People watching can be a great pastime and it can be done anywhere there are people, including in prison. Here’s a story of people watching and an answer to the question of who watches the watchers.
People watching.
I used to live by the coast, and during the summer I could happily spend a sunny afternoon in a pub’s beer garden watching things. Not in a creepy way you understand, but just watching the interaction of things. Mankind & nature.
Watching the seagulls ambush passers-by reminded me of alligators attacking wildebeest at watering holes – when the alligators attack the wildebeest retreat – temporarily. Eventually their desperate thirst makes them inch forward again.
In my world there was a bandstand on the (old prom prom) promenade that was a hot spot. After an aerial assault people would be on edge, guarding their 99’s & trays of chips. Newcomers would sense the tension and also be on guard, but over a matter of minutes there would be sufficient turnover of people for attention to waver and suddenly whoosh! Another winged beasty would fly off with a stolen prize and the world would be on guard again – for a while.
When I came to prison I obviously changed my vantage point, but the stories unfolding before me formed patterns that soon became familiar. There were 5 landings on my wing, each landing had 17 cells. Looking up from the ground floor the railings were oppressive – they seemed to be leaning over, peering down at you in judgement. Looking down from the 5’s landing opened a whole world of wonder, like watching a cross section of an ant colony.
The single most comparable element was complacency. Like the wildebeest or the seasiders, prisoners started their journey on edge – wary. The world was scanned in multiple axis – up, down, left & right – 360° squared. But sure enough, when there was no apparent threat, the field of vision narrowed. Prisoners tended to focus on what was in front of them.
Vinney and I would lean on the railing outside my cell dragging deeply of our cigarettes and keeping an eye on proceedings.
“Here Moose, get on that little rat bastard Tommo there on the 3’s.”
I scan down and locate Tommo, 2 landings below. He was almost Monty-Python-esque in demeanour, failing miserably at looking innocent, walking in oxymoronic paranoid nonchalance.
“Cell 16 Vinney” I ventured.
“How do you reckon that Moose?” Vinney was intrigued.
“The kid in 16 has been offering a radio for sale. Tommo offered him burn (tobacco) but he was having none of it. But seeing as how our pal Tommo there has just come out of Fitzer’s pad – I’m willing to wager that Tommo has traded his burn with Fitzer and is now about to offer whatever he has for the radio.”
“Good shout Moose. But go for the full Sherlock here – what has he traded for then? What is he bringing with him now?”
I had to take an extra deep drag before I ventured my reply. “Well seeing as how Fitzer was at the meds hatch this morning, I would surmise that the trade involved a pill of some variety. This theory is supported by our friend Tommo. Observe the length of his stride Vinney, he is taking small and controlled steps – steps as a man might take if he had something concealed within the cheeks of his arse – something that must be illicit, elsewise it wouldn’t have to be there. I wager it is either Trammies (Tramadol painkillers) or Gabbies (Gabapentin painkillers). We will know soon enough Vinney lad – ‘A’ if he goes to cell 16 and ‘B’ if he leaves there with anything.
Vinney and I waited and watched and sure enough, Tommo disappeared into cell 16. Vinney offered me a respectful nod by way of applause, but fear of hubris prevented me from reveling at that time. I waited anxiously, eyes fixed on the door to number 16. Finally the door swung open and our pal Tommo stepped back onto the landing. Taking long, comfortable strides was he – and in his arms was a radio.
I smiled as I graciously acknowledged Vinney’s appreciation of my powers of deduction and put my cigarette to my lips for a celebratory drag. Sadly, during my period of intense concentration while waiting for Tommo, my roll-up ciggie had gone out. I produced my lighter, flicked the flint and was just about to inhale when I heard a shout.
“You better not be smoking on my fucking landing!”
It took me a moment to stash my ciggie and lighter, then another moment to identify the owner of that voice. Over in the corner of the 4’s landing stood a white shirt and black trousers. In said uniform, grinning like a Hyena was one Mr H. While IO was watching Tommo he had ambushed me like an alligator. I guess it answers the question of who watches the watchers though.
