The Watcher sits on his new Balance Ball Chair in front of his computer, clicking and reading. The Balance Ball chair is a springy inflatable ball, like those used in yoga, set in a plastic cradle with casters and chairback. Perched on it he can bounce, or twist, or lean, but most of all, the chair encourages him to sit up straight. The chair works the muscles of his stomach and lower-back and it is his hope that with his new chair he can beat back the sagging lump around his middle without doing anything other than sitting in front of his computer.
He’s arranged his desk and computer in order to steal glances through his apartment windows. The windows flank a big wooden door and look out onto Second Street. The blinds, off-white and dust-stained, are closed, but in each the Watcher has carefully crimped a pair of slats, leaving slanted gaps through which he can see what is going on outside. If something catches his eye, he can twist on his BalanceBall and follow whatever he’s seen as it moves from slanted gap to slanted gap. The twist strengthens his abdominals. If he’s very interested he can stand up from his chair and peer over the tops of the blinds, which cover only the bottom two-thirds of the apartment’s tall front windows. Such peering risks notice, so he limits himself to standing for only the most interesting things, and he positions himself carefully in the shadows so that only somebody looking for him would spot him.
Through his windows he’s learned the comings and goings of his neighbors in great detail. The old man who lives in the house on the corner of Second and Redondo walks his old dogs at 8:30am, 11:00am, 2:30pm, and at 4:30pm. The dogs are both little � one is clearly part dachshund, and the other is slightly taller, and much fluffier. The old man smokes during these walks and the Watcher suspects that nicotine inspires these walks as much as the dogs’ need for exercise. The quiet girl with the nice ass who lives in the apartment behind hustles across the Watcher’s field of view promptly at 9:10 am Monday, Wednesday, and Friday on her way to the bus stop at the foot of Redondo (where it meets Shoreline). The book bag she carries suggests she’s on her way to school � either the Junior College or Cal State, he doesn’t know which. When the semester started, her crossing was one of the events for which he’d stand and risk observation, but lately he stays in his chair. It’s gotten to be the same old same old with her, and besides, he suspects that she’s on to him.
He witnesses a motley collection of joggers and cyclists throughout the morning; assorted stroller pushers and dog-walkers through mid-morning and mid-day; the mailman, the UPS and Fed-ex men, strangers parking their cars around the corner from someplace on Broadway (which is just a block away), occasional visitors flitting by through the afternoon and evening. When he wanders out, to the Laundromat to get quarters, or to O�Shannon to ogle the waitresses and drink beer, he sees some of the same people in different contexts, and he doesn�t always recognize them right away.
This morning he has noticed a woman behind the wheel of a four door Honda parked across the street. He�s seen her before. She lives in the house on the corner of First and Coronado, the one with the dirt front yard and the falling down garage. She�s married to a man who looks like an English professor. It�s strange to see her behind the wheel of a car parked across the street. He usually sees her jogging along the sidewalk, once in the morning and once in the evening, a pair of small dumbbells in her hands and a pair of iPod buds in her ears. The twice a day workouts have not had much of an effect on her physique. Her body has remained stubbornly chunky and droopy since he first noticed her almost a year before.
Her car is parked near a palm and the shadow of it falls across the windshield. It�s difficult to make out what she�s doing in there, but she�s doing something. The Watcher takes the chance and stands up to peer over the top of the blinds. She is dressed in her sweat suit and one iPod earbud dangles from its white wire over her near shoulder. Her hair is matted and pressed in places; she has been sweating. She doesn�t seem to be doing anything but staring ahead. The Watcher squints. Now she seems to be chewing. Quickly. She�s chewing quickly. Her mouth looks full, a squirrel�s bulge in her cheek, her jaw hurrying up and down. She bends forward slightly and her hands come up. There�s a fast food burger. It�s big and she has to open her mouth wide to take a bite. The burger disappears below the car�s windowsill and she wipes something from the corner of her mouth, looking straight ahead, chewing. She pauses to swallow, then she sips from a straw, and takes another big bite. Then another. Then another. Then more until the burger is gone. She takes several long draughts from the straw and wipes her mouth and looks down and to the right, reaching for something in the glove box, and she sits back up and looks down at the space in front of her, she seems to be fiddling with something and her upper arm jerks a little, and then she flicks a bit of paper over into the passenger seat and fusses with whatever it is in front of her for a moment, and then she brings it to her face, the Watcher can finally see what is � it is a candy bar, a jumbo Snickers or extra large Milky Way � she gives it a little sniff and turns it in the light and seems to sigh or exhale a little and sets her chin to face the candy bar and slightly adjusts her posture to its presence, about to take the first bite, the Watcher imagines the sweetness flooding her mouth after the savory burger, the slight burn of chocolate and sugar, the soothing nougat or caramel right after, crunchy peanuts, and then, strangely, she stops and straightens and looks in the rear-view mirror, looks over her right shoulder and the Watcher knows he�s about to be seen but doesn�t know what to do so he stands there, hoping her eyes are like cat�s eyes � extra responsive to motion � and if he stands still she will regard him as the wallpaper, or a lamp, or a weird shadow and then she turns to face his side of the street and he can tell where she�s looking, she doesn�t know about him exactly, she�s looking along the row of apartment windows and driveways and parked cars that is his side of the street, scanning along toward him and then she scans by him and he exhales and thinks it�s time to slip back to his chair in front of the computer and she scans back and stops scanning and stares and squints and recognizing something, she tosses the candy bar toward the passenger�s seat without taking that bite and turns to face the wheel and does something out of view, starting the car, and she pulls away and stares back across the street at the Watcher and keeps looking until she�s too far to twist her head and stare.
The Watcher�s heart is beating hard and fast. He feels he�s done something wrong, watching the woman sneak food, standing up and staring and watching her eat, but really, he didn�t do anything wrong. He just watched. She�s the one with the flabby middle.
After washing up in the kitchen he returns to his chair in front of his computer. He googles �webcam wireless� because he doesn�t want to bother with running a bunch of wires across his living room to his computer. If they are cheap enough, he will rig up three or four.
