Rear Window is considered to be one of Hitchcock’s best and one of the greatest films of all time. This story borrows heavily from that screenplay but curves off into a new TRANSlation.

Rear Window
By Angela Rasch

My leg throbbed. I looked at my pill bottle and considered the Vicodin my doctor had prescribed.

No. I thought.

Although it’s rare that reliance on Vicodin goes beyond dependence to a true addiction, I’m resolved not to use anything but Advil, and nothing more than the recommended dosage.

Mrs. Kurt, a husky, middle-aged woman, unhandsome and dark-haired, swept into the room. “The New York State sentence for a peeping Tom is six months in Riker’s Island,” she warned.

I ignored her. I had a high-end digital camera on a tripod next to the chair where I sat with my leg elevated. I’d equipped it with a telephoto lens, so it wouldn’t produce sharp pictures if handheld. I use high-speed shutters, but they can’t overcome handshaking multiplied by the distance of the shot.

“And there aren’t any windows in the cells they’ll lock you in.”

You have to give her points for persistence.

Her attempt at wit lashed me again. “Years ago, they used to put out your eyes with a hot poker. Are any of the women you watch worth a hot poker?”

She shook a thermometer, and then stuck it in my mouth. “We’ve grown a race of peeping Toms,” she opined. “What people should do is -- stand outside their own homes and look in.”

I yanked the thermometer out of my mouth. “You’ve been reading my old Reader’s Digests.”

“I only quote from the best.” She took the thermometer and studied it. “At least your temperature is normal.”

“That’s how it is. Everything about me is normal.” I waved my Introduction to Ornithology manual at her. “The only birds I’m looking at through that camera have feathers and chirp.”

She shook her head. “I can smell trouble right in this apartment. Bad karma broke your leg. Luckily you can afford me.”

“That’s the kind of bad luck I’ve always had,” I snarled. “Besides Workers Compensation pays for you. My accident was on the job.”

She snorted. “Workers Comp doesn’t pay for a private nurse. You don’t fool me,” she went on. “You’ve got $5,000 suits hanging in your closet -- with a dozen pairs of shoes that run around $1,500. Yet you live here,” she mused.

I looked out the window. The neighborhood isn’t a prosperous one, but neither is it poor. It’s a practical, conventional dwelling place for people living on marginal incomes – or hope and careful planning. It’s your average Greenwich Village street. The brick apartment buildings are four and five stories high.

She’s right. I have a healthy retirement account that last quarter stood at $3,278,092.37. I’ve lived in this apartment for almost as long as I’ve owned Stewart’s Best Clothing. I voted against Bill Clinton the month I moved in, but that didn’t keep Bush in office.

“Why did you ever become a nurse?”

She smiled. “We don’t often have the chance to help another person. When we’re presented with such a rare opportunity, we should firmly embrace it and boldly move forward.”

I thought for a bit trying to remember the last time I directly helped anyone. Sure, I donate to several worthy causes, but I never get my hands dirty.

I groaned.

“When you have the kind of break you suffered, there’s a lot of muscle damage. Those sharp pains are coming from your muscles.”

“Muscle or bone, it hurts like hell.”

She nodded. “Your file says it’s going to be three months before you’ll get a walking cast. She doesn’t even want you on crutches for another six weeks.”

I bit my lip. “What am I supposed to do for another six weeks? Nothing?”

“You’re supposed to sit in your chair and mend.” She picked up my discarded newspaper and empty water glass. “What you’re not supposed to do is see things you shouldn’t.” She shook a finger at me.

“Birds,” I insisted.

“I can see you now in one of your fancy suits in front of the judge. You’re pleading that it was only innocent fun. He’s telling you that your new address will be up the East River.”

A flash of orange alerted me to the male Baltimore Oriole I’d been trying to shoot. His mate was building a hanging nest from slender fibers about thirty feet above him.

I peered through the camera and mechanically clicked several shots.

“I’m done for the day, Mr. Stewart. Do you need anything before I leave?” Mrs. Kurt asked. “Toni will be here in about two hours for her ten-hour shift.”

“Leave the door unlocked on your way out,” I ordered. “The pizza delivery man knows to come in and hopefully he won’t steal anything.”

“He probably knows you’re a peeping Tom and isn’t eager to be alone with you for too long.” She grinned.

I waved her to the door. The last ten hours with Mrs. Kurt have felt like a week.

Once she brought me another glass of water and said good night I looked to my camera to see if I’d managed to get a decent picture of the oriole.

The bird was plump, and the colors were vivid. I was assembling a book through Shutterfly of the birds I could see out my window. This picture is definitely a keeper.

Wait! What’s that?

I manipulated the picture, bringing the background more into focus.

The woman in the apartment behind the oriole is wearing our model DP23 in light blue! That was one of the first dresses my company started with thirty-three years ago after I left Munsingwear and moved to New York to create my own business. Call me a sentimental old fool, but that particular dress has been putting food on my table for four decades.

I moved the picture around with my fingertip, noting the cut of the garment. While I was checking the stitching around the collar it became clear that she’s . . . BALD!

I brought her face into focus and recognized “her” as Garrison Kelly.

Of the over two hundred people who live in the complex, Garrison is one of maybe ten or so that I knew by name.

His folks named him Garrison after some radio personality who got caught up in a scandal and no longer is famous.

He’s been living here for about fifteen years. Ten years ago, he was front page news when he saved the lives of six people in a fire. He’d served in Iraq and came home with a bad case of PTSD. Somehow, he’d talk his way into the NYFD. He’d served as a firefighter -- with distinction -- for six years before he saved those people.

He was trying to save a seventh when things went sideways. He suffered severe lung damage. Between his PTSD and battered body, he’s on total disability.

I’ve only talked to him two or three times. He lives alone. I see him carrying books back and forth to the library. He appears to be a loner.

From what I know about what he receives in disability payments, it’s a wonder he could even afford to pay the $29.50 that dress sells for on Amazon.

That’s probably why he can’t afford a wig.

He’s the first transperson I’ve “known.” I haven’t thought much about them. Those fool politicians seemed to want to make a ruckus about them, one way or another. My motto has been, “Mind your own damned business.” Especially in a case like this.

Who’s he. . .she harming? She’s in the privacy of her home and not bothering anybody. If she gets a kick out of it, where’s the harm?

I looked at the picture again. The beautiful smile on her face surprised me. If anyone deserves to be happy with a smile like that it’s Garrison Kelly.

Something that cantankerous Mrs. Kurt had said stuck in my brain. “We don’t often have the chance to help another person. When we’re presented with such a rare opportunity, we should firmly embrace it and boldly move forward.”

I did an online search for Garrison Kelly in New York City. There were four. Two were in there sixties. One was twenty-two. The other was forty-six, which I figured was about right for my neighbor.

The search provided an address, which seemed to be correct. It also provided a phone number. I dialed the number watching him / her through my camera. When she picked up on her end, I hung up.

I reached into the writing desk Mrs. Kurt had positioned next to my chair. Luckily, I was able to find scotch tape and a stack of magazines in addition to copy paper. I assembled a note like they do in the movies, cutting out words and letters and taping them to the copy paper.

My note said. “Garrison – I accidentally discovered your nature. I intend you no harm. I want to help you. – Your Friend”

Sticking the note in an envelope I addressed it to Garrison and gave the stamped envelope with no return address to the pizza delivery man along with an extra five-dollar tip and asked him to stick it in the mailbox on the other side of the street outside the building’s front door.

While I ate my pizza I searched online for information about people like Garrison. Searching on “crossdressing” I found a site called All About Crossdresser – allaboutcd.com. The site was aptly named.

Starting with a blank slate on the topic, I spent the next four hours reading, before I went to bed thinking about how frustrated Garrison must be.

***

The next morning, I called my office and gave Raage Ahmed, my production manager, specific instructions. He was to make a one-of-a-kind DP23 in light blue. I’m pretty good with sizes so I knew my neighbor was a size 14. Looking closely at the “oriole” picture I was able to see where the off-the-rack DP23 was ill-fitting on her. I told Ahmed how to lengthen the sleeves and broaden the shoulders as well as other small changes.

I gave him the name and address of my neighbor and asked him to ship the finished garment by the end of the day. I told him the package was to be anonymous.

As I would expect from him, he asked no prying questions.

***

Two days later I found Garrison walking around her apartment in a correctly-fitting, light blue DP23. The look on her face was priceless.

I’m on the right track.

I had intentionally NOT adjusted the fit of the dress “face.” My next online search was “Fake Breasts” which brought me to The Breast Form Store – thebreastformstore.com.

I was amazed at the vast number of options. Trusting the sites opinion I bought a size 5 Hera self-adhering set of breast forms. I selected a French vanilla skin tone with a Gigi nipple and light freckles.

Eager to be moving on with my “project” I downloaded Crossdressing Tips to Help You Build Confidence from All About Crossdressing – AACD – and sent it anonymously by mail to Garrison.

The next day, I sent her How to Look More Feminine When Crossdressing. There were so many great articles on AACD I hardly knew where to start and stop with Garrison’s education.

***

The day the breast forms arrived proved to be worth the wait. I didn’t see her open the package or attach them, but I did see the finished refined presentation. The DP23 looked exactly as I had hoped it would. The darts had been perfectly placed.

The smile never left Garrison’s face. Her posture had improved one hundred percent. She moved much more elegantly.

Whatever doubt I had was gone.

AACD had an article about top male celebrities who had been transformed into women through crossdressing. I was amazed by most of the twenty pictures. Wanting to inspire Garrison as to the possibility of her being very successful in her efforts I printed ten of my favorites and sent them to her.

There were several wigs on the Breast From Store – BFS – that I thought would work with Garrison’s facial structure. I bought three different styles for Garrison in a variety of colors. The wigs came with care kits.

When they arrived, Garrison’s appearance made another quantum leap.

***

Over the next several weeks, I sent Garrison a huge variety of information from AACD. I also sent her cosmetics and jewelry from the BFS.

Working with Ahmed I had my company produce and send her a large number of altered dresses we sell. I was pleased with how they looked on her.

***

I was having so much fun with my project that the weeks flew by.

I was on crutches and back to work before I knew it.

My first day back, Tim, my receptionist let me know that my appointment for an interview for a job had arrived.

“I put her in the small conference room.”

I shook my head, “I’m afraid I’m not quite back in the saddle. Does this person I’m supposed to interview have a name?”

He grinned. “A regal one. Her name is Grace Kelly. And she’s wearing DP23.”

I entered the room to see my smiling neighbor.

“I don’t know how to thank you enough,” she said.

“No thanks are needed, but if you’re willing to give it a try, Grace, I’d like to offer you a job in our marketing department. I’m thinking about expanding our customer base and think you might have the specific perspective we need for that effort to succeed.”

Her smile nearly blinded me.

The End