my neighbor from across the hall

I’ll never forget the day She moved in.

My neighbor from across the hall is new to the building; she moved in just thirty-six days ago. I remember exactly when that was because that was the day of the big Ancient Aliens marathon. I remember I was just getting home and she brushed by me in the hall: Dolce & Gabbana.

While I’ve seen my neighbor from across the hall ninety-two times in all, we’ve never actually met. Peephole, remember? Truth is, I don’t even know her name. Sad.

What did the moving man call her? Angie? Frannie? Francine?

I don’t know. What I do know is that was the last time I ever saw anyone else, besides her, going in or out of her apartment. Not to say she doesn’t have friends, but just like me, I imagine she enjoys her quiet time, without all the chaos and the craziness.

Seriously. Like me, she rarely leaves her apartment. In the morning, I watch her when she goes to work; in the evening, I see her when she’s coming home.

I know she always gets home late on Fridays; I know she always goes somewhere in the middle of the day on Saturdays; and because she’s always leaving early in the morning on Sundays and returning around noon, I figure she must be going to church. I also know that Wednesday is market day because she’s always coming home with grocery bags in her arms.

So why don’t I just go across the hall, knock on her door and introduce myself? I’m not an Anthropophobe. I’m just shy, that’s all. Especially around women.

I’ve been watching my neighbor from across the hall ever since that first day, but don’t get the wrong idea: that doesn’t mean I’m some kind of stalker. I can hear when the elevator doors open and I know approximately what time she gets home from work. I know it’s her because her shoes squeak. I wait by the door around the same time every day, but I am not a stalker.

Of course, I’ve tried everything to get over my shyness. Shyness is more than just a curse, you know. It’s an illness. I’ve tried every self-help method there is to get past it: yoga, meditation, the art of visualization; but when I visualize me introducing myself to her, all I see is a bumbling fool who can’t even remember his own name.

Nothing seems to work. Every time I think I might muster up the courage to go and talk to her, my heart starts beating fast and I break out in a cold sweat. So I stay right here behind the safety of my door, in my own little personal bubble.

My neighbor from across the hall is a nurse. At least, I think she’s a nurse. She’s always wearing scrubs. I assume she’s a nurse of some kind, or a dental assistant perhaps. I don’t think she works at the blood bank.

Does my supposing that she’s someone’s assistant, just because she’s a woman, automatically make me some kind of sexist? Why couldn’t she be a doctor? Truth is, it’s not because she’s a woman. It’s just that I can’t imagine a doctor living in a hundred-year-old, half-falling-down, rent-control building in Santa Monica.

My neighbor from across the hall is sweet. She’s petite. She’s blond, she’s beautiful, and I’m not just saying that because I have a crush on her. She drives a 1995, baby-blue Volkswagen Rabbit Cabriolet (the ultimate girly-girl car), and by the sound it makes, it’s badly in need of a brake job.

So I watch her through a peephole. So what? There have been plenty of romances that started out through peepholes. Like in Daniel Schechter’s movie Life of Crime. Or Porky’s. Or Alfred Hitchcock’s Psycho. On second thought, maybe those aren’t such good examples. Still, if you think having a crush on someone through a peephole is strange, welcome to my world.

In fact, my very first crush, I guess you could say, was through a peephole: the one we call television.

I used to stay up all night watching TV. Old movies, mainly: Key Largo, High Noon, The Quiet Man. Humphrey Bogart, Gary Cooper, John Wayne. Those guys were my heroes. But it was around the time I turned thirteen I started noticing something else: the ladies.

There was Lauren Bacall, Grace Kelly, and Maureen O’Hara. Ava Gardner, Rita Hayworth, Marilyn too. Mmm, Marilyn.

Then one night she came to me, like the answer to my prayers: Barbara Stanwyck. It was maybe three in the AM and the 1941 film Ball of Fire was playing. I was gaga for her from the very beginning.

Lucky for me, I had a VCR and I taped it the very next night. I must have watched that movie a thousand times. I just couldn’t get enough of my drum-boogie babe, Barbara Stanwyck.

By night I’d watch her dance all over the screen, those long, skinny legs and high heels kicking up a storm and driving all the men wild. By day I’d lie in bed, fantasizing about being married to her. Spending the rest of my life with her. Fucking her. What heaven.

My parents, on the other hand, were worried I was watching too much TV. They didn’t much like that I was staying up all night, either. I was just glad they never caught me jerking off.

But how did they know? José, our driver, must have sold me out. José lived in the servant’s quarters right above me.

Next thing I knew, I was back at the therapist. I grew up in Orange County, and as you may well know, the answer to everything in the OC is therapy.

My therapist was kind enough to point out that the real Barbara Stanwyck was old enough to be my grandmother. Then he showed me an episode of the Big Valley. Thanks, a lot. That was the end of that. Fucking therapists. Even so, as old grannies go, she still looked pretty hot.

But I had my fling. My fantasies. I suppose the next thing you’ll be telling me is there’s something wrong with having sexual fantasies. With masturbating. Who doesn’t have sexual fantasies? Who doesn’t masturbate?

But there’s nothing like that going on with my neighbor from across the hall. I just like keeping an eye on her, that’s all. What’s so wrong with that? What if she were ever in danger? Who would be there to rescue her? Me, that’s who. Like William Hurt and Sigourney Weaver in Eyewitness.

It’s all completely innocent, believe me. More like I’m the big brother and she’s the little sister. Well, maybe not exactly the little sister.

And it’s a lot better than TV. There’s a big difference between television and real life, you know. For one thing, television does nothing for the olfactory senses. If they could make TV do that, then they’d really have something.

Another thing: television can’t reach out and touch you. No matter how hard they try, not even with 3D, they still can’t make television (movies either) in feel-around, no matter what the Kentucky Fried Movie said. It’s like the difference between a porn star and a prostitute. One is out of reach, pure fantasy. The other is actually attainable. There’s a huge difference.

Not to say that my neighbor from across the hall is a prostitute. Don’t start putting words in my mouth. She’s a nice girl. Pure as the driven snow. At least, that’s how I see her from over here.

And that’s another thing. What if I were to come out from behind my peephole, step out into the open only to discover she wasn’t anything like I’d imagined? What if she were a chain-smoking slob? What if she spoke with a frog in her throat instead of all mousy, like I envision? No, I just can’t take that chance.

Sometimes my neighbor from across the hall stands outside her door for hours on end, just talking and talking on the phone. I wonder why. Bad reception? Perhaps. But maybe, just maybe, it’s because she wants me to see her. But how would she even know I was watching? Sometimes, a woman just knows.

I can’t hear a word she’s saying, though. These doors are rock solid, like they used to build them back in the old days. She stands there talking to who knows who, laughing and stroking her hair like Marsha Brady.

Maybe she’s talking to her mother. Maybe she’s telling her all about the handsome young man across the hall. Well, maybe not so young. But handsome? Could be. To each, his own.

Maybe she’s telling her about this intriguing man who lives across the hall and how she’d like to meet him. Or maybe she’s telling her about this creep who stares at her through his peephole all day. Maybe her mother is telling her to watch herself. To call the cops. Shit. Ya think?

Or perhaps, she’s just talking on the phone with one of her nursing buddies. Nurses are like that, you know. They all tend to stick together, talking about nothing but nursing stuff. Like lawyers. You ever been to a lawyer party? All they talk about is lawyer stuff. I’d rather be strapped to Old Sparky than suffer through endless hours at some lawyer party, thank you.

Maybe I’m exaggerating. I often do. Truth is, I don’t stare at her ALL the time. Okay, so maybe I do watch her a little too much sometimes, but it’s just curiosity. I like to know who’s living in my building, especially right across the hall.

Maybe she’s a ghost. Some say the Hacienda Palms is haunted by the spirits of years gone by. All the people, especially the famous ones, who used to frequent the hotel back in its glory days, but tragically died too young. Like Fatty Arbuckle. Or Mabel Normand. Or Rudolph Valentino, even. Maybe I’m the Arab Sheik reincarnated. Maybe my neighbor from across the hall is Pola Negri. If so, I hope Charlie Chaplin isn’t roaming the halls of the ninth floor. If he is, things could get really ugly, really fast.

If the Hacienda Palms is actually haunted, and the stars of yesteryear are wandering the halls still, then that would make Timofej and Tatiana: Elizabeth Taylor and Richard Burton. At the very least: Frank Sinatra and Ava Gardner.

That would make Old Lady Noogieburger: Luise Rainer. The Professor: Werner Krauss. Madam Maui: none other than Gloria Swanson herself. Not much of a leap, considering she thinks she’s Norma Desmond already.

Wow. I just had a thought. What if my neighbor from across the hall is Barbara Stanwyck reincarnated? Wouldn’t that be something? Talk about coincidence. Or fate. Yes, fate. Little did I know: fate wasn’t just about to run into me, it was about to bash me right over the head.