Malcolm Steadman will buy a gun in 28 days.

Today Malcolm Steadman is brought to you by “paranoia” and viewers like you. Malcolm strutted with manic intent to the AC vent in his tiny motel room, then decided that he could not inspect it yet without giving its occupants warning. He took a deep breath in a vain attempt to calm his nerves, then marched over with equally tense energy to his dresser where he was currently keeping his breakfast. If he was being watched they couldn’t know that he knew that he was being watched.

Malcolm opened the tiny carton of milk that he had just purchased and poured it into the “fun-sized” box of cereal that sat on his dresser. This was the only piece of furniture that he had access to that made eating somewhat bearable. Yes, he would have to stand while he ate his comically small breakfast cereal, but it beat crouching down in front of the nightstand. He had no utensils and realized too late that he should have poured the cereal into the milk carton to make consuming it easier. He wanted a breakfast burrito. He could never go back.

He gulped down part of his breakfast, keeping one eye on the vent.

Intellectually he knew that there was probably no one on the other side of that vent. But it had happened before. It wasn’t impossible. Milk ran down his unshaven face. Intellectually, he knew that he was probably just being paranoid. He also knew that his neighbors spied on him as much as he spied on them. When your main hobby is keeping notes on the whereabouts of your old roommate, well, let’s just say that paranoia is a normal equilibrium to settle to.

His cereal was too sugary.

Malcolm’s new obsession with his air vent was not entirely unfounded. Most paranoid episodes have at least one foot in reality. He had just learned about Gerald Foos.

Foos was the former owner of a motel not unlike the one that Malcolm was staying in. His full-time job was not managing the motel, no, Foos was a full-time voyeur. The time and energy he had committed to his “hobby” would have been admirable if he picked any other hobby. Foos constructed vents directly above the beds of each motel room to act as a “porthole” for him to look down. The man would shuffle himself down the crawl space above each room, find the tenants he thought to be most interesting, and watch them for hours. He did this for years. He had never been caught, and if it weren’t for his narcissistic need to be famous, no one would have ever known.

Malcolm gulped down some more breakfast and used a considerable amount of energy to look away from his vent. He knew that it was unlikely that someone was up there, he knew that he was being paranoid, but he could not escape the feeling that he was being watched. That there was an audience to all of his actions.

What would a voyeur into Malcolm’s life see? If Gerald Foos was crouched above him what details would he be interested in? This prospect horrified Malcolm not just because of its creepy implications, but because he was already far too self-aware of his every action. Now he had to perform.

Would the voyeur see a tragic hero, a man who was dealt a bad hand but meant well, or would he see a villain? Would the voyeur be unable to see past Malcolm’s degraded life and unhealthy mind and not know of the circumstances that brought him here? Did those circumstances matter? Sympathetic as Macbeth was he was still the villain at the end. The audience still feels vindication at his demise. Never mind where he started, it only mattered where he ended.

But, for a moment, suppose that the voyeur could see clearly into Malcolm’s life. Suppose that voyeur was not restricted to just the recent actions that the vent allowed. If he was watched from the start, could he at least be a sympathetic villain? What would that voyeur then think of his decline? Malcolm had a strong feeling that he was being watched. That all of his actions had been seen. What if they were?

Would his audience feel sad for him? Would they themselves feel depressed at his failures? Or would they be frustrated with him? If Malcolm himself could watch his past self fret and strut how often would he himself boo? He could see an audience yelling their two cents unheard at a man unaware of his bitter display of Schadenfreude. “Get a hobby!” they would yell, “goddammit you were doing so well!” they would jeer while throwing popcorn at the stage.

Was his ultimate fate now to just hope that as he crept into the final act that he would not be misunderstood? Was that all that he could hope for, that if he was to be the devil that he would at least be a sympathetic one? Could he only hope that his voyeurs would, when all was done, look back at what they had seen and declared it sad instead of deserved?

Gerald Foos, not content to just be watching, had to be watched. He contacted a journalist, was the bleak subject of a documentary, and at the end of it all was judged. Judged to be creepy, judged to be harmless, judged to be a narcissistic liar and ultimately boring.

Malcolm finished his cereal, and wiped his chin of its milky residue.

If he had a voyeur, he doubted that he would have the same chance to judge them as they had him. His wouldn’t be harsh. He just wished that they would return the favor.

Malcolm Steadman did not spy on his neighbors that day. He did not go out looking for Garry. Instead, Malcolm gave it a break, and in doing so did not see Hope leave the room of the young girl who seemed to be always crying. He did not see Garry leave with her.

He will soon.

You are caught up. There is no more to read. Don’t panic! Because I lied there is more…

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