The Algorithm

Ross Geralds was a peculiar man. I say 'was' because to be completely honest, I'm not quite sure where he went. He lived in the apartment building across the street from mine. It was a short building, mostly newer brick, but radiated the energy of an older building. Very Brooklyn. His apartment looked right across from mine, which is quite frankly the only reason I even knew of Ross Geralds. I like to call him Ross Geralds because calling him Ross seems oddly colloquial, yet Mr. Geralds makes him seem worthy of my respect, and I’m not quite sure if I would go so far as to say that.  

For one, he had no window shades. I wish I could tell you exactly what was flowing through his mind when he decided to flaunt his large, plexiglass windows to the entire neighboring apartment buildings. I also wish I could tell you that I hadn’t observed the decor of his apartment, but that would be a lie. His bed rested in the middle of his apartment. It was bright red, and I imagine he took a ruler and measured the distance between each wall and his bed - that’s how exactly in the middle the bed appeared to be. I’d never seen that before. There was no night table nearby it, no other furniture in the room - just a king bed standing on its own. Something about the bed being that way just didn’t sit right with me. I know Ross Geralds wasn’t aware there was anything wrong with it, or at least the character I had made him out to be in my mind wasn’t, but the unorthodoxy of it resting there made me uncomfortable. I’d never seen another person in Ross Geralds’ house. That’s not to say he never had a friend over, because I would also be lying if I told you I was watching him constantly. That would also speak to my character, and I have better things to be doing than spy on Ross Geralds constantly. I often wondered if he was lonely. 

The most prominent feature of his apartment was the scattered arrangement of books that ran halfway up each window. The books almost created window shades for him, there were so many of them. I can’t imagine he organized them a great deal, but I could pick out titles here and there- ones that were written out in more prominent, large ink. According to my numbers, he had four copies of the exact same edition of Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire. I hadn’t seen a copy of any of the other books, just this one, and I often puzzled as to why he owned four copies of one book of a seemingly unfinished series. 

Likely, you’re wondering how I know his name. I promise I’m not a stalker. That’s not to say I wouldn’t be good at it- I have a keen eye for observation and I’ve been told I have strong hearing as well. However, I actually learned about Ross Geralds from my neighbor Andrew. I call him Andrew because we have a colloquial relationship. Andrew is the type of person who prides himself on being acutely outgoing. I find few people of that nature to be pleasant to be around, but I assumed it couldn’t hurt to hear what Andrew had to say. He essentially invited himself in for coffee, and began to aggressively compliment my furniture. I avoided eye contact with him, but muttered a few quick ‘thank you’s. As he was snooping around, uninvited I might add, he steered himself towards the window, only to gain a fixed view on Ross Geralds, who was sitting on his bed, staring at what appeared to be nothing. 

“That’s Ross Geralds,” Andrew explained, “He’s a bit of an oddball, but he never hurt anyone! I met him on the street a few months ago. Real kind guy actually. I dropped my newspaper and didn’t even notice! Funniest thing. Anyways, he picked it up for me, and even commented on the editorial about J.K. Rowling! Said the newspaper men, or whatever he called them, were out to get him - something like that; something odd of the sorts,” He continued to ramble on about this hollow encounter between himself and Ross Geralds, meanwhile I organized the neat stack of thirty-two books I had on my shelf. I like to keep the exact same amount of books, because you can always have too many or too few books. 

A few weeks after I first moved into the building, we received the notice that under government order we were to stay home in quarantine. I quickly ran out to the grocery store, fully masked, to stock up on beans and corn and other food of the same sort. The grocery store was fairly empty, but as I turned the corner in the canned foods aisle, a somewhat familiar face was scanning the various canned soup options. For the first time, I wondered if Ross Geralds knew who I was. I had been overly preoccupied with involving myself in his life, that I forgot my own shades weren’t always closed. I took a step closer to him, but before engaging in light conversation, I stopped myself. My internal dialogue noted that I did not actually know Ross Geralds, nor did he know me, and the only way I could think to enter a conversation would be to remark on my stalkerish endeavors of observing him from across his window. I quickly exited the isle, and winced at my own fatuity. 

As I paced down the sidewalk, I continued to ponder the question of whether Ross Geralds knew I existed. I supposed in essence, it was fairly odd that I felt a sense of understanding in regards to his character. Like I said, I am unusually adequate at attributing characteristics to people. I’ve always found that particularly striking about the city. We know so many people we don’t know. 

I hadn’t noticed that Ross Geralds had a balcony until April 3rd, when I saw him pacing between either end. The balcony was one of those fire-escape-looking ones that are particularly ‘New York.’ It couldn’t have been wider than four feet, but he continued to pace, waiting to turn until he was nearly touching the other end and then turning around in one quick motion. I wanted to ask him to stop. Something about his motion made me uncomfortable; once again, I felt as if I had the responsibility to inform him that what he was doing was odd. Before I knew what I was doing, I had stepped out onto my own fire escape, staring blankly at Ross Geralds pace. He sensed I was looking at him, and peered up at me. His gaze landed right on my feet, and he, without hesitating, remarked, “You should put some shoes on. It’s raining.” 

Startled, I peered down at my feet, “The rain isn’t cold,” I responded, “I’m fine.” 

He shrugged, and continued to pace. I felt an odd urge to continue the conversation. “Books?” I said shakily, glancing back at the scattered stacks behind him. 

“I’m sorry?” 

“Do you like books?” 

He looked at me as if I had never held a conversation before. I certainly sounded like I hadn’t. To be fair, I was only asking him about books because I knew he loved them. Again, at least I thought I did. 

“Who doesn’t like books?” He replied, rather calm, “I’ve been growing my collection over the years. I was planning on donating most of them right as all of this pandemic madness broke out. Now I just have this mad stack of books piling up next to my windows.” 

I didn’t know how to respond to this. I knew he had a mad stack of books, but I had always assumed it was… well, I don’t actually know what I assumed.

“That’s nice. I would take a few, if you need to free up the space. I have this awkward shelf of nearly thirty books, but I’ve read most of ‘em three or four times through by now.” 

“I’d be glad to. Oddest thing. I’ve been buying these surprise packages down at Benny’s? You know, the bookstore down on eighth. Anyways, Benny likes to send out packages of a few books. Says that people are getting all too pretentious with buying their own books, that they only ever read about politics these days. Says he likes to send ‘em Harry Potter and other childish books. Anyways, I got a few packages from Benny, and in each one, he gave me a copy of the exact same edition of Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire. Isn’t that funny! So, I told myself, Ross, sooner or later, you better go donate those old copies! Some kid down the street ‘gonna get a better read outta those than you! Seems like you are in for a treat, however. I’ll even give ‘ya two copies, if ‘ya like!” He chuckled at himself. 

I stood there, continuing to stare at him.

“I’m Ross, by the way. Ross Geralds.” 

“Nice to meet you, Ross Geralds,” I forced a quick smile. 

“Now’s when you introduce yourself,” he chuckled lightly again. 

“My apologies, heh. I’m Joshua. Joshua Almos.” 

“Well, this has been a pleasure, but I must prepare myself some dinner. Great to know I’ll have somebody to chat with during all this.” 

“Ross Geralds,” I just said his name. I quickly caught myself, and snapped back into it, “Nice to meet you!” 

As the days began to feel longer, I grew preoccupied with other concerns. The plants in my house were dying. My hair was growing rather long and I didn’t know how to cut it. I noticed myself staring in my own mirror more often than out the window. I had engaged in a few more conversations with Ross Geralds from the fire escape, but the following ones had all led to a similar dull conversation about the weather or the virus. I stopped speaking with him. My previous interest in this man I knew nothing about slowly began to wane as the world began to grow into chaos by the day. My routines turned into mindless motions, each book I read began and ended the same; nothing was interesting anymore. I would stare out the window sometimes, peering down at the empty streets below me. New York City wasn’t supposed to be like that. I’d heard many words with negative connotations used about Brooklyn, but empty was a new one. Days overcrowded with sunlight began to feel just as rainy as the rainy ones. The streets were damp. 

A month after my last conversation with Ross Geralds, I decided I was going to clean my apartment. Step one was simple. My blinds had been closed for nearly two weeks. The sunlight made me want to go outside more; plus, Ross Geralds hadn’t stepped onto his balcony for a while, so I wasn’t talking to him anymore either. I had just begun to pin up my shades when the first dash of color I had seen in awhile stared right at me from the street below me. A bright red king sized bed was sprawled out in the middle of the street, the rain besieging it as it lay there. I stared, puzzled, as to why Ross Geralds would get rid of his bed while unable to leave hism home for a new one, when my gaze fixed up on his apartment. For the first time, I could see clearly through to walls, right from the bottom of the window-sill. 

I went out onto my fire escape, neglecting the rain that began to drench my sweatshirt. I wasn’t wearing shoes, but I didn’t mind. “Ross?” I called out. 

The bottom of his window was open, and tiny slivers of rain began to gather. I stared out, desperately, my mind begging him to emerge from the bathroom or behind the door or the hallway. He didn’t. I stared mindlessly across, the brick a duller color than it had been before. I winced, and went back inside. I began to organize my shelf of exactly thirty-four books again. 

With each day I emerged onto the balcony to call his name, the emptier his apartment began to look. He was gone. Something about him not being there gave me an overwhelming sense of uncertainty and discomposure. I wondered if Andrew had noticed he was gone. Part of me wanted to wonder where he went. I didn’t want to wonder. I know I knew him. He had yet to discover it, but I knew him. I paced over to my bookshelf and pulled out one of the dirtied copies of Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire he had chucked from across the building. I hadn’t opened it since he had given it to me. I sat down on the couch, weary of my wet feet. Inside he had written some sort of measurements, next to an angry scribble of a bed. 

42in x 42in. 

11 inches from left wall. 

4 inches from trash bin. 

Fit in space. Space. 

Maybe even Ross Geralds had found the algorithm to the madness.