Dalton's Window

Dalton could not sleep. That was not unusual. At his age, 79, sleep was elusive at times. He had arthritis in his right shoulder and he slept on his right side because an old nose injury, that surgery did not repair, required him to take that position so he could breathe. And when he could not sleep he sat in a chair by the bedroom window that overlooked Glenwood Avenue. His sixth floor apartment was located in the middle of the Wayfair Building and Glenwood ran directly away from the building under his window and into the distance. Daytime traffic was moderate, some commercial, some local, but at night, hardly anything was moving; this was a residential neighborhood, except for a couple local businesses.

A blinking set of traffic lights on Ester Boulevard, a cross street three blocks up from his building, started its yellow flashing life at precisely 9 pm each evening. Its loneliness always reminded him of one of his favorite paintings, Edward Hopper's “Nighthawks,” a forlorn depiction of three people in a corner cafe at night with a single counterman bent over an unseen task. The painting was melancholy. So was his nightly view, when it occurred, of the blinking lights that were warning no one to be cautious. It mesmerized Dalton with its rhythm; blink, blink, blink, surrounded by an emptiness that was almost complete. A single automobile might pass in one of four directions and the rhythmic traffic lights would bounce off the windows of two corner businesses, one a hardware supply store, the other a drugstore, flick, flick, flick. Much less frequently, during the later hours, a pedestrian might enter his view and Dalton always wondered where that person was coming from and where he or she was headed. Did their pace indicate their temperament at the moment? Did they have a good life? Were they disappointed or happy; were they looking forward to something positive or backward at a failure? During the winter, especially if snow was falling and especially if the snow was heavy enough to distort the image of the blinking lights, the sense of aloneness became intense; it was cold and lifeless. And if a bundled figure entered that snowy environment, Dalton might shiver subconsciously in sympathy. 'I'm glad I'm where I am, even if I can't sleep,' he might think, and he would be pleased that he did not have to go anywhere.

A computer was available on a nearby desk, but that was a distraction; it required him to work, to read what was on the screen, even if that was a completely minor burden, but still, one that occupied his head and took him away from his concentration on what was invisible in front of him. And it disturbed the darkness in his room that he welcomed, and one that allowed him to snoop on an empty street and feel safe and snug, but sad, too, but in an indifferent way because its loneliness did not affect him the way it might if he had been on the street. And for some reason, at night, even when there was virtually no activity on the street, it was more interesting because an empty street allowed his imagination to wander, to create scenarios, to be free of the constraints that reality demanded. The “Nighthawks” would understand, each of them with a separate personal history, each unique, like a grain of sand, or a snowflake, or a DNA sample on a laboratory slide.

So Dalton sat, at 2:17 am,, on his bedroom chair, looking down Glenwood Avenue and the blinking yellow lights. He was not happy. He had had a bad day, filled with necessary, but annoying errands, which followed a previous night during which his sleep was fitful. And now his was tired, but could not sleep and his imagination had been abused by the irritations of the last 36 hours. Normally he was free to think whatever he wanted to think, but anger, which was not healthy in any event, was robbing his vigil of its independence.

And then, at 2:27 am, something happened. The street became crowded, in the sense that two is a crowd on an empty thoroughfare in the middle of the night. The two figures, which were in the shadow of the drugstore building, were weaving, were moving back and forth between the building and the curb, and one of the 'trespassers' appeared to be pushing or swinging at the other. Then the two became one larger shadow in the shadows, and the larger shadow continued its dance from building to curb and back.

It was mid-March, and the window was closed to keep the weather out and preserve Dalton's sense of sanctity. But he did not think, even if the window had been open, that he could hear, from the sixth floor, whether the larger shadow was in a vocal argument with itself, or maybe it was just two inebriated friends messing with one another.

Then he saw the flash and thought, but was not sure, that he had heard a gunshot. The larger shadow divided and one part of it fell to the street while the other part turned east on Ester Boulevard and disappeared. What he had seen did not immediately register; he was unsure, even, of what he had seen. Had his imagination tricked him? There were apartments above both the hardware store and the drugstore, and a single light burst into the night from one of the windows. Dalton looked again and, yes, a darker shadow remained on the sidewalk in the shadow of the hardware store building. The light told him it was real.

This was the city and in the city, people tended to mind their own business, and Dalton tried to mind his own business, so it took a couple minutes for him to dial 911.

“This is 911. What's your emergency?” said the operator.

“I think someone has been shot. At the corner of Glenwood Avenue and Ester Boulevard.”

“What's your name sir and where are you located?”

“I'm reporting a shooting.”

“Yes sir. I understand, but what's your name and address and describe what you saw.”

Dalton hung up. The phone rang immediately afterward. It continued to ring and Dalton continued to ignore it. He shut the bedroom door and went into the living room and sat on the couch. He could still hear the phone. He went into the guest bedroom and shut the door. He laid down on the bed.

About 4:30 am, there was a knock at Dalton's front door. He did not open the guest bedroom door. He stared at the ceiling. He examined the cornice that ran around the area where the wall and the ceiling joined. He imagined that he might never sleep again.