Spying on Folks: The Cable TV Edition

Hot diggity-dog! You won't believe this! Right, about fifteen minutes ago now, I was watching that guy from Seinfeld--the one who always comes sliding in with the poofy hair--crackin' it up on the Comedy Network (that's channel 57 round here). Then, a commercial came on, so I started to channel surf. Channel 58 had commercials on too, so I switched to 59. For a moment or two, the picture wobbled and snowed. Then, it resolved into a slightly distorted image of the outside of a building, the sort you might see on a security camera. A dark-haired girl was standing there with her face all fisheyed up to the lens, eating pretzel mix out of a bag and keying something into an entry panel positioned directly beneath the camera. I frowned and turned up the volume: no sound.

What kind of weird film is this? I thought, waiting for something to happen. The girl stood about for a moment or two, evidently awaiting a buzz, then entered the building.

"Oh, my God!" I shouted, delighted. With the girl out of the way, I could see the Delta Hotel. I could see those white cars that are always parked in our driveway at night. I could see cars waiting at the Hastings/Seymour intersection, and I could see the security guard loitering just inside the door, picking his nose. (Well, maybe he was just scratching it. It was a bit of a grainy image, and there was a reflection on the glass, to boot.) But the long and short of it was...I was watching the downstairs security camera*!

I was going to click right back to the Comedy Network. Honest, I was. But then this guy bellied up to the camera scratching his head. I could see straight up his nostrils, and from that moment on, I was riveted. I watched a bunch of teenagers go out, come in, and go back out again, as though they couldn't make up their minds. I watched three identical businessmen enter the building at two-minute intervals. I watched an unkempt man smiting himself twice in the forehead with the palm of his hand--on his way back from a failed date, perhaps. The flag across the way (which isn't a Canadian flag; damned if I know what it is) flapped in the breeze. An old lady came in dragging her feet. I exulted for at least ten minutes, even getting Stella out to watch the security camera channel with me.

"Look at that guy," I cheered, pointing her head at the screen. "He lives on the eleventh floor! I know! I rode the elevator with him last week. Look how ugly he is! I hate his coat!" Stella didn't seem quite as thrilled as I was, and scuttled back to her nest the minute I let go of her waist.

I tried to think whether I'd ever done anything embarrassing in front of the entry pad. I remembered one time last week when I forgot my keycard and had to wait down there for ages with a piece of pizza congealing on a plate before someone came and let me in. I was jumping up and down and wandering in circles to pass the time, muttering "Fuck, fuck, fuck!" I think I may have kicked the door, as well. If I kicked the right-hand door, the camera wouldn't have seen, but if I kicked the one on the left, I'd have been well and truly busted. If anyone was watching, that is. Once, last time I lived here, I lost my temper when the keycard-swipe expired before I could get the door open. I hopped around hysterically and shook both doors as hard as I could. I may also have moseyed on by pinching my eyelids a few times. (I occasionally do that if I'm in pain--it distracts me temporarily, until I can get my hands on some painkillers.)

The best part was when a guy who looked exactly like Virge brought his face right up to the camera and frowned, making his brows beetle. He swiped his card, tried the door, failed, came back to the keypad, frowned harder, then smiled and went in, finally getting his buzz. I laughed out loud when he came back that second time. The wrinkles between his eyes spelled out "EAT." When my bird used to frown, his wrinkles said "TIT," which was even funnier.

Most people don't look into the camera--they have their keycards in their purses or pockets, so they more rub their arses on the reader as they go by. One gets a lovely view of their profiles instead, then the backs of their heads as they walk away.

It wasn't conscience that made me switch back to the Comedy Network, in the end. No. It suddenly occurred to me: hey, what if the security guards can tell when someone's watching their camera? I could probably get in trouble for horning in on their frequency. I will have to keep checking in on it once in a while, though. I mean, they can't fault me for channel-surfing. I can just, you know, casually click past Channel 59 every once in a while, to see if it still shows my front door. Could be it's just a temporary glitch, a once-in-a-lifetime sort of deal--but on the other hand, maybe the cable guy screwed up my installation in such a way that I'll always be able to eavesdrop on the security channel. And if he did, clearly it's a sign that I'm supposed to spy on my neighbours. If only I could see which codes people were punching into the panel. If I could see that, I could figure out which flats had escort services operating out of them, which flats were for rent--I could get the dirt on everyone!

Aren't you glad I'm not your next-door neighbour?

* Later, I learned that this is perfectly normal--one channel is always reserved for enterphones and so forth. At the time, I was well and truly bamboozled.