My first meeting with Pete was not auspicious. I was dealing with a messy divorce and had moved into a boxy, bare apartment in North Hollywood, a perfect retreat from the daily humiliations that life deals from the bottom of the pack.
I was not in a state to recognize, much less care about, my neighbors. An older woman down the hall somehow caught my attention as she often stood motionless in her doorway, but she was a vague outline, not a person. And I’d run into a couple of younger tenants once or twice in the laundry, students probably, absorbed in glib conversation. All of them were as featureless to me as I no doubt was to them. My daily routine was an exercise in self-negation. Returning from work, I would pick through a frozen meal or out-of-a-bottle spaghetti, leave most of it, then pile the dishes in the sink. I’d go to bed as early as possible, leaden with fatigue. Sleep was the only drug I had, but while I could drift off easily, staying asleep was a different matter. I’d toss and turn all night and frequently awoke drenched in sweat to shiver in the chilly moonlight. One night, I dreamed I was being chased for some kind of crime of which I was sure I was guilty even if I didn’t know what it was. My heart raced as I ran down corridors and alleys, desperate with fear of being caught. The blood pumped hard in my ears, waking me up, and for a moment I thought I was having a heart attack. I squinted, trying to make sense of where I was, and only after a few confused minutes did I realize that the pounding was not my heart, but a bass rumble from a stereo in the next apartment. Covering my ears with a pillow proved fruitless so I banged on the wall with my fist. It took several attempts before my neighbor turned down the music, and by then I was wide-awake. It was only four o’clock. Cursing, I buried my head under the covers as a morning bird chirped in perfect mockery. I awoke early, tired and ragged as a cigarette butt. I decided to ask my neighbor that morning never to give a repeat performance. I didn’t bother shaving or eating, and I gave only perfunctory attention to my tie. I quickly ran out of distractions, and the prospect of staying alone in the apartment was too daunting, so I decided to go to work early. After several knocks on my neighbor’s door, there was a weak “Who is it?” from behind the door. “Richard. Richard Walker. Your neighbor.” The door opened to reveal a man about my age, with a pale complexion and thinning, dirty blonde hair. He seemed a little underweight for his bathrobe, and was obviously drowsy. “Jesus,” he said, speaking first, “You look the way I feel.” “Yes,” I said, taken off-guard. “That’s what happens when you don’t get enough sleep.” He yawned and scratched his head. “Oh, so that was you last night?” “Yes,” I said as curtly as I could. “I don’t sleep very soundly, so I would appreciate…” “Oh, of course,” he said before I could finish. “I don’t know what came over me. I’m terribly sorry.” He sounded like an eight-year-old caught with his hand in the cookie jar. I was ready for rudeness or flippancy, but contrition took me by surprise. I fumbled to say something. “Well, just don’t let it happen again,” I said as gruffly as I could. Then, making a show of looking at my watch, I added, “I’ve got to get to work.” “My name’s Pete, by the way,” he said, extending his hand with a smile. I shook it quickly, then hurried to the elevator. As I traveled down to the ground floor, I felt bothered by something he’d said, though I couldn’t place what. When I returned from work that night there was a large box with a big yellow ribbon and a small card sitting outside my door. The card was inscribed with an unfamiliar, but handsome handwriting. “For the next time you have trouble sleeping,” it read. Taking everything inside, I hesitated before opening the box, still uncertain it was meant for me. But who else could it be for? Inside was a large pillow, covered with finely woven brocade, fringed with golden cord, with matching tassels. It was supremely elegant, but not exactly to my taste. I was at a loss. Even if I had liked the pillow more, it was difficult to accept an expensive gift from someone I barely knew. In fact, one part of me wanted to throw the pillow in Pete’s face. It seemed almost like a bribe. But I had to work up the anger, I didn’t really feel it because the gesture was obviously well-meant. As I pondered what to do, there was a knock on the door. I half expected to find Pete on the other side, but it was someone even more difficult to deal with at that moment—my wife. “Sharon,” I said, not trying to hide my surprise.
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