool and keep my eyes on the sky parade.