Mr. Wilson is a lanky man in his early 60’s with horn-rimmed glasses and a penchant for bow ties. He lives alone in the apartment directly above mine, and, because of my building’s thin walls, I know that he’s a bit of a night owl. For instance, at 3 a.m. I can often hear the patters of a shower running upstairs, and sometimes he even plays the piano at this hour. I’ve never asked him what his job is, but he’s told me that his office is in Chelsea.
Mr. Wilson used to be one of those people whom I could never imagine being sad because he seemed so peppy all the time. He always has a smile on his face and always greets me with the same question: “Are you happy today?” This made me all the more surprised when I saw him crying uncontrollably outside of our building two years ago. It was mid-December, around ten o’clock at night, and I was walking home after a late dinner. I had just turned the corner onto my street when a taxi stopped about three yards in front of me, and Mr. Wilson came out of it, clearly distressed. He handed a fifty-dollar bill to the driver and said, “Thank you very much, sir.”
The driver looked at the fifty-dollar bill, then back at Mr. Wilson and said, “I think you gave me the wrong bill. Your fare was only fifteen dollars.”
“What good does money do if you don’t have love?” yelled Mr. Wilson. The taxi driver mumbled something and drove away. I stood in front of my building and wondered whether I should comfort my neighbor or pretend that I had never witnessed his moment of weakness.
Mr. Wilson took off his glasses and started crying into his hands. People were walking past him and giving him funny looks, but he was lost in his own world. I walked up to him and gave him a pat on the back. “I think you should go inside,” I said.
He followed me into the building and sniffled as I opened up the front door. Once we were in the lobby, he took out a handkerchief and wiped his nose. “I’m sorry for being so ridiculous, but I had my heart broken tonight,” he explained.
I didn’t know how to respond, so a good minute of silence passed before I said, “Do you want to talk about it?” I felt ridiculous. After all, I was a fifteen-year-old girl offering to listen to the problems of my 60-year-old neighbor.
Mr. Wilson thought about my offer for a second, but ultimately said, “No, no. I’m not going to make a young person cynical with my big mouth.”
He took a deep breath and loosened his bow tie; he was wearing one that had sailboats on it. “Besides, you’ll have your own tragedies one day.”
“Do you want me to leave?” I asked.
He shook his head. “I live alone, and now I’m alone in the city too. Will you just ride the elevator with me? I’ll be done bothering you after that.”
“Yeah, of course,” I said. “I’m sorry that you feel so sad.”
We rode the elevator in silence. When we stopped on my floor, he bid me good night.
“Feel better!” I said.
He sighed. “That’s unlikely.”
When I got home, my mom was sitting in the living room and talking on the phone. After hanging up, she asked me how my day had gone, and I told her that it had been uneventful. I already felt as if I had intruded upon a private moment, and I wasn’t about to share Mr. Wilson’s hysterical episode with anyone yet.
Around 1 a.m., I heard sobbing coming from the apartment above. Mr. Wilson was stomping around his apartment and crying. He screamed, “I’m alone! All alone!” about a dozen times before opening up his piano and banging the keys furiously. My mom heard the commotion and came out of her room.
“What the hell?” she asked. “Where is that coming from?”
I pointed to the ceiling, and the piano banging continued.
My mom rolled her eyes. “If that man doesn’t stop soon, I’m going up there and telling him to be quiet.”
“He’s really sad. Didn’t you hear him crying?”
She listened closer and heard Mr. Wilson’s sobs. “Well, he better stop soon,” said my mom before returning to her room. Fortunately for her, Mr. Wilson stopped right afterwards; his apartment was quiet for the rest of the night.
I ran into Mr. Wilson two days later, about a block away from our building.
“Hey there!” he said, as he stopped to talk to me. “Are you happy today?”
I was relieved to see that he looked like his normal self again. “Shouldn’t I be asking you that?” I asked.
He grinned. “I’m okay, but you never answered my question.”
“I am super happy. How are you?”
“Surviving. Besides, I’ve found a bright side to my situation.”
I gave him a confused look, and he bent down to whisper in my ear: “There are many ways to mend a broken heart.” He stood up straight and adjusted his bowtie. “I have a date tonight, and she’s a thousand times better than the old one.”
As I laughed, Mr. Wilson gave me a pat on the shoulder and walked away happily, leather briefcase in hand. I stood on the sidewalk, watching him until he crossed the street and turned out of sight.