Do You Think They Know You’re Watching Them?
I don't recall where I read about the program, or how I found the church address where they met,
But the literature clearly stated NOT FOR VOYEURS, and so that gave me some confidence.
My problem—my addiction—didn't reach the level of the exotic, nor the erotic, for that matter,
But two years after losing my wife and my job, I finally admitted that I needed help.
Right as I walked through the brown steel door at the back of the church, I felt a change.
Hanging lights cast the space—a storage room and sometimes dance hall—in a dim orange glow.
A table stood to the right: tall coffee urn, caddy stocked with cream cups and sweetener packets.
I casually shuffled over, slid a Styrofoam cup from the stack, and flipped the spout to pour.
A man in a blue and brown flannel shirt sidled up and introduced himself.
"Howard." He shoved his hand out and looked me in the eyes.
"Raymond." I shook hands with him. Firm grip, trustworthy and warm.
"First time?" he asked, a bit of gravel in his voice, hazelnut coffee creamer on his breath.
"Is it written on my face?" Maybe men who watched livestreams online had a certain look.
"Nope. Small talk. I run this group and haven't seen you before. Welcome." Was he a pastor?
"Thanks." I stirred the coffee, considered sugar but decided on a Stoic approach this evening.
Already, Howard's courtesy assured me I'd made the right decision in coming.
"Shall we begin, gentlemen?" Howard had moved toward a ring of fifteen metal folding chairs.
The other men, who seemed to mostly be in their forties and fifties, slid down into seats.
I carefully lifted a chair and moved it just back out of the circle, still a bit uneasy, as the new guy.
"Good evening. My name is Howard, and I'm an addict. I've been sober for forty-two weeks."
"Hi, Howard," everyone said, practically in unison. Forty-two weeks? This guy was like a god.
"Welcome, everyone to the Tuesday night meeting of The Watchers Addiction Group.
This is an open meeting, and we ask everyone to be respectful and courteous.
If you have not already done so, please turn off your phones.
At this time, we will observe a moment of silence
And quiet separation from the object of our addictions."
Everyone bowed their heads, and a few put their hands together in prayer, so I followed suit.
A squeak of a chair leg slipped into the air as someone shifted in his seat.
"Thank you. Tonight, we'll have a couple readings. I've asked Bob and Blaine to share."
Bob glanced around and unzipped the hoodie that had seemed to consume his neck,
Letting loose a stream of beard that unfurled like a rolled-up bear skin rug.
"Good evening, fellas. So, I uh...Oh, yeah. Uh, my name is Bob, and I am an addict."
"Hi Bob," everyone said. This time I joined in, hoping to feel the connection.
"I've been sober for ninety-one hours. I uh, wanted to share a little story, like Howard said there.
I was fixing to tell about how I came to uh, come to these here meetings."
I estimated Bob hadn't shared very much up to this point in his tenure as a member.
I don't think he'd ever taken a public speaking course either.
He had a notecard he read from at first but then got comfortable and just rambled.
"I was online one night, and I was just surfing, you know, just looking up stuff,
And I come across an eagle cam—bald eagles—in a nest." How he said eagle made some gasp.
He looked up at all of us and continued. "Well, I can't says if it was some sense of patriotism,
Or if something just kind of clicked in my head, but before I knew it,
It was damn near six in the morning, and I had to get ready for work.
I drove to my job, but all I kept thinking about was them eagles, you know? All vulnerable-like?
Seeing them in their nest, watching them take turns sleeping and looking out?
I don't know—I just can't put a finger on it still, but something about it changed me, you know?
Made me realize, just how...how small I am, I reckon, if that makes sense."
For the record, Bob was not a small guy. My guess? Former offensive lineman.
By that point, he started to tear up a bit, as if reliving some crucial and precious memory.
I understood though—that instant when you just knew something was different now.
Bob semi-blubbered through the next minute or so, sharing
Some truly touching milestones in the eagles' lives—
The first evening the male brought back a fish to the nest;
The morning the eggs hatched, and he named the three eaglets Moe, Larry, and Curly;
The miserable night one of the fledglings fell out of the nest and he couldn't sleep for days.
By the time Bob finished, his notecard now creased and rubbed into smudges of pencil lead,
We were all sniffling and dabbing at our eyes, and so Howard called for a coffee break.
The next reader was Blaine. "Hi. My name is Blaine, and I'm an addict."
"Hi, Blaine." Everyone seemed energized now, relieved and ready for a new story.
Blaine fiddled with the notebook paper he held awkwardly with both hands,
Like a sensitive young school boy giving a presentation, fidgeting, all nerves and nods.
"I've been sober now for going on seventy-one hours.
Well, like Bob, my story starts off in a similar way.
Late at night, on the 'net, looking for something interesting.
Why, I can't hardly describe the moment I first saw it.
It just seemed like an abandoned living room in a hunting cabin somewhere in the woods.
But sure enough, after watching for a minute or two,
A doggone raccoon comes waltzing in, right through an open window,
Strolls up to one of these big bowls—filled with feed, of course—and starts to dig in.
I couldn't believe it. And then another one came in and started chowing down too.
Then a couple of birds flew in. Within a few minutes, it was like some nature frat party,
All manner of critters must have discovered this place, just like me.
Only they didn't know there was a camera inside,
And so they all just acted like nobody was watching and did their thing, played, flexed, and ate."
"Raccoons, you say?" A younger man shifted his feet. A dust bunny swirled beneath his chair.
Howard shot him a look, shook his head slowly, and made a low noise.
Apparently, the man had broken some rule of decorum.
Blaine looked up. "Yes, sir. Raccoons. They're nocturnal, mostly." Now he went off script.
"Guys, look, I'm fifty-three, and I'll just admit, they were adorable, with their little hands.
I hadn't ever seen one in person, and that little mask over their eyes?
Makes them look guilty as hell, despite being so cute—like little baby crooks."
A few men laughed—not quite at him, but in good spirits, and Blaine kept talking,
Admitted that after his wife had kicked him out, he started going to a therapist.
But he still felt compelled to check on the raccoons at all hours of the day and night.
"My therapist says it's an addiction, but I swear it's more than that, you know what I mean?
Those raccoons—if I ain't watching them—who knows what trouble they'll get into?"
Howard seemed to sense this as an opportune moment to step in, a sage leader.
"Hold on. Let's unpack that last comment for a moment." He brought his finger to his mouth.
"Now, you say there's a camera set up inside that cabin, right?"
"Yes, sir," Blaine said, nodding. "Right above the kitchen table." He folded up his paper.
Howard crossed his feet. "And the raccoons? They can come and go as they please, is that right?
And how many different raccoons come by there, would you estimate, if you had to guess?"
"Well, let me think. There's Daisy, Bo and Luke, Lost Sheep, Boss Hogg..."
I suppressed a smile and looked around to see if anyone else had noticed that
Blaine apparently had named these raccoons after Dukes of Hazzard characters.
A couple of other guys smiled, seemed to hold down some laughter.
"I'd say there are probably about fifteen or twenty who come regularly, maybe more."
Howard nodded and said, "Blaine, do you think they know you're watching them?"
He seemed to deflate. "Well, I don't reckon." His face showed the agony of admitting this.
I wondered if he often tried to talk to the raccoons through the camera.
"So, follow me now, Blaine, okay?" Howard leaned in. "They don't know you're out there.
I want you to repeat after me. Say, 'I don't have any control over the raccoons.'"
Blaine started, but it appeared difficult to muster the courage to get the words out.
"Do you want us to say it with you? Gentlemen?" He looked around at the group.
I imagined this was one of the twelve steps to recovery, so I leaned forward in my chair.
"I don't have control over the raccoons," we all said together, slowly. And then we said it again.
"See, Blaine? All good." Howard crossed a leg over his knee, satisfied with the intervention.
"We are all here to support each other, and we know we each have our problems.
But this is a safe space, and when we talk about those problems, make them known out loud,
It helps us compartmentalize them so we can effectively reduce anxiety."
The things Howard said made good sense to me, especially uttered in those soothing words.
He was like a guru; I imagined troubled men filing in just to listen to his low, raspy voice.
"Now, we have a new friend with us tonight." He looked at me.
Oh, shit. I thought they weren't supposed to put you on the spot in these meetings.
Wasn't that their M.O., the whole gist of how they worked?—you went and you listened,
And after a few weeks or a year, it all kind of got to you, and then you volunteered to speak?
Howard continued. "Of course, I don't want to scare him off or make him nervous,
But I did want to offer him the opportunity of at least introducing himself."
He turned toward me and added, "That is, if you want. No harm if not."
I looked around at these dudes—poor Blaine and Bob had been through hell tonight—
And I figured, just jump in. "Hi, everyone. My name is Raymond. Oh, and I am an addict."
"Hi, Raymond," they all announced, some above or below monotone, which made me feel good.
I looked at Howard and felt a surge of confidence. "I don't mind sharing a little about my story."
"Okay, great, Raymond. Tell us as much or as little as you want. We're here to listen."
"Well, let me just cut to the chase. I watch deer." I scanned faces to gauge their reactions.
A couple perked up, curious-like. "Yep. I found this livestream deer cam a few months ago,
And they've got this dialogue going, a chat room feature connected to it as well."
I noticed some nodding and looking at each other, clearly familiar with that temptation.
"Yeah. Some of you seem to know what I'm talking about.
So, I started watching these deer, and everything was fine,
And then after a few weeks, I learned the camera is on twenty-four-seven."
Yeah, man. Night vision turnover, happens right at dusk—you can set your watch to it.
And other than not being in color, those deer are just as clearly visible at nighttime.
Well, you probably know the rest of the story, right?
Started with that video in one tab on my computer at work;
And then I signed up and started chatting, all innocent, no harm, no foul.
Then I was promoted to moderator in the chat, and in my orientation, a buddy explained that
They take notes, do observations and whatnot on the deer, with screenshots and everything."
Some looks of mild surprise emerged at this, so I explained.
"People share files on the different deer and track data about their behavior, health..."
Blaine interrupted me and asked, "So the deer have names, then, right?"
"Of course," I said, noticing Blaine shoot a See?-I-told-you-so look at Howard.
"But here's the thing—we all document and maintain spreadsheets of this one and that one,
And one of the chat moderators tells us we're doing important work, 'citizen science.'
Well, hell, I never heard of that before, but it sounded pretty significant, you know?
Soon, what began as a one tab to check while I worked turned into three and a second monitor
Where I watched in real time. The other tabs could be rolled back and paused to take notes.
Fast-forward a little bit, and into my office walks my boss, a screen time report in her hand.
She asks me point-blank, what the hell I've been doing for the past three months.
It's tough to argue with charts and graphs from the IT department, you know?
Plain old busted. I lost my job, and then everything else, and well, it's been a long journey.
And Blaine, I'm with you, man. I know what Howard said and all,
And it makes good sense, Howard, and I understand. But these deer—
They truly need us, need all the moderators—they need me. You should see my data—
Organized, timelines, even histograms." I looked up. "Citizen science, men. Citizen science."
I leaned back, proud of myself—this was the first time I explained it to anyone in person.
Some of the guys nodded and looked around at each other, as if they'd been rallied to action.
"Yeah," a balding man in a Nirvana t-shirt said. "That's right," said another. "Me too."
"I guess I'm a citizen scientist as well." They started getting riled up, as if ready to just
Scrap whatever progress they'd made in however many meetings they'd attended.
I glanced at Howard, a sudden nervousness on his face, watching this uprising;
He appeared as a captain whose crew was preparing to mutiny.
"Fellas, fellas, hold on a minute. Pause," he said. "Seriously, just quiet down for a moment.
Thank you. Now, take a breath." And after a beat, he said, "And now release."
He stood up, serious face. "How many of you have lost a job because of your addiction?"
Five of us raised our hands, begrudgingly; we could infer what Howard was about to say.
"And how many of you are now separated from your spouse?"
Nine raised our hands this time. There were only eleven of us in the room, total.
"Why is that? It's because you've allowed it to happen. You control the choices you make."
Uh-oh. This must be another step in the program, the tough love.
I imagined that came later, but maybe Howard had to act quick to avoid an insurrection.
"Gentlemen, I know we all love to watch our creatures—that's what brought us here.
Blaine has his raccoons." Blaine nodded proudly. "Bob's got his eagle family nest."
A guy wearing a jean jacket who hadn't spoken reached out and patted Bob's shoulder.
"William, Earl, and Todd have their various aquarium cameras. And so forth and so on.
But Dale, do you feel a sense of community with those gemsboks in the Namib Desert?
What about you, Arthur? Those bears you watch—aren't they hibernating half the year anyway?
Each one of us needs to acknowledge what we do as a one-sided activity. They. Don't. Need. Us.
Not the woodpeckers, not the tasseled wobbegongs, not even the raccoons, Blaine—I'm sorry.
I want everyone to understand and admit that humans crave attention, caring, and acceptance;
None of which are even possible through the monodirectional act of watching."
As he spoke, Howard seemed to look at each man's sinking face individually, one after another.
He took a long pause here, likely trying to detect whether or not his words were penetrating.
These grown men, sitting in this church basement, looked as if each one's pet had just died.
"Now, as much as we appreciate you, Raymond, for opening up so easily, and on your first night,
I feel we need to reel everyone back into the circle, the circle of acknowledgment and trust."
"Aww, Howard, are you going to make us recite the creed?"
Creed? What was the creed? A few of the men looked at each other and rolled their eyes.
"Please, not the creed." "We're good, Howard. Come on. Nobody grabbed their phone."
"Sorry." Howard stepped closer into the circle. "We have gone too far. I'm afraid this moment
Has been too filled with temptation. Come on, gents. Hop up now, take hands."
Slowly, reluctantly, each guy stood up from his chair and reached his hands out to the side.
I had no idea what was about to happen, and I was hoping none of these guys would jump me
For being the cause of this, so, I took the hands of the two guys on either side of me and waited.
Howard said, "Please, make sure to repeat after me."
I looked around, and everyone's head was down and their eyes at least seemed closed.
He began. "Dear Lord, I prefer not to say my transgression, but You know what it is."
Everyone repeated, and Howard continued, slowly, emphasizing certain words like a preacher.
"But I need You to help me overcome my obsession." His voice rose, drew out some syllables.
"Lead my eyes away from temptation and toward the light of fulfillment, the light of living
The life You've given me to live in community with other people, not animals on a screen..."
We repeated each line, and immediately, a communal sigh of relief swept through the room.
After a couple of reminders from Howard—make sure to bring a dish to share next week,
Web history reports due in two weeks, and discussion of a possible field trip to the zoo—
He closed the meeting by saying The Lord's Prayer, and added, "Thank you for being here.
If you would like to speak with someone, a few members will stick around. Have a good week."
Everyone stood up and folded their chairs and stacked them on the cart in the corner.
Some chatter erupted in small groups, and I still felt nervous they'd come after me.
My heart started beating as Howard approached and said, "Raymond, thank you. Really,
It's rare for someone to step and share on their first night, and I do appreciate it."
"Oh, of course. Sorry if I sent things awry there—I didn't mean to get the troops all worked up."
He said it was okay, it happens, that these guys are good hearts, just overly passionate,
Often to a fault, and the process—redirecting that passion back toward people—was long.
I walked outside with Bob. He lit a cigarette and took a long drag and said,
"I feel I can share this with you, Raymond. I truly believe I can sense the eagles' moods.
Like, when they is happy, I feel it too, somewheres in my heart, or in my bones. You feel it?"
"I know exactly what you mean, my friend."
I, too, had discovered a talent, to discern the deer's mental workings—moods, as Bob said.
"It's right strange," he inhaled and blew out a cloud of smoke, "when you think about it."
I had no idea what he would say next. "What's that?"
"Well, lookit. All of us watches some livestream animal camera—totally harmless.
And we're all just normal guys, right? We all work—or, at least a few of us still have jobs—
But somehow, we done got lured in—none of us is just watching, we're observing.
It's like we've become in tune with animals, morphed into thinking like them, you know?"
An orange ring glowed as he inhaled. "What'd you call it, 'citizen science?' I like that word."
I wasn't sure which of the two words he favored. Bob was an odd bird, but I think I liked him.
He was honest, and earnest, and sensitive—like the deer I'd gotten to know—
And probably just like that eagle couple with whom he'd become close.
We stood chatting by my truck for a minute when Howard came out and looked our way.
He made a bee line toward us. I thought he might be upset with us for oversharing after all.
Instead, practically stammering, the son-of-a-bitch pulled out his phone,
And damn, if he didn't open a livestream video! Forty-two weeks down the shitter just like that?
"Fellas, don't tell any of the other guys, but I just had to share this with somebody.
Jeez, I can't believe I missed it live. Figures it'd happen during a meeting."
"What is it?" Bob asked, seemingly unfazed by the fact that his leader was a phony.
"It's inside a honey bee hive. A new queen hatched. There's going to be a battle to the death."
"What do you mean, battle to the death?" Bob leaned in and stared down at Howard's phone.
"Here," he pointed at the screen. "This is the old queen—see that dot on her back?
That means she's two years old. When she runs into the new queen, they'll fight until one dies."
"Holy shit, for real? Let me see." Apparently, Bob had a peculiar enthusiasm for insect combat.
"Oh, hell, I can't watch it on this tiny screen. I've got to get home and put it on my TV.
Sorry, guys. Forget any of this happened." And just like that, Mr. Forty-two Weeks Sober
Fled to his car in a frenzy and tore out of the parking lot into the night, sans integrity.
Zero guilt on his face. Some guru.
Confused as hell, I looked at Bob and asked, "What happened to the creed?"
He half-smiled and shrugged, pulled out and lit another heater, and said, "God forgives, right?"
From his jacket pocket, he slid out a folded sheet of paper with a chart on it.
"See this here? These meetings satisfy what judge called 'court-ordered therapy requirements.'
As long as Howard signs my piece of paper each week, I still get to see my kids.
No phones or computers, of course, but that's okay—I fill the youngsters in about the eagles."
"But what about your wife? Isn't that why you're here too? Don't you want to get her back?"
He took a swift drag, enough to ponder the question, exhale, and through a cloud of smoke, say,
"Nope. Not anymore. She don't understand my eagles."
Please enjoy this YouTube video of the author reading his poem.
