The Window
John got up from his chair, turned off the TV, walked along the long window that made up the side of his apartment till he was next to his bed, and laid down on the soft covers. On the other side of the window a curious crowd watched, while others merely glanced and continued on to other exhibits.
They were all human, just like him, with ordinary jobs and ordinary lives. John had been one of them too, an ordinary man with an ordinary life. He thought back to the day he moved in, a day of odd excitement. How long ago had it been? Weeks, months, a year? He had decided long ago not to keep track, and now time just seemed to blur together in an indefinite haze.
He looked out the window. A few students sat against the far wall, taking notes or chatting, he the subject of their studies. A lone woman sat there too sketching John in all his glory. ‘Some glory’, he half joked to himself. She wasn’t terribly pretty, but not bad looking either, mostly just average, like himself. She seemed to be in her late forties with long salt and pepper hair that marks a woman passing through her prime. Her clothing appeared to be mostly handmade, with bits of artistic expression placed here and there, be it a colorful piece of fabric sewn in, an out of place button or some other thing that marked it as distinctly her own. He first noticed her a month or so after moving in. Since then she had returned every 3 to 4 days. Each time she either sketched or painted him. Sometimes she showed him her works, sometimes she did not. When she did, the work was of such exquisite detail that it left him breathless. Sometimes he would be painted or sketched in his apartment, sometimes he would find himself in another place, next to a lake, fishing, in an office reading a computer readout, or exploring some alien world. They had formed a bond, the two of them, a kind of friendship; her, the artist, he the muse. It worked well for them, but sometimes he wished that he could get to know her better; beyond the pen and the pallet….
He got up from the bed and made his way to the kitchen. It wasn’t very large, but it was always well stocked, one of the benefits of being on display. Sometimes he would cook a fine meal, pretending that he was a famous chef on one of those cooking channels, but generally he just fixed himself something quick and easy and let it go. That was what he did today. He went to the fridge and pulled out a some bread, meat and other stuff, and made himself a quick sandwich, grabbed a beer and sat down on the stool at the counter, reflecting while he ate.
His life really wasn’t that bad. They paid for all his needs and a bit extra, he got to take pretty nice vacations, but most importantly there was no stress involved. His old job was anything but that. He was one of the managers at the National Security Agency. His group ran a large surveillance network that spanned the country. At the center of this network was an immense network of computers that processed all of this data. Every man, woman and child was monitored, and the system was so precise that it could tell you what color underwear you wore or what you had for breakfast on any particular day, and provide pictures or video feed if necessary. It was a top secret project that no one knew about, and watched every single person every single minute of every single day. At least John knew who was watching him. He could see them as well as they could see him. They, on the other hand, were not so fortunate.
They were all human, just like him, with ordinary jobs and ordinary lives. John had been one of them too, an ordinary man with an ordinary life. He thought back to the day he moved in, a day of odd excitement. How long ago had it been? Weeks, months, a year? He had decided long ago not to keep track, and now time just seemed to blur together in an indefinite haze.
He looked out the window. A few students sat against the far wall, taking notes or chatting, he the subject of their studies. A lone woman sat there too sketching John in all his glory. ‘Some glory’, he half joked to himself. She wasn’t terribly pretty, but not bad looking either, mostly just average, like himself. She seemed to be in her late forties with long salt and pepper hair that marks a woman passing through her prime. Her clothing appeared to be mostly handmade, with bits of artistic expression placed here and there, be it a colorful piece of fabric sewn in, an out of place button or some other thing that marked it as distinctly her own. He first noticed her a month or so after moving in. Since then she had returned every 3 to 4 days. Each time she either sketched or painted him. Sometimes she showed him her works, sometimes she did not. When she did, the work was of such exquisite detail that it left him breathless. Sometimes he would be painted or sketched in his apartment, sometimes he would find himself in another place, next to a lake, fishing, in an office reading a computer readout, or exploring some alien world. They had formed a bond, the two of them, a kind of friendship; her, the artist, he the muse. It worked well for them, but sometimes he wished that he could get to know her better; beyond the pen and the pallet….
He got up from the bed and made his way to the kitchen. It wasn’t very large, but it was always well stocked, one of the benefits of being on display. Sometimes he would cook a fine meal, pretending that he was a famous chef on one of those cooking channels, but generally he just fixed himself something quick and easy and let it go. That was what he did today. He went to the fridge and pulled out a some bread, meat and other stuff, and made himself a quick sandwich, grabbed a beer and sat down on the stool at the counter, reflecting while he ate.
His life really wasn’t that bad. They paid for all his needs and a bit extra, he got to take pretty nice vacations, but most importantly there was no stress involved. His old job was anything but that. He was one of the managers at the National Security Agency. His group ran a large surveillance network that spanned the country. At the center of this network was an immense network of computers that processed all of this data. Every man, woman and child was monitored, and the system was so precise that it could tell you what color underwear you wore or what you had for breakfast on any particular day, and provide pictures or video feed if necessary. It was a top secret project that no one knew about, and watched every single person every single minute of every single day. At least John knew who was watching him. He could see them as well as they could see him. They, on the other hand, were not so fortunate.
posted by Wizgang | 10:31 AM
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