the rear window, sans christopher reeves

On nights like tonight I feel like Jimmy Stewart in the Rear Window, without the murderer (presumably), gimp leg and absurd speech impediment that 1950s America apparently thought was endearing.

It's one of the things I like most about my spot, especially on a warm night when the fog miraculously never bothers to form and is replaced by a still haze over the water, a long-lasting sunset and a peculiarly early summer night that even the Indians couldn't see coming.

Situated on the top floor in the tallest of two buildings in my complex, I have the benefit of casually peering into pockets of my neighbors' lives with them being none the wiser.

I attempt a light through several matches and kick back on the grated porch, four flights up, hoping for some sort of entertainment from dozens of apartment buildings stacked out in front of me like an absurd Lego set, but mostly the 5 doors wide open in the building across the way.

An old woman shuffles out of #12 and clutches against the railing to strike up a conversation with the landlord watering the bushes in the patio below. I can't hear what she's saying, but she looks like a long-removed fixture of the Pirates of the Caribbean ride, repeating the same jaunting head cocking and mechanical arm raising, most likely warning about some some suspicious activity she's seen lately around the building. Her moo moo snags on her motorized undercarriage. The landlord seems disinterested in her warnings.

Two flights up and over in #36, Darryl is making his moves in on some most likely unattractive broad. I can only see her legs, and his XXXL basketball shorts, as he begins to mac on the couch. I don't know his name, but Darryl seems fitting after how many of his obnoxious house parties have made me wonder if I had the aim to launch my bar-b-que across the patio into his living room - lit.

They'd be prime candidates for me to witness some horrific attempted crime, if not for the French couple frolicking around in the pool between the two buildings. They moved in next door six months ago, and seem way too nice and carefree to not be the target of some twisted plot. Just minutes earlier they had told me how "pleasant warm" the water was - "30 degrees Celsius!" I didn't know those would be their last words. If I were Jimmy, I'd guffaw and bang on my cast, trying to alert them that something was awry.

Instead, I get distracted by the landlord, now up on the third floor, cleaning out #32 for a new tenant. Though a seemingly hip young landlord (he has a beard and wears v-necks), I think he's sort of had it out for me. Weeks after a bar-b-que I hosted, he posted flyers on every door in the building prohibiting bar-b-ques or any lit object near the building, and "thanking us for our cooperation". Only I haven't cooperated. I shuffle my chair between his line of site and my "Smokey Joe" mini bar-b-que on my porch, in the process drawing his attention to my lit pipe.

He feigns interest in moo moo pirate, who's shuffled back to her perch to haggle about something, but gives me an admonishing stare. I'm committed to a summer grill-off without the Man getting me down, and decide I've had enough of the rear window for the night. The Frenchies will have to fend for themselves.