​Loft in the Sky

Apartment 6S—where memory softens, music muffles the world, and the view invites you to smile again.

Imagine living in the sky in New York. Such a view. Such scenery.

From my perch overlooking Main Street in Peekskill—just thirty minutes north of the city by car—I watch the hills roll gently past Fort Hill Apartments, the villa and spa, and old St. Mary’s, now part of the hotel complex. Fort Hill is slipping into the last days of summer. You start at the green crown of the hill, descend, then rise again. The colors are fading—lighter, duller—as autumn prepares her burst. Peekskill, ever theatrical, is changing her dress for the new season.
​
It’s easy to sit here and stare instead of write. Instead of do anything. The view is that perfect, that still. One rarely, if ever, wants to leave home. And why would you, when you have all this? Except for the weekly drop-in at your favorite watering hole—mine being Whiskey River, less than a block from my new loft in the sky.

This is what I need to write. To stay home and finish. At least one manuscript. Then another. And maybe another. And we’ll keep going until… well, memory is no more.

Suddenly, I miss my couch-surfing BFF. I hope he’s well. I’m sure he is—I’ve seen him from my window, down at the Salvation Army, where everyone picking themselves up again seems to go. Perhaps soon I’ll run into him and invite him to dinner. He’s the only person I know who actually liked my cooking.

Now, back to Painted People. I took a week off after the drama of my move. That was a nightmare—an LL whose wife I like just fine, but every time I see him, my skin cringes. Even when he’s trying to make nice, you wish a great big hole would open up and swallow him whole. He’s that irritating.

On the other hand, there’s the Optimum guy who installed my internet. Not irritating. A beautiful ginger man with a full beard, slightly darker than his hair. Though you couldn’t see much of it—those white work helmets obscure everything. He was kind and patient, even after I opened the door so stunned by his beauty that I forgot to pocket the key. We locked ourselves out until a maintenance worker with a master key let us back in.

He’s soft-spoken. Very sexy. My type. The kind I wouldn’t mind having around 24/7—without one gripe.

And although my heart belongs to another, it’s okay not to close your eyes to others. As I opened mine, there he was. Salah. Next in line at C-Town this morning. His eyes said so much. That smile—infectious. I was happy to see Salah.

Then there’s the unhappiness. The thing I never really talk about, but always think about. I avoid sitting in front of people who give off negative energy—especially on the bus or subway. I think about that poor Ukrainian girl who escaped war only to be stabbed to death on Charlotte’s light rail by a schizophrenic man who thought she was spying on him. It’s something out of a horror movie. I wish it hadn’t happened to her—or anyone.

People are so disturbed these days. You never really know when someone will attack you for no reason. It’s happened to me. Probably to everyone at some point.

There’s a man here in Peekskill—light-skinned, older, Black—who verbally attacked me the other day when I said hi. I was wearing those “hot” green shorts that probably showed too much leg. He went off, screaming “Sodom and Gomorrah,” saying he hated queers, and using the F-word I won’t even write—not even in fiction.

I think he’s on some kind of medication. The other day I saw him again. I didn’t say hi, of course. But he was… normal. Still mean. Still angry. He saw me, recognized me, but didn’t open his mouth. I got away as quickly as I could.

But back in your loft—where silence lives despite the noisy hum of Main Street—you seem to rise above it all. The traffic, the voices, the fragments of conversation drifting up from below. Sometimes what you hear makes you laugh out loud. Other times, you turn up the music, let it muffle the world, and retreat into your own rhythm.
​
And in that loft, you forget about a lot of things. You remember the good. You smile again.

Apartment 6S, morning: the view from the bedroom, where Fort Hill greets you before coffee and the angels above the bed remind you to rest between chapters.