CHAPTER 6 - THE SCOPE
Maurin has taken delivery of a Meade
Spotting Scope from the 2005 series. It
features a 1000 mm f11 catadioptric lens
with a MA25mm eyepiece, a 5x21 finder-scope
used for selecting the target, and a 45O-erecting
prism (he’s particularly fond of
that). He has also purchased 5 additional
eyepieces for viewing at different magnifications.
It takes two hours to set it up. A stickler
for detail, he reads the manual from
cover to cover, then takes a chamois to
the
barrel, and cleans every optic surface
with lens paper at least twice before
allowing himself to peer through the
eyepiece.
Right off he goes for maximum magnification,
targeting one of the huge luxury apartments
on the Jersey side of the Hudson. Only
the image makes no sense. It looks like
a cloud with a drinking glass in it.
He worries that the lenses are out of
whack.
He readjusts the eyepiece. Breath stops!
What he’s looking at is a small
portion of a window over two miles away!
The cloud is a reflection. The glass
is sitting on the sill inside! There
is a
rushing in his stomach.
This is it!
The rest of the afternoon is spent testing
various eyepieces and learning to
control focus. For over half an
hour he watches
cars at a stoplight on Riverside
Drive. Highlights included a man who drops
his cell phone and bangs his head
on the steering
wheel, a pretty girl trying to check
her lipstick in the drivers side
mirror,
and
glimpsing the boobs on a Playboy
centerfold in the hands of an off duty
cabbie.
Then there’s the mailbox five
blocks away. Barely visible to the
naked eye.
His new toy makes it possible to
read the pickup schedule.
Night is completely different. All
reflections vanish. Now any uncovered
window is
fair game. Eventually he settles
on an apartment
complex with big windows. First
stop, a living room with a green,
print
sofa, and a kitchenette in the
back. It seems
to be empty. Wait! A middle aged
couple deep in an argument burst
out of the
bedroom. Intense mutual fury sears
through his
lens. She is small but fierce,
hands on her hips, elbows forward like
a bird’s
wings. To make her seem bigger, he realizes.
The wide, chopping gestures, also serve
to enhance her stature. Her husband is
a head taller and overweight. Maurin perceives
weariness in his anger. This is a familiar
scene.
He sides with the man who yells, “Shut
Up!” and turns away, defeated.
It’s
sad. He nicknames them “The
Battles,” makes
a mental note of the window
and moves on.
Through partially closed blinds
he finds a young woman wearing
a pink
terrycloth
robe seated in a chair, spooning
something out of a coffee
cup. Bingo! The angle’s
good. He can see her face, which is not
particularly pretty. She’s wearing
glasses, watching something. He changes
to a higher magnification eyepiece. Her
profile fills the screen. A bit of the
TV is reflected in her glasses, and every
so often she moves her lips as if talking
to the screen. Suddenly it’s important
to find out what channel she’s
watching.
A small set with
a twelve
inch screen is tucked away
in the
bookcase, unused since he
moved in. He finds
the clicker
and scrutinizing the flicker
in her glasses flips between
networks
till
he finds a
match.
It’s a quiz show! How incredibly
boring! He sends vibes for her to turn
toward the window so he can see her face.
Nothing. Then, just for a moment, she
glances there. Coincidence? He fires off,
Stand up! then, Open
your robe! They ricochet
off her window. He imagines slipping his
hand inside her bathrobe and fondling
her breast. She scratches her knee and
continues to ignore his telepathic advances.
Still, he’s beginning to read her
a little. He can distinguish moments when
her thoughts wander from the show. At
one point she does slip a hand under her
robe to feel something on her inner thigh.
It’s not erotic. Finally,
the show is over. She takes
her empty coffee cup
and leaves the window.
Energized, he moves on.
A black woman is weaving her
husband’s
hair into little braids, talking non-stop.
Her fingers seem very strong. He’s
listening to music, keeping the beat with
his hands, probably, not hearing a word
she’s saying. It is
a long process. He squirms.
She smacks him lightly on
the head. He grins, says
something. She
kisses him. He tries to
reach back and get a hand
on her but she yanks on
the
braid and forces him to
behave. He heaves a sigh,
settles, and begins tapping
his
fingers again.
Maurin likes them. There’s something
clean and sane about the relationship.
How wonderful to know someone and have
it be so effortless. He wants to be the
man, feel his hair being braided, feel
the strong, patient fingers; wants to
be the fingers; wants to be her smile.
He envies them. What would it be like
to desire someone without wanting to humble
them? It’s hard to
fathom. If only he were
not who he is. He labels
them
The Dreads and moves on.
Suddenly, there’s a lot of action in Window World. Lights switching
off, others on, bodies passing back and forth. He checks his watch.
11:00 o’clock. This is a “shift” time, he realizes.
People are moving to bedrooms, often the next window over, and most
of which have curtains or closed blinds or the blinds close right
after the lights come on. But he lucks out. This couple doesn’t
care. The man strips off his shirt and pants, the
woman, in her nightie, comes up behind him, slides
her hands around and makes a pass over
his jockeys. They drop out of sight. The flurry of
activity quiets. Half an hour later another wave of
lights wink out. The Newsies have
gone to bed. An hour passes. The Letterman/Lenos hit
the rack. Now Conan owns the night.
Yawning, Maurin slips the lens cap into
place. Tomorrow he’ll
begin a serious search, in the meantime -- he peers out into the night.
Somewhere out there among the maze of windows, she’s waiting
for him.
