Mr Invisible

Some years ago while shoplifting from a major hardware store I experienced a type of old fashioned security system – one that needs no technology, or cameras or electronic tags and yet has the possibility to be everywhere. I’m speaking of the undercover security guard, and I found the experience remarkable because it caused me to reflect on how systems of fascism and state control have always relied on the impulse that humans have to turn on one another. Much like the panopticon (a circular prison system designed around a central tower from which guards could, in theory, always be watching), centralised states with heavy surveillance – like the former German Democratic Republic, or the Stalinist USSR, keep their citizens in check by making sure that there could always be someone watching.

Lets call this “someone”, Mr Invisible – because he is everywhere, yet only reveals himself at strategic moments. Mr Invisible is the shadow that walks just a step behind you, keeping out of sight by staying in plain view. He’s the cold grey glue that holds together an entire framework of fear, which promises violent repercussions for those who break the rules. He’s like a hungry dog that follows you along the inside of the fence, waiting for you to come to him – you won’t see him until it’s too late.

How does one become invisible? By doing nothing. While living in Tangier the famous heroin addict and writer William Burroughs earned the Spanish nickname “El Hombre Invisible” because of his ability to evade the police. He wrote that it was the low vibration of his endless junk-sick patience that allowed him to be silent and unremarkable, so that he would eventually became absorbed into the walls of the Medina. This requires enormous impulse control – the kind that is vital to the staged behaviour of a close up magician, and is even more highly perfected by thieves, con artists and junkies. People whose intimate experiences of danger lead them to build psychic defence systems, where every stage of an encounter is a carefully considered chess move. Meanings, double meanings, implications and suggestions all amplified by the tension of high stakes situations.

Mr Invisible is the opposite of the man in the pub who needs to chew up every silent space and spit out commentary about whatever is in front of him. Meaningless chatter seems to spill from Australians. Call it mateship or whatever label suits, but clearly we are socialised to remain loud, visible and stupid. Perhaps this is to keep us squarely in view. Social media promotes this same dynamic of self-promotion that makes it oh so easy to keep us all documented. ‘Here’s me – outside the palace of me’ sings Kate Tempest, and this behaviour is surely encouraged by those who have an interest in control - who knows what we might do if weren’t being watched.

If Mr Invisible crosses your path, it starts slowly. I am standing at the counter of the hardware store holding a sheet of plywood and a few cheap items that I’m intending to pay for, when a whisper of something silent and grey runs through the staff. There is a strange look of anxiety and pleasure in their eyes - they are watching you standing in a trap that is about to be sprung, and they are fascinated because it is a trap that they have been warned about their whole lives, and which keeps them in line. This is a demonstration and you are the bait that draws the animal out of hiding.

Now a good thief has a finely honed intuition for exactly this purpose – constantly observing the twitches and tiny half thoughts of those around her, and modifying her plan and behaviour to fit the evolving scenario. At this stage, she could ditch her load, smile politely saying she’s changed her mind and take her leave, or she could bring out the hidden items with an embarrassed and forgetful air. But today I am overtired and in hurry, so I am being lazy and careless. I am flesh that is about to get crushed as the cage falls, burning the consequences into the memories of all watching.

I make it through the check out. I even make it out the door into the car park. But after several steps across the hot tarmac a cold wind blows across my shoulders. Where does he come from? Neither left nor right. Was he behind me? Were my eyes so fixed on escape and glory that I missed him, or did he simply materialise exactly when and where he is needed? In any case, there he is, directly in front of me. Grey sweater, blue jeans and a shaved head, speaking close to my face in a quiet but extremely serious voice.
‘You have items that do not belong to you. Please step back into the building.’

Well fuck that, I didn’t get this far by getting scared.
‘Nah, I don’t think so mate. Wrong person.’
As I begin to walk to the side, he quickly steps in front of me again – tiny moves in a dance of violence.
He flashes an ordinary plastic card saying SECURITY, contained in a faded and creased leather case, each dirty scuffmark establishing its authenticity.
‘You’re going to come back inside and show us what’s in your bag.’ He says.  
Subtle commands, not questions. This guy is serious. Still I push ahead with the same cheerful air that has worked in the past.
‘Nah mate, nah! Nah, I don’t have to do that. Tell you what? How about I put this timber back in the ute and then we can talk?’ I blather, trying to get past him.
‘Step back inside the building now.’ He replies.

This is crunch time, flight or fight. Or maybe it should be flight or fright?
Now I’m trying to gauge this guy in front of me who seems to be only just sharpening into focus, as if emerging from a haze, even though he is standing in full view. He has freckles. Odd marks across his forehead. Escape scenarios race with lightning speed through my head. Hand him the plywood as a feint and then push him over and start to run for the edge of the car park. I’m cataloguing places, pulling up routes. Coburg. Where are the alleyways near here? Fences, front yards. How well do I know the terrain this side of Bell Street? I’m up for this. But why? Technically he’s in the right – if I don’t make a total get away I’m fucked. And hang on, looking closer those marks on his forehead aren’t skin cancer, they’re faded face tattoos. Fuck me, how old is this guy? His skin hangs off him like someone who has seen some serious miles. Scanning him, up and down, what’s he showing? Handcuffs at his belt, that’s fun. Oh shit; my gaze sweeps his hands and takes in the scrubbed and beaten knuckles covered in jail tattoos. Yep, that’s a swastika on his ring finger.

He’s radiating confrontation right now. On edge - ready to go. Behind him is a weedy, pale looking staff member with a “Horticulture” badge. Mr Invisible is paid to be scary because these people aren’t. And he is switched to full intimidation at this point – this is the peak moment of his day. Who has more to lose? The stuff in my backpack is probably worth $50 and it’s things I needed anyway. This is his job – to catch cheeky fucks like me. And that ripple of titillation that went through the staff before I left – clearly this guy has a reputation.

But I am a cheeky fuck after all, so I give it one more shot.
‘Nah mate, I’m pretty sure you can’t make me do that. I reckon we can just let this go.’
The steel handcuffs come off the belt. They’re a dangerous looking model with a black polyurethane sheath but nothing that I can’t deal with.
‘I’m authorised to restrain you,’ he says as he turns to his sidekick, ‘while Darren here calls the Police. Shall we just go ahead and do that then?’
I’ve hesitated too long and now he’s pulling the trump card. Seriously who wants to get fucking pinched over a tin of paint and a pop rivet gun?
‘Oh look, nah, that won’t be necessary,’ I say with a shit-eating grin. ‘How bout I just come have a chat? We don’t need to call the cops.’ Like I have a fucking choice.

It was worth a try though. Maybe I’ve won some credibility because as he walks me back in he doesn’t hold my arm like a cop would. There’s complicity now – the thief and the guard dog - something that suggests he’s been on the other side of this role-play. You don’t get jail tatts like that without a few stories. So who the fuck is this guy?
‘Do you like this job?’ I ask casually, as we walk past the goggle eyed teenagers at the counters, whose jaws are gaping while they try to scan barcodes.
He just stares straight ahead.
‘I’m 65. If you’d run, I would have caught you,’ he says gruffly with total confidence, ‘then I would have enjoyed it’.

He takes me upstairs to the store manager who puts on a pantomime of horror as he removes the stolen items from my bag. He reminds me of an over-enthusiastic actor in a high school musical – maybe being a corporate lackey in a suburban hardware store wasn’t his dream job after all.
‘I just don’t understand,’ he gasps, ‘why would you steal?’
‘Well what difference does it make to you?’ I say defiantly, ‘you’re not paying for it’.
Behind him Mr Invisible smirks quietly at this interaction but now that the trap has fallen I sense a certain weariness in the way he plays his part. I’m given paperwork explaining my future exclusion from all the company’s stores and he asks me if I understand in a dull voice. For a moment there he was revelling in visibility – in the pure power of his revealed presence. If I wasn’t so bloody stupid I should have been terrified of him out there – a burning spectre of ultra-violent righteousness. A jail house Galadriel and his flaming sword. But he is Mr. Invisible after all, and now as the manager in his padded chair fills out the paper work, he starts to slowly fade back into the walls, merging with the non descript cupboards in this temporary office. The microwave, the biscuit tin, the chipped and stained mugs that say Worlds Best Dad.

I kind of don’t want to see him disappear. I’ve always been fascinated by the masculinity of the Australian criminal underclass. The hard bitten silence, the stoic weariness – a worn out spirit like old leather boots. So as he walks me out of the office and back to the counter, where I’m to pay for the stolen goods, I ask
‘Been doing this long?’
‘15 years’ he says. Then asks, almost as though he doesn’t care, ‘You been in trouble with the police before then? I notice you didn’t want them called.’
I give a thin smile and raise my eyebrows knowingly.
‘Yeah, I have’ I say.
‘For shoplifting?’
‘Nah mate – jaywalking.’
He almost cracks a smile. Maybe there is an affinity there or maybe I’m just fucking lucky because he says ‘I should call the cops, cause you’re a smart arse.’
Then he pauses. ‘But I’m not going to.’ We reach the counters. ‘Right, I’ve embarrassed you enough,’ he says as he turns to walk away, ‘off you go’.

As I get to the counter my mind is racing, trying to ignore the looks of the staff who have seen all this take place. Fuck being humiliated by this – and really if you count how much shit I’ve nicked from here over the years, I still come out on top. As I’m amping myself up to walk out with a smile on my face, an inevitable bad idea creeps in.

Don’t show them the pop riveter and the paint tin. Just pay for the packet of screws and walk out. That’ll show them.

Man that voice is a genius. I look around briefly, considering the angles. Pop this in your left hand, keep this one hidden and smile. Too easy. And that’s when I spot him, unremarkable even when I know what I’m looking for. Mr. Invisible is still standing right there at the end of the aisle behind my shoulder, apparently absorbed in the discounted price of cheap Chinese rope. A ripple of shock runs through me. He’s always watching, completely engaged, and it’s me he’s after.

As I try not to be too obvious while looking behind me, I am struck by the glazed and nervous look on the counter clerk’s face. I suddenly realise that she is ashamed for me and her broad smile is merely a courtesy. I think I get it now. Mr Invisible exists to show the flock what happens to black sheep - to make a public example. I don’t think she even sees him there in the aisle, so I decide to make a point. I pay for both the pop riveter and the tin of paint, then turn and wave cheerfully at the undercover security guard.
‘Thanks mate!’ I say loudly with a smile and a wink. He looks sharply sideways at me with what could be mild amusement and then wanders off down the aisle to inspect the price on some shovels.  

It’s only when I make it back to the Ute that I realise I forgot to pay for the screws.