“Boulieaux” sign. My head pounds. My chest heaves. Tiny fists punch me from the inside. How could Jill let herself get so out of shape? She used to play sports. Softball, swimming, hoops. As soon as the change happened, she turned into a daisy. Maybe the split caused it. Maybe when I woke up, she slotted all of her masculine traits into my week. How “deeply” unenlightened of her.
In the distance, a dog howls high and long. For a second, I’m tempted, out of a vague sense of camaraderie, to let out a big wolfen howl, but I don’t have the breath to summon one. As the air chills the sweat all over me, I pull myself up from the cold ground and drag my spaghetti legs to the maple tree and up the swing.
From my vantage point on the porch roof outside Ramie’s window, the world is a still and inviting place. Ramie sleeps soundly, face to the window, wild tangle of dark hair obscuring her eyes. I’m tempted to rap on her window, but tonight, patience is called for.
I pull a note and some tape from my pocket, stick it to her window and shinny back down the maple tree.
On Night Two, I return to Ramie’s house, hide out in the bushes at the foot of the driveway and spy. I can see that she’s removed the note, and believe me, I want to shinny up that maple tree and crash through her window.
But I’m not going off half-cocked tonight. Operation Window Invasion is a multistep process.
I get as comfortable as possible in those bushes and wait to see if any cops come out to investigate. I’m no dummy. I know they’re not going to park a big black and white cruiser in her driveway. I am way ahead of the curve.
You see, the note I left her last night read “Hi Ramie. Don’t be scared. I’ll be back at midnight tomorrow.”
Now, I know Ramie. Odds are she has not called the cops. Odds are she read the note, opened the window, maybe even went out on her own to investigate, then thought about calling the cops and decided against it. Why? Ramie, “worshipper of chaos” that she is, can usually be relied on to choose the more reckless of any two options. But if she did call the cops, they’re probably sitting in her living room waiting for midnight to roll around. When it does, which is, oh, right about now, surely one of them will come out to investigate.
No one does. I hunker down in those bushes for what feels like hours, waiting for evidence of law enforcement. Then, when I’ve had enough and can no longer resist the temptation to climb the tree and invade that window, I pull myself out of the bushes and run home.
Patience, people. The good part is coming.
On Night Three, I assume the bush position to scan for the increasingly unlikely evidence of law enforcement when, lo and behold, I see something taped to the outside of Ramie’s window. Now, I’m not stupid. This could be a trap. But it could also be a reply from Ramie. With maximum stealth, I do the Kick-the-Can lawn crawl from the bushes to the maple tree and start climbing. I shinny to the edge of the branch, then stop and listen. Nothing. Absolute silence. I climb onto the porch roof, then tiptoe to Ramie’s window and take down the piece of paper.
It’s blank.
I brace for catastrophe. A cop is going to rappel from a black helicopter, aiming his rifle at me, at which point I will leap from the porch, twist my ankle, and limp into the arms of a SWAT team, who, after stuffing me into an unmarked van, will deliver me to a top-secret research facility for invasive and humiliating experiments, resulting in the full exposure of my darkest secrets in the pages of the
Boston Globe
under the headline “Cycling Hermaphrodite Stalker Foiled by Curiosity, Bad Planning.”
Thankfully, none of that happens.
Instead, a light comes on behind me. Turning around, blank paper in hand, I spot someone standing by the maple tree pointing a flashlight up at me.
“Climb down,” she says. “And don’t make any sudden moves or . . . anything.”
“Ramie?” I
In the distance, a dog howls high and long. For a second, I’m tempted, out of a vague sense of camaraderie, to let out a big wolfen howl, but I don’t have the breath to summon one. As the air chills the sweat all over me, I pull myself up from the cold ground and drag my spaghetti legs to the maple tree and up the swing.
From my vantage point on the porch roof outside Ramie’s window, the world is a still and inviting place. Ramie sleeps soundly, face to the window, wild tangle of dark hair obscuring her eyes. I’m tempted to rap on her window, but tonight, patience is called for.
I pull a note and some tape from my pocket, stick it to her window and shinny back down the maple tree.
On Night Two, I return to Ramie’s house, hide out in the bushes at the foot of the driveway and spy. I can see that she’s removed the note, and believe me, I want to shinny up that maple tree and crash through her window.
But I’m not going off half-cocked tonight. Operation Window Invasion is a multistep process.
I get as comfortable as possible in those bushes and wait to see if any cops come out to investigate. I’m no dummy. I know they’re not going to park a big black and white cruiser in her driveway. I am way ahead of the curve.
You see, the note I left her last night read “Hi Ramie. Don’t be scared. I’ll be back at midnight tomorrow.”
Now, I know Ramie. Odds are she has not called the cops. Odds are she read the note, opened the window, maybe even went out on her own to investigate, then thought about calling the cops and decided against it. Why? Ramie, “worshipper of chaos” that she is, can usually be relied on to choose the more reckless of any two options. But if she did call the cops, they’re probably sitting in her living room waiting for midnight to roll around. When it does, which is, oh, right about now, surely one of them will come out to investigate.
No one does. I hunker down in those bushes for what feels like hours, waiting for evidence of law enforcement. Then, when I’ve had enough and can no longer resist the temptation to climb the tree and invade that window, I pull myself out of the bushes and run home.
Patience, people. The good part is coming.
On Night Three, I assume the bush position to scan for the increasingly unlikely evidence of law enforcement when, lo and behold, I see something taped to the outside of Ramie’s window. Now, I’m not stupid. This could be a trap. But it could also be a reply from Ramie. With maximum stealth, I do the Kick-the-Can lawn crawl from the bushes to the maple tree and start climbing. I shinny to the edge of the branch, then stop and listen. Nothing. Absolute silence. I climb onto the porch roof, then tiptoe to Ramie’s window and take down the piece of paper.
It’s blank.
I brace for catastrophe. A cop is going to rappel from a black helicopter, aiming his rifle at me, at which point I will leap from the porch, twist my ankle, and limp into the arms of a SWAT team, who, after stuffing me into an unmarked van, will deliver me to a top-secret research facility for invasive and humiliating experiments, resulting in the full exposure of my darkest secrets in the pages of the
Boston Globe
under the headline “Cycling Hermaphrodite Stalker Foiled by Curiosity, Bad Planning.”
Thankfully, none of that happens.
Instead, a light comes on behind me. Turning around, blank paper in hand, I spot someone standing by the maple tree pointing a flashlight up at me.
“Climb down,” she says. “And don’t make any sudden moves or . . . anything.”
“Ramie?” I
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