The Condo

Mason Huxley took Amy Armstrong by the hand and dragged her to his fifth-floor living room picture window. He extended his arms out dramatically toward the shiny, orange device which pointed to something of interest beyond the glass. “Ta-da! May I present my Celestron NexStar 8SE! With an eight-inch aperture and 81 times magnification, isn’t it a beauty? Plus, it’s got a database of 40,000 celestial objects it locates and tracks for you.”

“Slick as a pig’s tongue!” Amy exclaimed. “Love it!”

“Eighty-one times magnification isn’t all that sharp. One day I’ll snap up a better one.”

The telescope looked chunky and long, with dials and gizmos she knew she’d never figure out. Still, she’d rarely seen Mason this ecstatic and that made her as happy as pie.

“By next year, I’ll have it paid off! Here,” Mason said, sliding out of the way. “Take a peek. Let me know if you need help focusing.”

Amy squinted and placed her right eye against the eyepiece. The telescope was focused on a brand-new apartment building across the park. And oh, my! It was the equivalent of observing objects through a telephoto lens. Really, it was exactly that! On the fourth floor, a girl about twenty clothed in a fuzzy bathrobe and with a monogrammed towel wrapped around her head paced her living room. Black strands of wet hair peeked out from under the edges of terrycloth. At that moment Towel Gal closed the curtains against the glaring sun. In the apartment below that one, an older woman with graying hair twisted into a bun lounged in a recliner facing a big-screen TV. A game show was playing, one Amy’s Grannie Bee used to watch. A cane rested against her chair.

“I tried to track Venus,” Mason said, “but in this smog, you can’t pinpoint a single star. What do you say we drive this baby up to the Adirondacks this weekend for some real stargazing?”

“You got it.”

Mason’s world revolved around black holes and galaxies. Although he was just a sales associate in the natural history museum store, she had no doubt he would finish his night classes at the College of Technology and eventually become an astronomer.

“Great. Truly peachy. But why do you have it trained on that ritzy condo in Lenox Hill?”

“If you can’t study stars, it’s fun to people-watch.” Mason pulled her into his arms. “Move in with me, babe.” He slyly undid the top buttons of her blouse. “I’m crazy about you. You’re here every night anyhow.” 

She stared into his glittery brown eyes, glittery as if he were on the verge of tears. She’d never met anyone so smart or quite so attractive. “I thought you’d never ask.” She grinned up at him as he waltzed her toward his bed.

* * *

The following evening, as Mason gazed through the telescope, he said, “Something’s strange. I’ve been watching on and off for twelve hours. People normally come and go, isn’t that right? Not here. People have gone in, but none have come out. Why is that, babe? Your theory?”

“I bet they’re signing up for a one-way trip to Mars?”

“Ha, ha. That would be pretty terrific. Might happen in our lifetime. Too bad we can’t see Saturn’s rings or the cloud bands on Jupiter instead of folks with nowhere to go.”

“Staying put is not that strange. At times,” she said coyly, “we stay in all day.” Amy grabbed her crocheting and began edging the variegated baby blanket she had nearly finished. Not for her, not now, anyway. Mason studied every night before they could have their fun. No different even now that she’d agreed to live with him. So, while she waited, she’d taken up crocheting for new mothers and planned to donate afghans to a local hospital.

Occasionally, she’d walk to the telescope and focus in on the activities in the building across the park. The doorman opened the door for a heavyset redhead loaded down with grocery bags. “See, Mason? You’re wrong. There’s the redhead again. She exited the building around suppertime. Now she’s coming home. Yup. Same one. Walks kind of rigidly and doesn’t sway her hips. So, no. No trip to Mars. No disappearing into outer space.”

“If you say so.”

Amy adjusted the telescope until minutes later she’d found the exact spot where a light went on in the seventh floor. The redhead turned toward the window then removed her long red wig. Underneath it was brown hair shaved in a buzz cut, on what was obviously the head of a man.

“Mason? I have a question.”

“Yeah?”

“Why does a guy leave the house wearing a woman’s wig?”

“A disguise?”

She didn’t push it. Mason was deep into his chapter on particles and waves. Tomorrow he had to pass a very important test. Hmm. She peered into the eyepiece again. Buzz Cut ambled to the kitchen, pulled out two six-packs of Budweiser from his plastic bags, and loaded up the frig. When he plopped down on the sofa, he had no shirt on, only an ace bandage wound around his chest.

Why? So weird. Amy went back to her crocheting and contemplated this.

* * *

On Saturday, Mason was first to grab the telescope. “People aren’t coming out, I swear. They arrive in taxis or limos. That’s it. Like the gray-haired woman on the third floor, who’s watching TV, still!”

“I’ve seen her.”    

“And on the seventh floor, the Marine who dresses in wigs--”

“--What’s he doing?”

“Looks like taking a nap. They never go to work, to the store. Never take a walk for anything.”

“Odd.” While Mason was fixing chocolate chip waffles, it was Amy’s turn to watch. Over the next few hours, she searched for the individuals he had mentioned. All the curtains and mini blinds remained drawn. What was going on?

Suddenly, a cab pulled up to the sidewalk. A stranger got out and stormed into the building--a spindly guy wearing tortoiseshell glasses and carrying a white lab coat. Half an hour later, a Falk Surgical Supplies truck scooted to the curb. A delivery man loaded a dolly with cardboard boxes and carted them inside. Took him eight minutes to return to his vehicle.

Amy gazed through the telescope and located the spindly guy on the condo’s ground floor. The curtains opened briefly, but just enough to get a glimpse of stainless-steel cabinets lining one entire wall. Overhead hung fluorescent lamps, like the ones in dental offices, instead of the sparkling chandeliers that decorated all the other rooms. In the center of the space stood one lone metal table with a blue cloth draped over it. A blue-capped woman wearing scrubs and rubber gloves arranged a bunch of scalpels on top of a medical wrap. A trash can at the side of the table overflowed with bloody gauzes. Hmm. “Mason, what if they’re harvesting organs? Shouldn’t we tell someone?”

“You watch too many crime shows.”

“I see blood. Lots of it.”

Mason jumped out of his chair and dashed over to the telescope. The lights on the ground floor of the condo dimmed. “That’s bizarre. Amy, don’t you get involved.”

“I need to,” she replied. “If you witness a crime, you attack like Ninja warriors.”

“Let’s check it out tomorrow. I have an idea.”

* * *

“Ready to do this?”

Amy nodded though her bowels were in an uproar. She adored the idea of being Mrs. Mason Huxley, if only for an hour. Maybe someday a preacher would be announcing, “Dearly Beloved,” to their wedding guests,” but for now, pretending to buy a condo was a completely stressful event.

Mason rang the bell and the doorman approached. “We’re the Huxleys. We have a 2 p.m. appointment with the building’s realtor.”

“Wait here.” The door swung shut. Minutes later, the doorman opened again and motioned them in. A petite little lady in a cropped, gold-colored blazer and an even shorter skirt greeted them in the foyer. The heavy scent of pine cleaner filled the hall, reminding Amy of the hospital wing in Comoro, TX, where once Grannie Bee had recuperated. The marble tiles of the entryway shone like polished mirrors. Drapes in lavender velvet decorated the floor-to-ceiling windowpanes on either side of a stone fireplace.

Emily Dodds hugged a clipboard to her chest. “I can’t take you to the tenth floor, the one you’d be purchasing, but we do have a model on the ground floor identical to the last one left.”

Double French doors led into the model. Amy and Mason stepped into the very white, open-concept kitchen/dining room/living room combination. Up close, the familiar-looking granite countertops, stainless steel appliances, and Italian floors had a brand-new construction smell that had been unperceivable through the telescope. A bouquet of yellow roses resting on the island lightly perfumed the room. Amy peered inside the walk-in pantry and inspected one of two ovens just to feign an actual interest in the property. Everything was spotless, expensive, massive in this unique-to-New-York-City 2,000 square-foot space.

“Two studies, three bedrooms, each with full bath. The pool and gym are, contrary to other properties in this price range, on the ground floor as well. Would you care to see them?”

Amy whispered to Mason, “Some people sure are living high on the hog.” The couple followed the realtor out of the model and back into the foyer, where Amy noted two elevators and another set of double French doors. The blinds on the doors were shut, and a red cord looped over the knobs bore a Do Not Disturb-sign. An etched brass marker on the wall indicated this was a party room, which, Amy surmised after considering the layout, corresponded to the space with the surgical instruments she’d seen through the telescope. A cold draft drifted out from under the doors, cooling her ankle bones. Was the draft the reason she was shivering?

“I’m afraid this room is closed… for cleaning. Besides, I can’t show you anything else until I receive your recommendation.”

“Recommendation?” Did Ms. Dodds mean they needed some high society approval like from a country club or the DAR?

“We need word from your … bank. These condos are pricey.” Emily Dodds looked Amy up and down, from her thrift store trench coat to her vinyl knock-off purse to her muddy tennis shoes, which Amy hadn’t removed after her morning jog through Central Park.

Mason thanked Ms. Dodds, who promised to be in touch.

When they arrived back at Mason’s apartment, a cellophane-wrapped basket with assorted oranges and apples blocked their entranceway. The card read: “Thank you for touring. Please keep us in mind for any of your future needs.” Signed: “E. Dodds.”

“We can’t see the apartment for sale or the party room? Mason, it’s all very fishy.”

“The rich and famous are just cautious. Wouldn’t want the riff-raff moving in next door.”

* * *

On Monday morning, Amy awoke with a start. Time to buckle down! She contacted the Operations Department at the U.N. and called in sick. Once Mason left for work, she settled in at the telescope with a pot of hazelnut coffee and a plate full of Little Debbie cakes. Why were none of the people who had entered the building, except for Buzz Cut, ever exiting? Something was off. She vowed to sit there all day viewing the condo till she got the answers she sought.

With its complete print manual and diagrams, the telescope wasn’t all that complicated to operate. She swiveled the tripod back and forth checking out each window on all eleven floors. Hours flew by as she studied the faces of the only people who entered the building that day.

 First, there appeared a young, lanky guy, who charged up the street toward the condo like he had ants up his briefs. He wore a gray nylon jacket with its hood pulled over his face. A gust of wind lifted the hood and revealed a patch of curled, red skin on his cheek, skin as red as his lips. Her stomach recoiled, a natural reaction, she thought, to a face severely burned. Like the one she’d seen on a neighbor’s kid years after he’d fallen into a barbecue pit. This lanky guy held onto the straps of two oversized gym bags and headed straight in like he’d visited a million times.

 Second, a white limo drove up. A skinny woman wearing a long, black vest over designer blue jeans and high-heeled boots got out of the back. She hobbled into the condo with arms crossed over an ample bust, like she was desperately trying to hide her God-given gifts. Lugging a Gucci overnight case, a Hispanic-looking girl in a gray uniform trudged behind.

The third was a guy about fiftyish, who arrived in a black BMW, which he handed off to the doorman to park. He wore khaki Bermuda shorts and a pink and white striped T-shirt that hugged a beer belly as if the garment was two sizes too tight. His gait was slow and determined.

Amy took notes on all of them, scribbling details like their exact time of arrival on the back of Mason’s astrophysics book. Well, heaven’s gates! Three people that she would trail up close and personal! Now, she’d test Mason’s theory—that what went in, never came out. Time to separate the wheat from the chaff!.

That night Mason came home with cartons of red curry from a Thai place down the block. Amy ate hers seated at the window and peeked through the telescope between bites. She remained there for hours, obsessing over the view even as Mason announced he was turning in, alone.

* * *

The following day Amy called in sick again as well as the next day and the next. Determined not to miss a move, she drank no liquids that would require her to use the bathroom. Nightly, she slept a mere four hours. During all the time she spent at the telescope over the next two weeks, none of the three people she had written about ever reappeared. Not to take a stroll, not to do an errand, not to walk a dog. All curtains remained tightly closed. Time dragged on.

A month had passed since Mason had purchased the telescope. Where were the people they had spotted way, way back on day one? The lady with the monogrammed towel? The other one with the bun? And what about the last three specimens she’d sworn to follow exactly two weeks ago? Were they indeed disappearing? Murdered maybe? That many people couldn’t possibly have become recluses overnight. She was hatching a plan to bribe the doorman for information when suddenly, the front door of the condo swung open. A man exited, stood on the sidewalk, then spun in a circle as if joyfully soaking up the sun.

Amy carefully wrote down the hour. This man was middle-aged, tall as a sunflower, with heavy legs clothed in khaki Bermuda shorts. Hmm. Khaki shorts. Very familiar. She zoomed in closer. Brown stitching on the back pockets, fraying on the left turned-up cuff. Why, the clothes were identical to those the BMW’s owner had worn the day he’d gotten there! Yet, my heavens! The pink and white T-shirt from weeks before no longer hugged a watermelon belly. In fact, this man, who had entered the condo pudgy and overweight, seemed to have reduced his excess fat in the span of a mere two weeks. She zoomed in on his face. Yes, there was the wart on the bridge of his nose just like the man she had seen in the six-floor window two weeks earlier. He walked to the corner and purchased a coffee and a hot dog from a vendor stationed there. Could it be the same man?

Later that morning, her scrutiny again paid off. Around 11:00 Amy watched the doorman shove open the front door. Out strolled the woman she had once seen wearing a long black vest over designer jeans and boots. Today, however, the woman no longer walked sheepishly with arms folded over her chest. She strode down the street like a model slinking along a runway, nose in the air, shoulders back, looking this way and that as if hoping someone would notice her. The ample bosom, which had once made her look top-heavy, had been truly transformed, for in her black leather bustier, she now showed off small, perky youthful breasts. 

“I get it now!”

Finally, around 5:00, Amy recognized the third guy from weeks earlier--the jogger she’d spotted carrying gym bags and wearing a nylon jacket. Today he sported the same windbreaker but no longer wore the hood pulled up to hide his face. And Hallelujah! The splotch of curled red skin on the right cheek had disappeared. The jogger’s skin now seemed even in tone and as smooth as a baby’s butt. Except for some surgical staples, that is, along the side of his jaw.

Same clothes, different face. Same gestures, different bodies. All, after a hefty, time-will-heal-all rest. Liposuction? Breast reduction? Skin graft? Dang!

When she spewed her hunch to Mason that night as they cuddled under the covers, he simply shrugged. “So, now what, babe? You think you unraveled the mystery. They’re all recovering in private from cosmetic surgery? If so, why was a recommendation required to buy the place?”

“Authorization from the surgeon, no? Or maybe they’re only renting?”

“Is it all illegitimate? Are you calling the police on the doc?”

“No, no cops,” Amy said. She ran her hand over the hairs on Mason’s chest. “Those people all seem happier. Legitimate or not, I can’t be the one responsible for putting a damper on that.”

He brushed his fingers up and down her arm. “Going back to work tomorrow?”

“Yeah, I am. Just hoping they don’t fire my ass.”

“And a very nice ass you have.”

“I’m the lucky one.” She kissed him. He kissed her back. For one full evening, they forgot the telescope.