The Lowell - Neighborhood surveillance or undercover agents? (9/04)

Neighborhood surveillance or undercover agents? (9/04)

Written by Caitlin Kelly-Sneed

The day we moved into our temporary home in Lakeside Manor, a middle-aged man approached us. His hair blew over his head to form a hasty comb-over, and his eyes were a decidedly unnatural shade of blue floating in strange red ovals. I immediately had a bad feeling about him. I was expecting typical families to welcome us, but this man was anything but typical. He knew so much about us that day —even our names before we had met him. Soon, when we least expected to run into him, we would see him at the store, or on the street, wearing a strange green and beige fishing hat and always bearing a piece of news about other neighbors, now a bit about the wife’s job, now about a burglary next door. Without our help, he gleaned our pet’s names, then our vacation plans — even where we spent our days. We were under watch. There were others. Our next-door neighbor seemed pleasant, friendly and husky, yet somehow guilty. He had a rushed speech pattern — and a seemingly limitless income, but no job. Every day a new surprise awaited us in his driveway— a Jeep, a hatchback, a convertible, a pick-up truck. More than once I arrived home to find an unlabeled, white delivery truck parked in front of his house. Why did he “own” so many cars? Why did I never witness him driving to work? And why on earth did his dogs leave excrement on my lawn?

The medium-sized dogs of indiscriminate heritage seemed to be a little off. They never barked at passers-by and never wagged their tails gleefully when our neighbor patted their heads after their perfunctory trips to my lawn. Those “presents” were no mistake, mark my words. And we weren’t the only targets. Our neighbors down the street, whom I never saw, but assumed were normal people, also received regular deposits on their neatly groomed grass. Eventually they took drastic action, more than I would have had the chutzpah to do. They bought a sign with a picture of a dog, defecating on a lawn. A big red slash ran through it. I guess they were sick of the robotic dogs leaving surveillance devices with their poop.

EMMA LAM AND MICHAEL SUNG

“Who were these people?” “Why were they watching me?” “What does it mean?” I will tell you. The so-un-shifty-he’s-shifty man from across the street, the exponentially multiplying of cars and the strangely mechanical dogs, all add up to one thing — KGB. Who else could orchestrate such a grand procession of dogs, new untraceable cars coming and going, and an inconspicuous secret agent infiltrating as a fishing hat-toting neighbor? Who else would spin an intricate web of surveillance devices using dog doo and thin, pre-fabricated wall materials in the houses around mine? Even now, they could be watching and listening.

I know that I should never have confessed this, exposing myself so that now they know that I know. Though I’ve moved back home to Forest Hill, where I thought I would be safe, new neighbors have moved in across the street. I haven’t met them yet, but I don’t think it’s a stretch to say, “Coincidence?” I think not.

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