First thing in the morning, before letting daylight in my sight, I stretch across my bed, yawn and bask in the morning rays. As I lean my head back, I slowly open my eyes to peer out my fourth floor window for an upside down perusal of the world. My usual view has acquired an unexpected twist: These last few days, my morning glances have been returned by workmen on ladders.
Living in a single on the fourth floor normally assures one of a privacy not afforded by the those living on the first floor. Ordinarily safe from and free of passing glances and inquiring eyes, the last mornings have sported four or so workmen painting, chipping and building who-knows-what around my window while I am desperately trying to sneak in my last, and most appreciated, segments of sleep.
They only work in the mornings. "Why? Why not later in the day, when everybody else is making noise? When people have left their rooms?" I ask. But even if the noise were tolerable, being caught in summer sleeping attire (which lacks) really gets me. The luxury of living alone seems to be slowly slipping away.
I pull my shades down now, although I had previously enjoyed the warmth of the rays that slowly aroused me from my slumber. Now, however, the wind is in the workmen's fortune; the shades pull away from the window to allow perusing glances.
I can no longer sprawl out on my bed or carelessly toss my covers away without timidity and the edgy feeling of being watched. One day I'm Arnold Schwarzenegger avenging my stolen articles, and the next day I'm James Bond, sneaking around my room, dodging the flapping shade while trying to get dressed. I escape to the bathroom and they are at the bathroom windows as well. I go to my friend's room and there they are again. They are everywhere! Construction is everywhere.
We are casual about our meetings now. We exchange morning nods now and then from the bed to the ladder, as if to say, "Hi, how ya' doing?" "Oh, fine, thanks. Beautiful day, isn't it?" "Yes. Yes, it is. Well, it has been nice talking, but I think I'll go put some clothes on now ... G'day." "Oh, yes. Have fun. G'day ..."
I know they are just doing their job, but I do not see why this occupied-dorm construction couldn't be done at some other time of the day or year. It may not be their fault, but would somebody tell these fellows that if we are going to be this close and cozy when I first wake, they ought to at least bring me breakfast in bed?
