Karl Klockars

No, not these girls next door. But using their photo is good for like, a whole dozen extra hits to this page.

It started innocently enough.  The wife and I were sitting on our back porch/stairwell thing, right behind our kitchen, enjoying a drink and a nice conversation.  We’re about 10 feet away from the other building next door, whose second story apartment is right about on the same level with ours.  I see some movement behind the frosted glass bricks that denote the presence of a bathroom and by the time my mind can grasp the idea that I’m watching someone in their john, I realize that the movement going on back there distinctly resembles the motions a woman would make when dropping her knickers and bra pre-shower.  We both look away rapidly in what would pass in other people as embarassment and go about our daily life.

Cut to about a week and a half later, on a hot Saturday afternoon.  I’m just getting out of the shower myself when I hear aforementioned wife holler from the kitchen, “I have good news!”  I’m thinking lottery win, I’m thinking job offer to do nothing for high pay, I’m thinking world peace, so on.  I wander into the kitchen and she points to the window and says, “Girls in bikinis in the back yard!”  And there they were – two girls, two towels, 4 pieces of beachwear.  If you’re looking for reasons why I adore my loving wife, this would be one of them.

Since those 2 incidents, my life in the kitchen has been spent under the possible observation of two 20-something young women who occupy that next door apartment.  They are quite literally the “girls next door,” (from here:  GND) and the oppressing weight I have on my shoulders of their presence is overwhelming.  It’s not that I go out of my way to put out a creepy voyeur guy vibe, but…well, it’s not the idealized awesomeness that Hugh Hefner might be selling you.

Certainly not these Girls Next Door. No, not here.

See, I’m in my kitchen a lot.  I cook a lot, I clean a lot, I make regular trips to the refrigerator area for sustenance and alcoholic beverages.  And that means that I put myself in the same viewing area in their own kitchen that they have of me.  And being the natural empath that I am, I can’t help but imagine that they think I’m one creepy sonuvabitch.

I run the conversation in my head.  “That guy next door is in the kitchen again.  Is he trying to spy on us?  No guy spends that much time in the kitchen.  Is he looking at us?  Oh god, I think he sees us!  Okay, just wash the dishes.  Is he using the Cuisinart?  This guy is dedicated to the fiction, I’ll give him that much.  Does he see us looking at him?  Is he being creepy or is he just making dinner?  I don’t know!  It’s unnatural!”

I am actually making dinner, and every time I turn my head I feel their girls-next-door eyes burning into my neck.  Watching me to make sure I’m not watching them with a webcam running or with my pants off or something.  And I can’t even look at the brick wall next to my building without feeling like I’m invading someone’s privacy.  And yet…even if they are weirded out, that kitchen window shade of theirs stays open.

Following the kitchen observation territory, I started to realize how much space was visible whether either of us liked it or not.  Front rooms have windows just feet apart as well – they know my plant watering schedule as well as I know they’ve got a shitty futon up there.  And when I walk back to the bedroom from an early morning shower, there’s a vent window open and one of the GNDs brushing their teeth.  I don’t want to observe these things but it’s like a car wreck that goes sunbathing when its warm out.

And definitely not these Girls Next Door. Nope. Nosir.

I’ve toyed with the idea of communicating via post it note on the kitchen window.  Something like “yes, I do cook this much” or “if you must know, my name is Nebuchadnezzar” or something ridiculous.  Just to see what would happen, and if there would be a response.  It would be like analog instant messages, or paper status updates.  Social media via voyeuristic window notes.

Sometimes I consider the fact that they observe me much more than I do them.  That they toy with me.  That they leave lights on to try to get me to see who’s in there.  That this is all one big mindtrip constructed to get me to write something about not wanting to have to deal with the two females who occupy space directly next to mine.

I’ve also considered just closing the goddamn windowshade.  But damnit, it gets hot, the window gets open and closed a lot, the radio is there and sometimes the cat likes to hang out and stare too.  I’ve got an idea that cat viewing is less strange, however.

The concept of a GND is a sound one.  The actual execution is less than stellar.  As much as I’d love to tell you it’s all pillowfights and wandering around in underpants, the reality is that they probably get stuck looking at me making my corn flakes in the morning with no shirt on far more than anything I’ve had pass before my eyes.

I can’t even imagine it being any better if I were single.  The scenario would play out in one of two ways – either I would make a move and get shot down and have to live my life in shame every time I made a bowl of soup or went down the back stairs.  Or I succeed, we date for a while, and then things go pearshaped and I have to have an ex- just steps away from my front porch, harshing every last inch of my good times.  The Girl Next Door is a Lose-Lose situation, my friends.

But across the street, maybe.  No, of course not.  No one wants this.  No one.

Hugh can keep the fantasy to the pages of his magazine, which is fine.  His GNDs are in the bedroom next door, which is a different thing entirely.  The actual girl next door in practice may work fine for him, but in reality I can take it or leave it.