The Voyeur Mafioso

I've been at this long enough that I take certain precautions I never did before. If I enter a restaurant to take my meals, I insist up being seated facing the outside plate glass towards the street. It's largely an irrational worry, but I know now how easy it is to be observed without knowing it. In five years, I've defied the odds. Though I've had some close calls, especially early on, I haven't gotten caught yet.

I feel like a sniper, completely concealed from view, in control of my own destiny. I have my orders, but I know that orders alone are insufficient. Orders are tersely-worded directives, but the real work begins when I locate the target. I wouldn't want my tasks to be too highly structured. That would be too much like real work. I've made a name for myself through my efficiency and a willingness to take chances.

Subscribers know me by a handle I've established for myself and they express their appreciation in the comment section on a consistent basis.

My phone beeps with a new e-mail.

REMOVE FILM FROM CEILING CAMERA, REPLACE AND EDIT CONTENT, OLD NAVY, BY END OF BUSINESS DAY

One of the workers was industrious enough to bore a hole in the ceiling of a dressing room at a fashionable clothing boutique. It was done inconspicuously enough that no one would ever detect it. Setups like this one record a series of visual images for hours, until all the memory is used up. I'm supposed to remove the memory card and replace it with a fresh one. The real effort is not in locating the camera, but in finding out how this guy installed it in the first place. Once I figure it out, it's fifteen seconds of effort to make the swap.

Here, workers don't have to constantly fear being detected, because what proceeds now can be very tedious. Women file in and out. The camera is stationary, meaning that some visitors to the dressing room are more visible than others, depending on where they stand, bend over, or crouch.

We try to use everything we can, within reason, but probably only get three or four usable video clips from hours of footage. I find I fast forward for whole minutes at a time, which is the key limitation of this sort of approach.

Three hours later, back at the apartment, I've managed to isolate a few clips, and send them along. This makes everyone happy. Rarely do I ever receive effusive praise, but scanning through the comment section is strangely uplifting this evening. I never really know what's going to go over well. If I were a writer of books, I know I'd probably find that my favorite work differed considerably from the tastes of the buying public.

I wonder sometimes whether it's worth my while doing dressing rooms, retrieving video footage, and editing. As I alluded to earlier, there are always other assignments. Some look up skirts, but to me that's boring work, and even riskier. I have no desire to chase women around stores. That's all Mickey Mouse stuff to me. It takes more patience than I'll ever have and those workers are usually the first to get caught. Strict photography, another option, is lots of effort for a minimum return. Capturing the faintest peek of underwear is the work of many, but those assignments are usually all-day and much one views is not terribly compelling.

I'm a mercenary and I always will be. I'm a hired gun. One must admit that, for most of us, there is something very arousing in the naked or barely clothed female form. Even in these liberated days, the most arousing thoughts and foremost fantasies involve desires and visuals which we would ordinarily never see. A former friend of mine who I haven't spoken to in years, always complained about the prevalence of nudity in film these days. Nudity used to mean something, he griped.

I see what he means. A tease can be more stimulating than full nakedness. Reality is sexier than a choreographed tease. Not only that, public displays of nudity or near nudity in any context hold shock value, which can also be stimulating or repelling. This is what makes our wares appealing to the customer base. It's one of the last, in my opinion, the last truly shocking genre left. It eviscerates any distinction between private and public.

And, as I began, it's one of the oldest forms of pornography, though it has been dragged into the electronic age.

Drying oneself with a towel after showering isn't sexual at all to a random woman. Yet, to some men, nothing could be more sexually charged. It's like an ordinary, routine, but amazingly powerful form of sensuousness.

Every woman under the right circumstances has the potential to be a stripper in this business. The secrecy aspect appeals to me as well, though for a different reason. This job would get boring very quickly if I wasn't scared half out of my wits every assignment. Women who knew the frequency of our movements might never undress in public settings ever again.

I've rationalized my role in these proceedings. As long as I don't have to return to my depressing roll call of dead-end jobs, I am eager to provide the services requested of me.

But even so, I'm not totally insensitive.

Most of our records can be destroyed within minutes.

Hyperbole aside, none of us wants to think about the end. The website would go dead immediately, servers would be purposely destroyed, and everyone's computer equipment would go next onto the scrap heap or resting at the bottom of rivers.

I don't own this laptop, the software, or this camera. I paid for it out of my first paycheck, but it's all licensed and paid for by the front company, and these things would be the first to go.

Should we need to go slash and burn, we can be fairly certain that only a handful of pictures or videos, no doubt downloaded as evidence to make a case, even exist. It wouldn't be good press to reveal our subscriber list.

I, however, would have no soft place to land but would probably escape with my relative anonymity intact. I've been socking away a few dollars here and there to subsist on, should the end be nigh.

REDFIELD MALL, UP TO YOUR DISCRETION, NO TIME FRAME REQUESTED

In a large mall, especially an indoor one, one can choose from any number of stores. Though the customers may not, I happen to grow bored with the same body types, the same bubbly, overly tanned cheerleaders and sorority girls. After winning the trust of my superiors, I can now be given the autonomy to be a bit more creative with locations as I see fit. Stores specifically designed for women are out. There's no way I could obtain access there.

I have better luck at nondescript chain retail outlets that appeal to modest wallets and pocketbooks. The best video usually is produced by those skilled at concealing a camera, then having enough panache to sneak back in and retrieve the day's rushes. It is rumored that one such person, our most popular, profitable, and proficient employee is a female store manager at Victoria's Secret.

For those assigned to beach detail, five hour's drive south, I've heard that a man at a swimwear shop, one frequented by women in their early to mid twenties, is also its store manager. Those are coveted positions, providing one almost a vacation, but I hate hot weather, hot sand, and the people attracted to it.

Someone like me would have no chance at success in that form, which is why my skills lie elsewhere. I don't usually retrieve anyone else's footage, but, like earlier, from time to time I do when needed. Truthfully, I'm not even sure why I'm here today.

It makes me nervous, more nervous than normal. For me, it pays to be paranoid. But why would anyone set me up? I'm popular with the viewers and I make decent bread.

Maybe someone's got a lens pointed my direction this very moment for a nice reversal of fortune. Maybe not, but I keep getting this sixth sense that I'm under surveillance, with or without the benefit of technology.

Nothing links me to the videos. I have been included behind the camera lens. Should we need to dissolve our business endeavor, it does make me sad that my best work will be destroyed. What was at first only a job became a labor of love.

I recall the book Fahrenheit 451, whereby a totalitarian state burns books to control information. A secret society becomes the keeper of literature. Once a book has been memorized, it is burned to prevent incriminating its owner.

If only I could condition my brain in the same general way. Visuals are ephemeral, though I do remember a few details here and there. It seems silly in hindsight, but that's the way it was for most of us.

Today is a brand new ball game. Every last ounce of me is telling me to flee, to get the hell out of here before it gets nastier. I travel light and have few possessions. My work computer may already be in the hands of someone else. The only other tools I use regularly are the camera and my adjustable lens.

I should probably smash both to bits.

I consider, briefly, the job offer a competitor offered me some months back. I'm not sure I trust them. They make their money by somewhat duplicitous means. Hidden cameras are tucked away somewhere inside a toilet bowl, where urination and defecation are filmed and shown to an audience of subscribers.

It's lazy work, because I'm heard that the same two women are under contract to do the same task over and over again. It doesn't classify as true voyeurism, because filming each actress comes with no threat of being discovered. I'm enough of a purist to insist upon the genuine article.

I won't be the one holding the bag at the end of this. Having disposed of all potential evidence, I'm going to the airport immediately. I'm going to get lost for a while I still can, and wait for all of this to die down. From now, I'm off the grid at an undisclosed location. It was fun while it lasted, but I have too much to lose. Now I feel a new terror that goes well beyond documenting a middle aged woman trying on lingerie.