Neighborhood Watch

Neighborhood Watch (This was read at the So Say We All VAMP May 26, 2016)

It’s 6:30 AM, I can set my watch when I see her walk past my home. She has been doing this every morning since we moved here 12 years ago. One morning I was outside early and spoke to her. I said something about 12 years – she said no it’s over 25 years now. That was our only conversation – I watch her through my window.

You know how sometimes you only notice something when you are distracted? You suddenly discover that the picture has been there for months, or that a thing that had become a stable and certain part of your life is missing, gone. Now you wonder “where is it?” And when and why, mostly why you didn’t notice that it was gone.

It happened that way with her. Suddenly I noticed that I didn’t see her. It was 6:30 and she didn’t walk past my window at her usual fast pace. I waited, watching for several minutes until well outside her usual time slot and nothing, So, I noted that fact, in my brain, thought about entering it on my calendar but I really didn’t care that much – I really didn’t know her, not who she was,  not her name, not where she lived – oh, it must be up the road from me because 25 minutes after she passed going downhill she would reemerge going up, but that was all I knew.

She is not particularly attractive, somewhat athletic and on the one day I did talk to her, she seemed even more plain than I had imagined through my window – the male brain at work, even an old male brain. She seemed to be in her mid to late fifties, but that could be a wide miss.

When I first noticed that she wasn’t there, I had no idea how long it had been, was this the first day? Had it been a week? a month who knew? Was she on holiday? Was she ill? Would she be back in a few days? Had she moved – this is not a transient community. I began to actively wonder what could have become of her.

For the next few days I paid attention. I carefully watched at 6:30 and I made sure to start my watching at 6:25. Nothing, she definitely was not walking past my house any more.

Why did I care? What difference did it make? Her status was completely immaterial to my happiness, my wellbeing, my satisfaction, my future, my life. So why did I make certain that I was at my window every morning at 6:30 or really at 6:25 just to be sure?

Then it came to me – with all of the resources available to me, the internet, social media, search engines, my friends, people who have lived here for a long time, my knowledge of the neighborhood; I was at a loss about how to find out who she was, or is, or anything else about her. It was a sudden implosion of helplessness. And I don’t like that.

Across the lake, the one that is down the hill from my house, the lake that she passes every morning, or used to, a jogger was raped and murdered a couple of years ago. The perp was arrested and convicted and is awaiting execution.  But that kind of event changes the way you look at things; it reinforces the reality that there are really bad people in the world and denying that fact doesn’t make it go away. And it changes the way you perceive the world; it causes me to think about possibilities for my friend, no not friend, this woman who has interjected herself, unknowingly and unintentionally into my life.

It nags at me; what has happened, and how long has it really been since she stopped walking past my window. Two weeks, who knows? If it is a trip, a holiday, a vacation, she should be returning any day, but it could have been much more than two weeks.

I have a routine in the morning, two mugs of coffee, checking email and stocks, other things that take about an hour then I usually go to the gym to work out, I’m not a walker. The rest of my day is pretty normal, writing, painting, cooking, planning a trip, taking a nap. However, this change, this gap in my morning routine, not being able to watch the woman walk past is troubling, and no matter how hard I try, I can’t dismiss the feeling. Even the fragrant, steaming black coffee does little to dispel my sense of unease.

I decide to take a short walk to see if perhaps she has simply changed her route – although I think that is unlikely, we are such creatures of habit. Perhaps she has sustained an injury of some sort and is avoiding the hills.

I walk up the hill and around the block, the street nearest the lake, and I see nothing. I notice several other walkers; pairs, singles and small groups -  some with dogs, some for exercise, some for air, - one man who reads the newspaper, and drinks coffee and walks his dog. I nod, but I don’t say anything. I wonder if they notice too, but I don’t ask – what would I say?

Two more days pass, and she still hasn’t reappeared. I walk again, and this time I go further and stay out longer, hoping to see her ahead of me, or going in the opposite direction. But nothing, and I wonder what I would say if, make that when, I see her again?

One afternoon I decide to go out, not with the hope of seeing her, she never walks then, but the thermals in the afternoon make it possible for the turkey buzzards - the vultures, to fly and search the hills and the brush for food. They are out in force, making their fluttering orbits, never needing to flap their wings – marvelous flyers – shitty diet. If there was a large feast for them somewhere it would be easy to track them, to see the activity and frenzy. But nothing larger than a ground squirrel or a vole or a gopher is getting their attention, so I dismiss that possibility.

I check the homeowner’s association web site – nothing. I’m not surprised, only the occasional break-in, or spat between neighbors about the view being blocked finds its way there.

There is the continuing background niggling sense of loss. I must think; what can I do? Where can I look to try to find something out? I have great resources at my disposal, but I can’t figure out how to apply them. I check to see if names are available for the homeowners in our neighborhood and I find that they are. But I don’t have enough information to use the list. I don’t have an address, or a name or anything else – only an approximate location, not enough to be useful in a search.

The mailman might know! I see him one afternoon and catch up with him. I ask him if he knows the woman who walks early in the morning. He has a blank stare, shakes his head slightly, and says no. I know what he is thinking – “Why do you ask me? How should I know – I’m here in the afternoons not the mornings? And, why do you want to know, why do you care?” But he doesn’t say anything, he asks how my 300ZX is running – I think he would like to have it.

The feeling of loss intensifies, the feeling of lack of control increases, I have a constant sense of impending doom; of subtle dread. I begin to personalize my feelings, what if it was me that suddenly went missing. Would anyone notice, care, how long would it take, could they put together enough information to trace me? The mailman would remember, and he could give them my name – and close neighbors know me. But I only know her from the middle of her routine, not where she begins or ends her walk - that makes it a confusing mystery.

I’m at my desk, it’s where I belong, I’m comfortable here, it is an environment that I have created. I gaze out of the window and I’m suddenly brought back from my daze – there she is! I lurch back in my chair and almost fall over. I stand and my pulse races, I want to dash outside and talk to her, find out where she has been, tell her about my fears, my inability to trace her. Then reality emerges – she has no idea who I am, she would be surprised and probably worried about my attention, my “stalking” almost, but of course it isn’t really.

I decide I’ll walk for a few days, perhaps pass her going the other direction, nod, say hello - then perhaps engage her in a conversation. But, how will she feel? I retreat from my plan; I retreat from even considering approaching her. I walk for a few days and then return to my routine, email, coffee, the gym. And she will never know that for a few brief days, someone she doesn’t know exists was concerned about her, cared about her, wanted strongly to interact with her, she will never know – but I guess I will never forget.