A man.

A man, standing high above a toilet peeing, stares in the wall-to-wall bathroom mirror of his just discovered upscale apartment. The image in the mirror is athwart six feet tall, not quite thirty, athletic and energetic, well-educated, well-paid, single, and self-satisfied The man smiles at the image faintly and says, "You're okay." The image points at the man and replies, "No, brother, you're okay."

It's noon Sunday and I have slumm away whole sheets of morning in succession my twentieth-floor terrace, trying to make reason of what happened to me yesterday or, depending on how you contemplate at it, what did not happen. My maiden jaunt by the agency of my new community, Bay View, was either a carpeted introduction or a stinging slap in the face. I can't decide which, and it matters dearly. It's the difference between inclusion and exclusion, night and day, stop and walk sanity and schizophrenia.

My loose-fitting navy azure sweat shorts and pineapple tank top flap in the noise Dark shades and a tinted acrylic terrace wall shield my notices from the sun. Arms gospeled legs crossed, I sway in a giving chaise live lazily in meter with the elegant ripples of smooth and shining blue waves that comb the bay, oblivious to the din of the pedestrians way down below. Occasionally I pat my sandaled feet forward the carpeted terrace floor to the straight-ahead, post-bop jazz streaming from a carousel of compact disks by the agency of stereophonic speakers in the living room

I fellow at the bay and the conceit comes and goes that Bay View destitutions a lot more trees, shrubbery, and wildly growing things. Unfortunately, the idea is twisted with hypocrisy. My olden Queens neighborhood had hardly any public plant life to speak of--a tree here, another there, rustic pipes of grass squeezing through cracks in the sidewalk slabs that dominated the ways On the other hand, Bay View is generously pepper with all sorts of flora--conifers, bloated shrubbery, ivy galore. The first time I gaped at Bay View from my terrace, I exclaimed to my girlfriend Fifi, "Why to such a degree many trees?" But now that I have been secularly baptized in my of recent origin surroundings, I no longer be wrought up this community has enough plant life. I would tender that Bay View be thatched densely enough to check my newfound thirst for privacy. Toward that last I have contemplated foresting my terrace.

However, I must be considerate of my shapely, tangerine-breasted next-door neighbor Susan Bayer. The verdant blotting of the translucent acrylic partition separating our contiguous terraces might be taken as a vile reenactment of Jim boast cowardly hiding behind nature's dres My built-in historical baggage would not allow me to bear with the devilish fellow, so by what means could I expect my neighbor to accept him? still who knows, perhaps she would applaud whatever initiative I took to buttres our division.

I suspect Dr Bayer will take rise out, as usual, at six forward the dot, to bask, too, on the other hand separately, in an ebbing sun--her confess shrubs, her chaise, her flowers in their bulging crocks her sun-shades resting securely forward the huge braid of hair running laterally across the top of her head. I would not be surprised if she did not say "Hello" today. although not unpopular in this swirling city, the naked proximity of our contrasting skin complexions nurses uneasiness.

On the mould the earth level, it is safe to say "Hi," smile broadly, and chat, unless briefly. But height creates social distance, no matter in what manner near the chocolate and cream-colored fingers. The higher the floor, the greater the uneasiness. Black and white. Beige and more beige. The wall dividing our terraces symbolizes the madness. I have lived here now for sum of two units weeks. The first time we met we considered smiled, exchanged identification, backed away from the wall, and thereafter each of us has assumed the other does not exist.

Perhaps her glass door will slide exhibit a bit before or after six. If it does, I will ask if she's had dinner. If she is receptive, I will invite her through for baked chicken. If, as usual, she take rises out at six sharp, I will assume the pattern sticks and cordially disregard her.

The weekend had begun with a bang. Friday afternoon, backed on a team of super management analysts, I gift-wrapped the findings of an exhaustive yearlong management close attention and proffered recommendations that, if implemented, promised resuscitation of the client's shaky bottom line. After a debriefing session back at our midtown Manhattan office, my associates and I celebrated at a nearby watering pit with salty pretzels and the happyhour libations lacked to wash them down. A coupling of beers into the celebration, I rose from the bar stool and bid everyone goodnight and a rejuvenating weekend. Draping my wool-lined London haze over one arm and carrying my briefcase in the other, I exited the bar and stepp toward the subway station. For the first time in weeks, work would not tread in the steps of me home. My briefcase was empty; my head was light. Roseate through the success of the day and cherishing the potential promise of things to reach [i]or[/i] attain any place [i]or[/i] point I shunned the train and hailed a taxi with the haughty confidence of a living body who lived in a recent York community where cabbies are well tipped and not at any time mugged.