FicWad

Disclaimer - Yep, the TMNT's are not mine. Nothing new under the sun, as they say.

Not sure where this story germinated, but it hit me like a bucket of ice water and I knew I had to write it. A one-shot? Or multi-chaptered? Not sure, but for now - it stands alone.

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Him

by reinbeauchaser

He's been coming just about every night for the past month. I don't know why he's chosen the building next to mine, but he has and... well...I'm glad for it. If not for my apartment standing one story taller than the roof of the neighboring complex and popping for the extra expense for the top-floor rental, I would've been ignorant of his existence.

Yet, here I am, fully aware of his being, his presence, his - uniqueness, and now I can justify the extra money for my 'loft with a view'. Because of him, I will complain no more about the only 'view' it offered, that of the neighboring rooftop.

As I look across from me, I note again its old style, flat construction, harkening back to days when people sojourned to higher elevations during hot summer months, taking advantage of cool, evening breezes. Now, it's dirty and looks neglected, with the pea gravel and tarpaper covering the surface competing with bits of trash miraculously finding its way there. It's obvious to me the roof has been in disuse for some time.

Still, it boasts several tall, chimney-like abutments, offering me visions of the chimney sweep dance in Mary Poppins. Yet, even with that and the occasional visit from pigeons to break up the monotony, it does little to inspire me. Or, at least it did, anyway.

Up until the moment my 'friend' arrived, my wonderful view had been as exciting to look at as dirt.

Nevertheless, when I first considered renting here, I could ill afford much else and still reside within city limits. When I finally moved in, I felt I had settled too easily, that maybe I should have looked hard and been more selective. In fact, that first week had me second-guessing my decision a dozen times, even finding myself awake in the middle of the night, worrying about it.

Yet, no matter how I tried to reason myself into breaking my lease, I knew New York was an expensive town to live in. To find a reasonably priced private place to live and still have a view, regardless, was near impossible, at least not without breaking the bank. And I had had my fill of leering neighbors, too. I swear, I think all the noisy people in New York lived in my old building. There was always someone peeping in on someone else through their window - and it was usually me doing the 'entertaining'. Don't try to convince me that voyeurism isn't alive and well in the Big Apple. With my experience, I was determined to have the privacy my 'loft with a view' offered and so, after that first week, I began sleeping better again.

Then, two months into my lease, my scenery improved dramatically with my friend's sudden arrival. As his visits became more regular and punctual, he gave me something far more interesting to look at than the errant fowl or rodent.

Believe me, I was grateful beyond words.

Once I realized he was making a habit of visiting the neighboring building, I made sure to find myself seated in my wingback chair by my window. Moments before he would arrive, I would settle into my seat with a glass of iced tea in hand, sipping at it leisurely, anticipating his appearance. I would sit and wait, hoping to see his approach. The thing is - and it never failed - that in my waiting I would get distracted. I'd only look away for a second, maybe to check the time on the microwave clock, to see if he would be as prompt as his last visit.

Yet, no matter how briefly I looked away, when I'd glance back - there he was and I would have to still my startled breath to keep from yipping in surprise. His arrival was always so sudden. It was as if he materialized from the air itself. I found it both eerie and amusing that he could do that, too.

It really frustrated me, though, because I wanted to find out how he had managed the ten stories. I wasn't certain where the fire escape ladder was or where the access door on the roof would be, and after a while, I wondered if maybe he lived somewhere in the building itself.

In any case, he would stand there for a while, arms folded in front of him, and looking out across the city. Well, at least, I think that's what he was doing, since I have yet to see what his front looks like. He always looks west, away from me, and he sighs a lot, too.

In any case, he always acts oblivious to his surroundings, ignoring the gnats or other annoying pests that might swarm around his head. He didn't seem much interested in peering over the side, either. It was almost as if he didn't care much about the people below as they moved ant-like through the big city.

Sometimes, though, he would sit on the roughed ground and become quiet, contemplative, for a while, just as he did a moment ago.

As I think about it, I wonder how he can just sit there on that roof, the pebbles grinding into his rump. It bemuses me and I wonder why he doesn't bring a folding chair with him or a blanket or...or something cushiony, like a pillow.

Well, it's his business, I guess, but after a month of watching him, it became obvious to me that he wasn't the least bit bothered with the irritating surface of the roof. Either he ignores it or it doesn't matter to him.

I take another quiet sip of ice tea and think back to the beginning, when I first saw him. That was most definitely an interesting day.

I had been mulling over my manuscript, wondering if my idea was even worth the trouble. I had hit a dead-end, so out of frustration, I fixed my customary comfort beverage - iced tea - and took a seat by my window, in order to collect my thoughts. I noticed the pigeons milling around on the neighboring roof, looking for food. What they could find to eat couldn't have been much, since I had yet to see anyone loiter there. In any event, I entertained the thought of opening my window to shoo them away.

I didn't, though. I decided they added a softer contrast to the hard, rocky surface of the roof and I hoped that maybe they might give me some inspiration, too.

That was when I looked away. It was only for a moment, a stray thought pulling my attention from the window. Still, it was obviously long enough, because after glaring at my pile of papers and then at the calendar, musing to myself about my deadline, I glanced out my window again to the birds - and nearly fell out of my chair!

There was something more than just birds on the neighboring roof, now.

I have to admit that I almost choked on my tea at first. Instinctively I wanted to shout in surprise, but for some reason, I didn't. I knew that with the ten or twelve foot gap between the two buildings I was safe, so, I swallowed my fear and replaced it with curiosity. I figured it had to be a man, a pervert, maybe, or someone with a costume fetish. Of course, with Halloween several months away, I knew of people who planned that far in advance, if only to wow the crowd at whatever party they attended

Personally, I'm not one for costumes - or parties, for that matter. Far too mature I guess, or, at least I try to be. Heh.

In any event, the person lingered for a while, pacing back and forth, before he left. Of course, I logged my experience in my journal, more along the lines of 'little known oddities of NYC'; just to memorialize my passive encounter. However, a few days later he returned, and the a couple days after that, too. When this person began making regular visits, my journaling took on a completely new dimension. Every detail I discovered about this visitor, I chronicled. I wasn't sure what I was going to do with the information, but - one can never be too careful - or thorough, especially one who fancies themselves a writer!

Anyway, in the beginning, I used to call him an 'it', if only because I didn't know what he was. Actually, considering what he looked like, the word 'it' seemed as fitting a description as any at the time. I mean to apply the word 'him' or 'her' to any creature less than human in appearance, might suggest intelligence. To say, 'I saw him at the corner store', or 'I saw her coming up the steps', one might imagine a man or a woman, not a dog, or a cat, or... a turtle, as in the case of my 'friend' on the neighboring roof.

Moreover, I was amazed to find that this 'it', this 'him', was far more intelligent than any cat or dog - or turtle, could ever hope to be. And I cannot say if he was or is real or someone in a costume. If it's the latter, it's the best darn costume this side of Hollywood. I could ask him, of course, but because I'm afraid he would leave and never come back again, I don't.

No, I chuckle silently, determined to keep myself a secret from him, he can't know that I'm here, watching him.

And, strange as it may sound, it would grieve me if he left, because I enjoy his visits very much. Even though he is clueless to me, I really want him to return, unfettered, to feel welcomed. I don't know why, but maybe it's because he's so different and seems so full of - 'something', so eager for more. I've always had an affinity for people striving to be more than the sum total of who they are, the hard-luck cases that meet life head-on. Maybe there's someone keeping this man-in-a-turtle-suit from reaching whatever potential or promise he has? Maybe he's frustrated? Maybe he's like so many in New York, jobless, homeless, directionless. It's possible he's just a man, wearing a costume, something that he can hide in, to keep the world at bay. His previous visits to the roof next door tells me he's hurting deeply and I want to tell him that it will be all right, to hang tough, to believe.

Still, how can you encourage someone who doesn't know you're watching him?

And he talks a lot, too, this 'man', who fancies turtle costumes. He talks...but only to himself. I haven't seen anyone else nearby, so I assume he has one of 'those' conversations that we all engage in from time to time. You know, the ones that are more rhetorical, a personal rant of frustration we believe no one else wants to hear.

Or, maybe he has a cell phone, one with a head set. Still, as best as I can tell, since my window is a good fifteen or twenty feet from where he's currently sitting, it's either very, very small and streamlined or - my first assumption is correct and he's only venting his frustrations.

In either case, I can see the pigeons congregating there have grown in number. They flew in shortly after he arrived and presently they're doing very good job of listening to him, too. As I continue assessing the situation, I can see a variety of color in their feathers. It amazes me, too, and I wonder how it's possible for one species to have so many different hues.

Ah, but then be begins feeding them again and my thoughts are interrupted. He does this often during his visits, bringing a paper bag filled with bread.

Probably why they like him so much, I guess, because they congregate around him like flies to sugar. They're rude, as well, barging in, not the least bit shy, bumping each other about as they scurry around for the crumbs he tosses to them.

Despite their frantic feeding, he seems to enjoy the job, too, hesitating after each throw to watch the birds scamper and flutter after his offerings. Some take flight in order to be first to feed, their aerial acrobatics haphazard and desperate. As I watch him watching them, a sudden spasmodic shudder runs through this man in a turtle suit, and it catches my interest. I hear a low noise, a sound of levity erupt from him and I wonder. Did he just chuckle?

It pleases me for a moment, that he would find the birds worthy of his entertainment, or that he would even care for such pests. Consequently, I forget about pigeon feathers and wonder about the nature of him, what drives someone who prefers rooftops to parks, turtle suits to blue jeans and t-shirts? What interests this man and why would he come to my neighborhood and to this particular building, in fact?

And please explain to me, why would he feed these messy little pests in the first place? Doesn't he know not to feed pigeons, that it only encourages them? If it weren't for my stronger interest in remaining unseen and unheard, I think I would forgo keeping my presence a secret and yell at him for such stupidity. The city has enough problems with the annoying fowl.

Can you tell that I'm not very fond of these birds? They're dirty little things, leaving evidence of their passing in the most inconsiderate and intrusive way. Yet, this evening, I am far more fascinated that he cares and, most importantly, that they're not the least bit startled with his presence. Every time he feeds them, it just amazes me. They're not the least bit frightened into flight by the strangeness that is 'him'. They are accepting of him as easily as he is accepting of them and, perhaps in a way, he understands them, more so than I would want to, that's for sure!

Still, as I think about it, I realize how much I want to be accepting, too, if given half a chance. For reasons that defy explanation or purpose, he - intrigues me greatly. I want to understand. I want to know who he is. I want to toss him offerings - of friendship - and have him scamper unafraid in my presence.

Then, suddenly an utterance of profanities breaks the stillness, but I'm not shocked. No, this one seems to favor the more colorful metaphors of my culture. Yet, his voice immediately quiets soon after, the way one would if they unintentionally spoke too loudly. Undeterred by his inappropriate outburst, he continues to rant, only softer. It's obvious by his body language that he's upset about something, more so than normal. The way his arms and elbows suddenly jut outward, as if in tune with his personal rant, accenting his words with a jab here, a one-finger salute there. The swagger of his back and head as he sits there on the rooftop says that someone's ticked him off royal. And his sudden departure from whatever good mood he was in has caused the birds to fly off, but only for a short ways. They alight a few yards across from him, pecking at the ground, looking for a stray crumb or two; conducting business as usual, waiting for the 'storm' to pass.

Nevertheless, my attention again goes back to my friend. Although I can't make out what he's saying, I still try to listen. In fact, it was during his second or third visit a few weeks ago, when he spoke loud enough for me to hear him, that I realized it was a he. His voice alone was enough, as it told me that this strange one was male and a frequently unhappy one at that...especially this evening.

Normally when he would visit the rooftop next door he would just stare out over the city, muttering to himself, sometimes offering angry comments to the wind. But this evening? This evening he seems genuinely sad, depressed, despite his obvious anger. Discontent clearly defines his raging tonight and there's a cry in his voice, as if any minute he would break down and weep.

My empathy in full bloom, I wonder what could have him so upset. Family problems? Money? A girlfriend?

Minutes go by and my mind wanders a bit. I think back to when I first moved in, eight months ago. I look up at my bare window, naked of curtains. At the time, I didn't feel I needed any, not where I didn't have to worry about neighbors looking in. As it is, I hate curtains, always have. Although I prefer a more Spartan look, allergies are the main reason for not having them. The normal accumulations of dust curtains attract bother me like none other.

But, here in New York City, this intrusive metropolis of perverts and opportunist, it's almost mandatory. Where I used to live, I felt forced to use them since I had neighbors living across the alley from my rental. More often than not, I would find someone staring at me. It only took one time to find out that dressing in the living room was NOT an option. Goodness, that was embarrassing.

Consequently, privacy became a major issue, not only then, but now, too. Hence my loft with a view, limited and unobtrusive and with my new friend, more interesting than I had ever imagined!

Now, I could dress in the living room if I wanted to, or the kitchen, or the...well, I could dress anywhere I wanted to and not worry about giving someone a visual rush.

Just the same, old habits and instincts run strong. As high up as I was, I still worried about giving a peep show to anyone visiting the neighboring roof. As I said, I had had enough of that with living at the 'lower elevations'. So, presented with a choice, buy curtains or do something different, I chose different. I've always chosen different. I love different.

Maybe that's why this person in a turtle suit attracts me?

Anyway, before I moved in, I sacrificed a bit of money and had my windows covered with high-grade reflective film. I can see out, no one can see in - even with my interior lights on during the deepest darkest part of night. My windows overlooking the building next door now reflect the outside world, giving the person inside - namely me, enough privacy without the need for curtains. No matter the time of day, it appears as dark and as vacant as it had been during the six years before I leased it.

And, right now, I'm glad for that, because my friend next door might know this neighborhood well enough to determine which buildings are occupied and which ones aren't. I am certain that any light coming from my windows would attract his interest and then he would find some other place to contemplate his life.

As I said, I like him here. I feel protective of his 'space'. I feel - privileged. So why would I want to scare him away?

As I stare out the window and continue watching him, I am mindful of how much I have changed. When I first moved here, I kept the windows of my apartment closed and locked, a force of habit based on my previous address. It took some time before I felt the remotest of comfort in opening them and even leaving them that way for a while took more resolve. In fact, it's only been recently that I've been doing that. Usually I do so in the early mornings, to allow the coolness of the receding night to fill my apartment, before I close up for the day.

However, this afternoon, I became distracted with my manuscript. My writer's block had dissipated and I was finally on a roll. In my heady state of writing, I had forgotten about the windows and left them opened. It was minutes before his punctual arrival when I had realized my mistake. So, rather than rush around closing them and risking making any unnecessary noise, just incase he was nearby, I turned my interior lights off instead, minimizing the obvious flaw in the scenery.

As it turned out, I had opened my window a scant four inches and where I am presently sitting, I can feel the early evening breeze as it whispers through. Again, had I succumbed to habit and installed curtains, I was certain the flapping and flailing of the material would have alerted my friend to my presence. Once again, I cheered myself for the wisdom of not installing them, but I could only hope that the opened window would still go unnoticed just the same.

So far, he has kept to his own habits. The man in the turtle suit hasn't even looked my way.

As the late afternoon wanes, the shadows grow. Where my side of the complex faces north and as the rest of my building towards the west blocks out the sun's rays, the rooftop next door is slowing plunging into shadow. It might help to hide my presence a little better, but I know it won't be long before my friend will be swallowed up, as well. The cacophony of city noise outside seems to grow louder, too, managing to find its way in, and with it, my 'friend's' newly raised voice.

I now hear him quite easily.

"STUPID ass...couldn't leave me alone, always nagging." He pauses, his arms wrapped around him, the bag of bread crumbs dropped along the rooftop. He seems to sulk, before finally uttering, "I HATE my life, what a waste!"

He announces this as if it's profanity, a curse. Yet, the angry way in which he said his word, his tone, pricks my heart.

Why would he hate his life, I ask silently. Unless...

Then, before I can consider that question, before I can entertain the next amazing thought, he moves a little, adjusting his position slightly. Suddenly I am mesmerized anew. Where every other night before I saw only a quarter of his front, with most of his back turned towards me, now he is sitting in full - perfect - profile.

I am enthralled!

Usually, I've seen only the back of his head, or at most, a partial side of his face, with the top part of his head wrapped in some sort of cloth, like a bandanna. Tonight, he isn't wearing it and I really don't know why he would use one in the first place. Still, I think it's odd he's not wearing it, as it's become part of who he is to me.

Suddenly, as he turns more my way and leans against the brick abutment of a chimney, adjusting his position a little, he finally and for the first time, shows his face to me.

I'm excited beyond description, now, and I know my eyes are wider than they have ever been. It becomes hard to remain still and unmoving. I can feel the strain in my back and shoulders because sitting in one position for so long is wearing me out. Yet, I dare - not - move, despite how excited I am. I feel my heart thump madly against my chest, as I continue staring at the amazing scene outside.

What happens next, however, truly surprises me. As he allows his back to lean against the hard surface of the wall, as he relaxes against its roughed brick, I hear a 'chang', as if the shell on his back is real.

It couldn't be real, could it?

Before I can even consider that thought, the outline of his facial features further distracts and so the memory of the noise fades away, forgotten.

Is he wearing a mask? His face looks - it looks so real? But how can that be? I think to myself.

I want to chuckle, amused, but I don't because my window is open and he would hear me. Then, all he'd have to do would be to look my way and then...well, any noise coming from my apartment would be too much.

Still, I think about his face, his mask. Yes, he is definitely wearing a mask, he must be. Yet, aside from the fact that he's green and leathery, I see broad ridges above his eyes, hard ridges, not of foam, or papier-mâché'. Inhuman in shape, maybe, yet nevertheless they are deep-seated and large, very large - and expressive! He seems too real to be fake.

And it is here I stop my train of thought, because to consider that this man in a turtle suit is real - seems impossible.

I fight with this thought, my common sense telling me how preposterous it is. I then notice his broad cheeks and the way the muscles in his jaw tense and relax. He seems to be grinding his teeth, maybe in frustration.

Then, where the side of his face tapers slightly to his protruding muzzle, I take special note of that. It is indeed a muzzle, not a nose, but a muzzle! In fact, if I dare say, it's a turtle's muzzle, or beak, but slightly softened, not nearly as sharp along the front as one would expect. He mumbles and says something and his mouth and what lips he has forms the words. I may not be able to hear everything, but I can tell he's speaking and no mask I have ever seen or heard of can mimic the movement of enunciated speech.

As he continues to rant, despite his observer's refusal to believe, despite my inner battle to accept what I am seeing, it's easy to see that he is definitely not a happy camper tonight.

The more I look and analyze him, however, I see tears trickle down his face. Suddenly, my preoccupation to the impossibility of his existence changes to one of compassion.

My heart swells with concerned interest.

I watch his silver trails reflect the waning late afternoon sun. I can just imagine the celestial orb hovering on the other side of my building, a second above the horizon of the cityscape, as one last finger of light grasps the city in a desperate bid to stay aloft. I know it won't be long before my friend will be in shadow, lost to me until his next visit. Therefore, I try to capture this moment, committing to memory what I had witnessed a second ago. It's then when I see him shudder. Unexpectedly, I hear a single sob break from between his lips, disturbing the white noise that is New York City. Almost immediately and in response, he draws his legs up hard against him, knees bent, heels tucked in tight against him. He wraps his arms around his legs and then rests his forehead on top his knees. He takes a deep, shaky breath, next, before speaking again, almost whispering his apparent unhappiness.

Thankfully, for whatever reason, a momentary hush falls across my neighborhood, an unusual nanosecond of silence, and in that moment, I can hear him quite clearly.

"They...they just...don't understand, none of 'm do," and he takes another deep, wracking breath, "I could die t'night and no one'll care."

He sounds so mournful and hopeless. I want to hug him. He also sounds very Brooklyn, too. It's funny; I've lived here all of my life and wherever I go, people are always surprised when I tell them I'm a born and raised New Yorker. For some reason, I never acquired an accent, not once.

Yet, my attention returns to my friend. Who are 'they' that he's talking about I wonder to myself, and what don't they understand? Is he talking about people - like me - or other people - like - him?

Before I can even entertain the notion of more beings like my friend, he suddenly moves, adjusting himself again, and turns slightly in my direction. Fortunately, he's more interested in repositioning himself than in looking up.

I realize then that, if he even so much as glances my way, he will see my partly opened window. Fearing discovery, I sustain my rigid posture more determinedly, despite the increasing strain, terrified of moving and risking discovery. Of course, I chastise myself for opening my window in the first place. What was I thinking? What gall, to believe I could do that, would do that, knowing that he was as regular as clockwork, knowing how much I enjoyed his visits. So what if I wanted to cool my apartment. If he had chosen this place specifically and he believed my loft was still vacant, then his coming here was for solitude - and not be a source of entertainment for...me!

And then, in that moment, I remember my own reasons for choosing to live where I am.

I can't help but feel chastised and shamed for my behavior.

Once again, before I can expound on my thoughts, I glare at my hand, as if leprous. Moments before my friend went profile, I had placed it on the windowsill. It was an absentminded act and nothing more. Maybe it was when he turned profile? I know I was surprised and it's quite possible I had done it then. Yet, I also knew that it was wrong to do, regardless.

Now, at any movement, he could look my way and see my hand. In fact, his peripheral vision alone might catch my presence, that is, if I moved. Even a flick of my little finger would betray me and so - as painful as it is now becoming for me, as tired as my back is currently feeling - I remain motionless a little longer.

Minutes fly by and we both continue to sit at our respective spots and positions, one unaware of the other. I try holding my breath, even, afraid the movement of breathing would startle him. It was the first time I had seen so much of him - and I wanted more!

I need more. He has become my drug, my - addiction!

He drags an arm across his face to wipe away his tears and I continue to watch, my previous bout of shame gone and forgotten. I reacquaint myself with a greedy need to see more. I watch him take one hand and rub his forehead tiredly and then he reached down to procure something from his belt.

From the beginning, I had noticed he wore a belt. I never understood what he used it for. It's not as if he's wearing pants. Still, I discovered with subsequent visits that the belt wraps all the way around him, even his shell, and then it either ties or buckles in front. I'm not really sure. But I do know his backside is called a carapace, while the front is termed a plastron...the parts of a turtle.

Thank you Mr. Evans for force-feeding me biology. I smile, remembering how much I hated that class, yet it seems I've retained something from the professor's teachings.

Nevertheless, the man on the roof definitely seems to be a 'turtle', real or fake, it doesn't matter. Weirder still, not only does he wear a belt, but he even sports elbow and kneepads. Why? I don't know that either, but maybe it's to avoid injuring the joints there? Aside from his belt, I notice he still sports his sharp and pointy three-pronged fork, hooked to one side. I know there's another one on his opposite flank, yet the purpose eludes me. I wonder what he uses them for?

In any event, it is the way he moves which fascinates me the most. It is - fluidic, unencumbered. I love the way his musculature bulges and stretches under his 'skin', too, and once more I wonder, Is he real?

I had asked myself this question quite often since first sighting him, and have yet to come to an absolute conclusion. If he is a turtle, then he is the most fantastic, amazing turtle that I've ever seen.

If not, then he might very well be a pervert in a costume.

Still, before this evening, I decided that I wanted him to be real. The idea of a pervert in a turtle costume was just wrong on too many levels. Then again, he could be a real turtle and a pervert, too. I dismiss that thought entirely, though. I think the tabloids would have had something about a 'peeping turtle' before now.

As I watch, he takes from his belt a wad of material and then shakes it out.

His bandanna!

So that's what happened to it.

I smile and feel reassured that all is well with my little world on the neighboring rooftop. I watch as he ties his mask around his face and tying it snuggly behind his head. Tugging the knot, he tightens it further, maybe to ensure that it stays put. He then flips the long vibrantly hued tails over his near shoulder and finally stands up. Stretching his arms high above his head and taking in a deep, cleansing breath, he begins to look around. Only, instead of a casual observance of his world, he seems concerned, now, the way one is when they've been lost in thought and suddenly realize where they are. It was then when he settles his attention on my window!

I suck in a silent breath, because in that same moment, I now know, beyond any doubt, that he is real. His brows furrow, his expression goes flat and focused, yet despite the humanness that is him, he is definitely a turtle! He is a walking, talking, mask-wearing, fork-wielding, terrapin and I want to laugh, to shout aloud at the absurdity and wonder of it all, but I don't, I hold my tongue.

Suddenly, in that second when he looks in my direction, he sees me, or at least the openness of my window. In surprise, my hand flinches, not on purpose, of course, as it was instinctive, a reaction to my shock and bemusement.

Nevertheless and quicker than the beat of my heart...he is gone! Just like that, as if he had taken wing. He disappears and I'm left wondering if he had even been there at all. It was that quick.

I stood there, squinting at the scene outside through my window, watching the shadows swallow up the space he had just vacated, and wondering to myself if it had been a dream. Only the fleeting glimpse of scarlet remains in my mind's eye, an after image of his bandanna tails. It makes me want to weep, because now I know he will never return, never grace the rooftop next door again; never bestow me the gift of his unique and beautiful presence. I feel despair so thick, I am certain it will suffocate me.

Despondent, I leave my half-finished iced tea on the kitchen counter and retire to my bedroom to cry myself to sleep. I have never been so disappointed in my life. I know my days will now feel empty because he is gone, probably forever. The roof will return to its ugly state of pebbles and stained chimney flues, with pigeons and their droppings decorating the area in the only way they know how.

Every day I hope, though, never once giving up the chance to see him again. After six months pass and without an interruption, I realize my hope was futile. He never did return.

Am I disappointed? You bet I am, very much so. Would I want him to risk discovery - by me? Yes, of course. I would never hurt him. But, to want this and at the risk of others discovering him, I'll accept his departure with a small grain of satisfaction that at least I didn't go to the tabloids and tell the whole world about my turtle-man. At least I didn't shoo him away as I've done so many times to the birds he seemed to enjoy feeding.

Of course, it didn't stop me from journaling my experiences. I am a writer, after all. I'm not sure what I'll do with my musings, but for now, they are a reminder that something wonderful visited me for a short time.

As the days march on, I have resigned myself to watching the multicolored birds. They congregate right where 'he' stood, so many months before, drawn to the very spot where some kind soul had enough heart to feed them. Ironically, these days the flock of ungrateful and messy pigeons has become the only distraction for me. Just like me, they can't forget him, either.

I still don't like these birds, never will, but - for a time, I will enjoy them, even appreciate them. Maybe I'll start feeding them, knowing that they were a privileged lot, a lucky few allowed to stand close to something special, something I could only hope and pray to see again.

I know he won't, though, he can't, he's far too precious a rarity to take the chance of someone like me seeing him. He was real, I am sure of it, an upright, walking AND talking turtle...a turtle who wore red and carried an overstated fork - for protection maybe?

Yes, he would have to have some way of protecting himself. From what I learned in Mr. Evans biology class, other than the snapping turtle, most terrapins are benign, pleasant creatures. If this one mutated to a human state, he would have to have some way of ensuring his safety, as well as his privacy. Where would something like him live undetected, anyway? Certainly not the way I do. I wonder about that, about possibly going next door and asking the tenants there if they've seen this turtle man?

Of course, I'm certain I'll look the fool to them, since more than likely he lives somewhere else. Again, I wonder about that and the thought of the sewers comes to mind.

No, something as beautiful and grand as he would not live there...could he?

In either event, it is obvious to me my friend had been unhappy and now, maybe more so, because I took away his privacy, his special spot in the city of New York. Someone had seen him. Someone was intrusive, opportunistic, and selfish, and I should have known better, since I did to him what so many others had done to me.

I am obviously not much different from anyone else living here in the Big Apple, that much I know. I was as nosey and as rude to my special friend as my old neighbors were to me.

And my loft with a view, my expensive New York apartment? It doesn't seem so special anymore...not at all, in fact.


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