Saturday, July 11, 2015

Always Look Up

I look out my second storey office window and observe the comings and goings of the people below. Most of them don’t notice me watching. If they do something they know they shouldn’t, such as light a cigarette while standing directly in front of a huge, impossible to miss “No Smoking” sign right as an emphysema patient attached to a canister of oxygen makes his way through the cloud of smoke, they will look to their left and their right, behind them and ahead, but they hardly ever look up.

You should always look up.

I never feel the need to report the people I watch, although I suppose if I witnessed someone physically assaulting a child I might be more inclined to intervene. 

For the most part, though, I’m interested not only in the unguarded behaviors of the people outside, but in the opinions and assumptions regarding those behaviors by us watching inside, usually me and one other person, sometimes two; occasionally if the “show” is particularly lively we’ll call over a third or fourth.

If you get too many watchers, however, you run the risk of someone getting self-righteous and wanting to do something to stop the more dismal of the behaviors we witness. This will not do if you’re interested in observing a person in his or her natural state in an effort to try and figure out why people do the things they do and perhaps glean some insight about yourself in the process.

You should therefore never interfere with the object of your interest or draw attention to yourself if you can help it because you don’t want the observer effect to kick in and change your subject’s normal course of action, possibly skewing your data and invalidating your findings.

On this day, I watch a woman I am familiar with named Florence, who, according to her, successfully completed a residential treatment program and has been clean and sober for the past 4 months. She is one of these tiny, loudmouthed people with pockmarked skin and a smoker’s voice that travels easily. I can hear snippets of her steady stream of bullshit. But she is a charming bullshitter and I don’t hold it against her. When you live in the trenches of society you have to find ways to survive, ways to feed the beast. The beast doesn’t care about your moral judgments.

She is talking with a group of people, including a twitchy guy I recognize as her no-good user boyfriend she claimed to have broken up with before she went into treatment, as well as a known “crack whore” who likes to jog around town in a bright orange bikini advertising her wares. If I wanted to encourage her, I'd suggest a webcam might not only be safer, but more lucrative. However, I do not want to encourage her and she has no idea who I am anyway so she'd probably just tell me to fuck off. The final member of the group is a notorious IV drug user and thief named Troy, who, before he entered into a methadone program, financed his addiction, his beast, with violence and petty crime.

He is an enormous man with the stature of a monster, a face tattoo and an intense Asperger’s stare that makes him appear more threatening than it turns out he actually is outside the rumor mill and its fantastical fabrications.

All four of them are drinking from Tim Horton’s coffee cups and smoking in defiance of the aforementioned no smoking sign. They are talking over each other, boisterous, erupting in laughter every few minutes with a healthy dose of expletives punctuating their speech. The noise rises up to our open window, which is what originally beckons me from my desk.

My unexpected movement piques my colleague Belinda's curiosity until she can’t stand it any longer and joins me at the window (even though earlier she vowed she would not allow me or my extracurricular interests distract her today). Regardless, she immediately understands what has drawn me there and with an excited "psst" calls in Megan, who happens to be walking by our door. Megan is one of the few we trust not to get overly riled up by the show and ruin our cover.

Everyone else around here gets pretty excited when they see any of the quartet in question, but especially Troy, and rush about screaming that there’s been a Troy sighting! A Troy sighting! Lock your doors and don’t walk to your car alone at night! Troy's near the building!

I pay no mind to the hysteria and walk to my car alone at night. It helps that I don’t believe the gossip that he’s as violent as they say, and also methadone makes you lazy. I can't see him heroically rolling himself off the couch like a dopey Dark Knight whose agility has been severely retarded from too much methadone, wipe the drool from his cheek, and blurry-eyed force himself to hike the miles of hill it would take to victimize me. I have nothing of value. It would not be worth all that exertion at all. I’m sure he knows this.

However, if you ask, with feigned indifference I will tell you I walk alone because I have a passive, albeit fleeting, wish to not exist. Bring on the drug-fueled psychos. I don’t care (which I won’t tell you is bravado and not authentic indifference because I am attracted to the idea of not caring. Eventually I’ll get there. Fake it until you make it. I’m not a liar, I’m merely delaying the truth. I’ll reach my nirvana of apathy one day).

My feeling is that the universe has had its paw on my tail since the start of this dysphoric journey called life, and it makes no difference if I obediently sit still or flail about in a frantic effort to escape. None of it sets me free. Why then waste my self-respect with subservience and my energy with making a fool out of myself when there is no hope of release? Thus, rather than allow complete dejection to set in as the world devours me, I say fuck it. Whatever. Pass me the bottle.

And this “whatever” attitude is what I feel when I witness Troy do exactly that: Pass the bottle. He furtively looks to his left and to his right, like they do, behind him and finally ahead of him through into the lobby window to make sure no one can see them through the hedge. He doesn’t look up and not for the first time I wonder if this not looking up thing is related to a loss of faith after a hard life in the trenches or there really are only a few "true" believers out there, if at all. Maybe we're all hypocrites. 

If there were as many believers out there who claim to be believers, you’d think more people would look up. You'd also think one of them would give poor Henrietta a ride to her church. To sit in a pew all smug that you're an "obedient Christian" but not help one of your own congregation members because she lacks social status? This illustrates perfectly why I have a problem with religion. Hypocrites. I'm not impressed with sanctimonious bullshit and I don't understand how other people don't immediately see through it, too. 

Irony: A literary technique, originally used in Greek tragedy, by which the full significance of a character's words (the character in this instance, Hamas leader, Ismail Haniyeh) or actions are clear to the audience or reader (and writer) although unknown to the character. Source.

Nevertheless, this isn't a church and Henrietta is not someone we normally invite to the window, not just because her "unique" personality is off-putting (to put it nicely), but because she has no filter when she hears or sees something she thinks is offensive. She would definitely blow our "cover".

That said, I have a soft spot for strange, grouchy people who have a penchant for conspiracy theories as well as religion, and who fly off the handle over seemingly trivial things, or ones who say funny things without meaning to be funny (which is why I used to be a huge Idiot Abroad fan until I realized Ricky Gervais, whose work I did find hilarious and brilliant once upon a time, is actually just another jerk with a mean streak. It's not Karl's fault, though, and I'm still his fan, but now when I see Gervais' stupid smile or hear that signature laugh of his, I want to stab him with one of my plastic forks. There are many people {such as these guys} I want to hurt with my plastic forks and spoons. But I do understand the difference between fantasy and reality and my plastic utensils consequently know their place  relegated to a Minions mug I keep on my desk.

Marge, on the other hand, might be another story with regards to discerning the difference between fantasy and reality. She is another woman who tries to nose in on what we're doing at the window, but one of her more salient features is that she LOVES Karl with an almost delusional intensity. She even got his name, Karl Pilkington, tattooed on her left forearm! I will never get over how fucking weird that is. Just his name in plain Arial font too, no decorative wording, no artistic additions of any kind! Marge says there's no reason to gussy it up, it's Karl Pilkington's name and his name alone that does it for her. No need to distract things with superfluous decorations.  Whatever floats your boat, I guess, but oh my god, Marge, Henrietta's right, get a hold of yourself, you odd bowling ball of a woman!).

In any case, putting Karl Pilkington and fellow idiots aside, my attention is turned back to Troy who is evidently satisfied no one can see him and digs into his backpack. He pulls out a king can of beer, takes Florence’s cup, dumps out the contents and pours in the frothy liquid which spills over the sides, causing Florence to shriek with laughter. The other two eagerly hold out their cups for the same clandestine treatment. When Troy's done, he throws the empty cans (he manages to use 6) into the hedge and the four of them clink their Tim’s cups, pleased with themselves for getting away with their rebellious act against social order.

From the window, the three of us silently watch this interaction until the four imbibers stub out their cigarette butts, toss them behind the hedge near the discarded beer cans, and disperse.

I'm left feeling mildly disappointed Florence can’t maintain sobriety or stay away from her twitchy user boyfriend in the same way I feel disappointed over the shitty ending of a movie I’ve invested nearly 2 hours of my time watching. I hold on, not because I was necessarily enjoying the movie, but because I was anticipating what I hoped would be a happy, redemptive ending, ultimately saving the film in its eleventh hour from making a permanent home on my hate list, and restoring my faith in all humanity. It's a ridiculously tall order for a bad movie, I realize.

It seems I’m running out of things to have faith in.

But sometimes hope prevails, and before we too can disperse back to our corporate enslavement, I notice Beggar Bob. He is a "prominent" homeless man around town whose real name no one seems to know so we've taken to calling him Beggar Bob. As tends to happen with Bob, he has appeared seemingly out of thin air with a tattered garbage bag and is digging in the hedge. He looks to his left and to his right, behind him and ahead. And just as I think there’s no way he’ll look up, he does.

We lock eyes and wordlessly acknowledge each other with a slight nod of the head before he redirects his focus back to his salvaging endeavor. The other two jump around screeching, “He can see us! He can see us!” 

It’s as if we’ve been found after being castaways for a long time and having lost all hope of ever being discovered.

But I tell them I don’t think he can in fact see us. For some reason I decide to keep Bob's acknowledgement of us watching him to myself. I feel almost protective towards him, again I'm not exactly sure why, but I suppose if I put more thought into it, I could come up with an explanation. 

In any event, my affinity for beggars and weirdos aside, the ladies lose interest and return to what they were doing before, leaving me still standing there alone at the window. To my surprise, as I return my attention back to Bob, noting the wet sheen that's formed on top of his bald head from the light rain that's a constant feature around these parts, he looks up one last time. He’s retrieved the sixth can and holds it up to me as if in a toast. I smile and give him the thumbs up.

Faith restored.

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