You're Safe

Go filch a jelly doughnut, rookie pigs.

This is a chapter from I Hear You Watching, my novel based on my experience with hearing voices and paranoia.

But you can jump in here! The “previously on” will get you up to speed.

Previously on I Hear You Watching…

Alex hears strangers following and mocking him wherever he goes. He turned his apartment upside-down looking for surveillance bugs and blew a fuse disconnecting his smoke detector. Then he used the last of his phone’s battery to call the police.

The smoke detector laughs at me from the living room while I empty my desk drawers onto the bed with the flashlight in my mouth.

“You’re not gonna find it, Alex, we took it!”

There’s a knock at the door.

I enter the living room. “Hello?”

A voice comes through the door. “LAPD.” It doesn’t sound like the neighbor, but it’s not clear enough to compare. “You called about an issue in your apartment?”

Ah, he’s carefully stepped around any mention of “stalking.” The true stalkers might’ve come out and said it, believing specificity would earn my trust. But this person—whoever he is—understands the risk of blabbing such things out loud.

I pull the hammer from my pocket and open the door to two silhouettes. Crisp-shaped uniforms, the bumps of radio handsets on their shoulders, arms bent with hands at their hips, weapons ranging from pepper spray to pistol within easy reach. In the light slipping around their faces I can see they’re both white men in their mid-twenties.

The one on the left isn’t fat, but his cheeks round out so his face looks like a cherub mask. In other contexts he’s probably the easier of the two to make laugh.

The one on the right has cheeks that come straight down to a pointed jaw. He looks like a strategist of some kind for sports or the military. On the plane of his cheek is a patch of dark stubble he missed shaving, like a smear of sand.

Neither resembles the guy I saw next door, but they could be participants. If that’s the case, I’m about to allow the enemy into my apartment. Two of them. With handcuffs and guns.

But I also consider how I look to them if they’re real cops. I’ve opened the door at 3:30 a.m. in a dark apartment, holding a hammer.

I say, “Sorry, I hadn’t mentioned this to the dispatcher, but I blew a fuse. I was prepared to defend myself, since the stalkers heard me make the call. That’s why the hammer. It’s not for you. I’ll put it down, okay?”

The Cherub guy nods.

The Strategist’s eyes remain on the hammer. He says, “You’re safe.”

It’s strange to hear those words from someone who’s about my age. It occurs to me that as you get older, those who respond to your calls for help are by comparison younger and younger. Children come to save a full-grown adult. A peer saying I’m “safe” feels like lip service from a student put in charge while the teacher takes a bathroom break.

“Go ahead,” he says. “We’ll follow you.”

I go to the living room and drop the hammer on the couch.

The Cherub looks into the kitchen as he enters the living room. The Strategist follows. They leave the door open, and the shimmer of a moth enters and disappears.

The Cherub says, “Pretty dark in here. Could you open those blinds?” pulling his flashlight from his belt.

The Strategist does the same.

I partially rotate the blinds. “I’d prefer not to open them all the way. It’s actually those neighbors who are the problem, and I’d rather they not see us.”

They look at the books and cans of food stacked around the bookshelf and TV, the glinting pile of silverware on the counter, the clipped-off smoke detector on the coffee table, the hole in the ceiling… The air is smoky, and their flashlight beams on the spilled rice and sugar make the apartment feel like a sunken ship.

“So,” says the Strategist, hand on hip, “what’s the problem?”

“Well, about a week ago I was walking by the river, as I often do, and I heard a couple of guys say that they were gonna ‘get me.’ And they followed me all through the neighborhood, threatening and insulting me.”

“Those neighbors,” he nods to the window without moving his eyes from mine.

“I believe so, yes. I actually never saw them because it was night and they stayed well-hidden. But I heard them.”

He slowly nods.

“They never ‘got me,’ clearly, or I wouldn’t be here now.” I chuckle.

They don’t chuckle. Not even the Cherub, who might be more inclined to.

“After that happened, I heard them—from over there—commenting on stuff I was doing in here.”

“What’d they see you do?” the Cherub asks.

“Everything. They claim they’ve got a livestream going, with people betting on what I’ll do next. I don’t believe that, of course. They’re just trying to push my buttons.”

The Cherub says, “Sure,” like he gets it.

“The other day I got out of the shower and had to poop.” I feel strange saying “poop” in the presence of their uniforms. “And they were like, ‘Oh, my god, who takes a shit after they take a shower?’ It was the highlight of their day.” I hope the observers are embarrassed to hear me say this.

“That is a little weird…” The Strategist tilts his head and raises an eyebrow. “Normally you try to do it the other way around.”

“Yeah,” I shrug, “but sometimes it just happens that way.”

“Uh-huh,” he says. “Huh.”

I don’t like his attitude, but at least all of this seems like new information to them.

The Cherub points. “That’s the bathroom?”

“Yes.” I look at the light spilling through the open front door. Someone could be hidden there; a sudden shot could blast apart the Strategist’s head.

“It doesn’t face their window. How’d they see you… do your business?”

If the attack came fast enough, when the Cherub turned to look they might get him in profile, through his cheeks, scattering syrupy shards of teeth on the floor.

I say, “Could you guys move into the kitchen? Or could we shut the front door? I’m concerned something… will happen.”

The Cherub’s hands rise to his belt.

The Strategist shares a look with him. “What do you think is gonna happen?”

“I don’t know, but they threatened to come here before you guys arrived. Just to scare me, of course.” I watch for changes in their expressions. “You know, they also claimed they already spoke with a couple of officers, and pretended to be me and my roommate. As you can see, I don’t have a roommate. They said they showed my old driver’s license to prove they were me, which they’d stolen when they broke in here to install the bugs.”

“There was a break-in?”

“Not that I knew about. I think they might have a key.”

“Have you given your key to anyone?”

“No. But I was looking for that old license before you got here, and I can’t find it. I know it was in my desk drawer.”

Both frown. The Cherub’s is a rumpling of his forehead, the Strategist’s is downward and sharp.

“If they showed your ID,” the Strategist says, “wouldn’t the officers see that it wasn’t them in the photo?”

“Like I said, I haven’t seen them, but they claim we look alike. Actually, that’s not true, I’ve met one of them. I confronted him about watching me and the comments they made. He was standoffish and denied everything.”

“But he wasn’t the one who supposedly looks like you.”

“No.”

The Strategist works his jaw sideways. “You said they bugged the place. You found something?”

“Yes, that’s why it’s dark in here. I blew the fuse when I pulled out the smoke detector.” I point at the hole in the ceiling.

“That’s pretty dangerous,” the Cherub says. “I got zapped doing something like that once.”

“Yeah, I got lucky.”

“That’s the smoke detector?” The Strategist points.

“Yes.”

“May I see it?”

“Absolutely.”

He shines his flashlight through the grille, rotating it like a piece of alien technology. “Where’s the bug?”

“Inside. I tried opening it, but they probably glued it shut.”

He guides his light along the seam. “I think they make these so you can’t open ‘em. For safety.”

“Yeah, I wondered about that.”

The Cherub eyes the wires hanging from the hole in the ceiling. “How long have you been living in this apartment?”

“About a year.”

“Have you had this problem anywhere else you’ve lived?”

“No.”

He nods and frowns. “Any history of mental illness in your family?”

“I know how this looks. I appreciate you guys humoring me.”

He raises a hand. “Oh, it’s not like that. We’re obligated to ask, no matter the call.”

“Look, I’ve been having conversations with them through that thing. I’ve recorded the conversations on there.” I point to the recorder.

The Strategist holds up the smoke detector. “You’ve picked them up on it too?”

“I haven’t listened to the recent stuff, but it’s possible.” I turn on the recorder and play the last file from the beginning.

“—ying, annoying, annoying, annoy—”

I stop it and scroll through the files. “I was trying to frustrate them so they’d shout at me. The mic in the smoke detector is so small they’re impossible to pick up otherwise.” I select another, advance to several minutes in and press play.

“—sabugwersabugwersabugwersabugwersabugwe—” Under my voice are clattering pots and pans, spilling fistfuls of silverware.

“That was the same thing, to annoy them. But before I cut the smoke detector from the— Look, I won’t waste more of your time. I’ve heard them. I know that’s not enough proof, so I’ve got to listen to these recordings, possibly make more, and if I pick them up on here I’ll let you know.”

The Cherub’s eyes search the air. “Could you… get them to say something now?”

“No, they won’t say anything now. They know you’re here.” I tug at my hair. “It’s like that frog in the cartoons. He sings and dances, but only when nobody else is around, so everyone thinks the guy’s crazy. You know what I’m talking about?”

“I can’t say I’ve seen that one,” the Strategist says. He puts the smoke detector on a stack of books.

I mutter a bit of the frog’s song, “‘Hello, my baby. Hello, my honey. Hello, my ragtime gal…’ And he kicks his legs. Know it?”

The Cherub smiles the way one smiles at a stranger monologuing under their breath when they pause to ask for change. The difference is, the monologuer in the street is strapped into a personal rollercoaster.

Can’t they see I’m being proactive about this? My rollercoaster ride is long over. Now I’m clinging to beams somewhere inside the mountainous framework of the thing, navigating its skeleton while the car continues its eternal circuit, dipping and looping, empty.

It’s just a matter of climbing down, but I can’t see the next hand- or foothold. So I called these two for help, and there they stand safely on the ground, suggesting I climb back up and get back into the goddamn coaster car!

Sometimes people have to shit after they’ve taken a shower. And sometimes people’s apartments are bugged without them being crazy. I don’t know the reason. Whatever it is, it’s bigger than me.

At least it’s clear the cops are too dumb to be in on it. There’s no way a secret government program would collaborate with these meatheads; it actually works in the observers’ favor to keep LAPD stooges in the dark. Their captain might know something about it, but he’d never tell.

Get a load of the mugs on these two. The Cherub’s rumpled brow, not understanding and unable to extend himself enough to understand. I’m not surprised he got burned while doing electrical work. I’m operating under duress and self-preservation. What’s his excuse?

And the Strategist—clearly not much of a strategist. He held the key to the puzzle in his fucking hand. He shined his flashlight through it. The appropriate response to being presented with that kind of evidence is: Let’s crack this motherfucker open and take a look together. But he’s not looking at it anymore, now he’s just looking at me.

They’ll probably lock me up somewhere for “treatment” and unwittingly employ my voyeurs as janitors or orderlies. Then I’d see them every day, peering in through my tiny window.

The Strategist puts his hands on his hips. “So, how long ago did you blow your fuse?”

Fuck you, I want to say. I don’t need your “help.” Go filch a jelly doughnut, rookie pigs. We don’t need shit heels like you or my neighbors twisting the mind of a good person into believing he’s the monster. Yet here you are, two chimps in hand-me-down uniforms, come to tell me I’m crazy.

Cherub, go store some more nuts in your goddamn cheeks. And you, “Strategist,” should stretch yourself beyond your sudoku puzzles on speed trap duty. A little more attention to detail would do you some good. Oh, and when you see a mirror, check your cheek. You missed a spot.

But instead I say, “It was earlier this evening. When I isolated the sound of their voices to the smoke detector. I’m positive the answer is in there.”

“Well, so,” says Mr. Strategy, smiling, “with the power cut, the bug’s not getting any juice, so they can’t hear us now anyway. Problem solved.”

“You could be right.” Sure, I’ll just climb back into the coaster car. Lulled by the ratchet-ratchet-ratchet of my ascent into the clouds, I won’t even notice when they pull the blade across my throat. But you’ll have to clean up the mess. I hope I shit myself when it happens. When you come to collect your evidence, I hope you don’t have a clean spot to stand. I smile. “Well, I’m sorry I don’t have more to show you in the way of proof. I know this isn’t much.” It’s everything.

“Hey, no, we’re sorry we can’t be of more help,” Cherub says. “Fact is, this is a fairly new type of crime, so we’re still figuring out how to deal with it. But here’s my card.” He pulls a card from his shirt pocket.

I tilt it in the light through the blinds and read out loud, “Officer Brian McCormick.”

“That’s me.” He smiles.

So you’re telling me you haven’t seen the old cartoon with the singing frog, but when you picked an alias for your cop disguise you went fucking Irish? Go buy a box of doughnut holes and string ‘em up your thin blue line, you cliché piece of shit. “Thanks.”

“Give us a call if anything else comes up, okay?”

“I will. Thank you.”

They move toward the door.

“Now, try to get some sleep,” Cherub says. “Maybe wait to clean this stuff up tomorrow, when it’s light.”

Good advice, numbnuts. “Sure, I’ll do that. Thanks for coming out so late.”

“Hey, we prefer this kind of call to the others.”

Bravo. That’s exactly what a real cop would say. What helpful, brave fucking gentlemen you’ve been. I wave as they start down the stairs. “Fu— uh, thanks to you.”

Cherub waves back, smiling. But ah, god dammit, he heard that slip-up. I’d done so well, and that last bit lost me all credibility. Now I’m just some wack job spinning his wheels and breathing rubber fumes in the dark. If those cops are for real, I just joined their clueless caller hall of fame alongside parents who call 911 to get their kids to do their homework and old people who report stolen TV remotes.

A sad smile, a pat on the head, and those dutiful sentries of the city are gone.

It’s 4:00 on Wednesday morning—nineteen hours until my next shift at work—and I’m still my only hope.

Next on I Hear You Watching…

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