This is a work of fiction. Any names, characters, or events mentioned are purely coincidental and not meant to get the authors into any trouble.
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It wasn't that different than college, really. Watching people. See what they did when no one was looking. Well, when they thought no one was looking.
Gabriel looked down at the blonde trying desparately to get into the size 8 jeans. Give it up honey he sighed, and moved his attention back to the kids trying to peak under her door. From their vantage point, hidden inside one of the circular clothes rack outside the changing area, they could probably only see about halfway up her calf. From his...well, he could see her whole world. And it was crashing in on her as she realized she was never going to fit into those jeans.
He'd been a watcher all his life. A skinny boy on the playground witnessing the schoolyard fight. The fan in the stands seeing his high school team score and the cheerleaders bounce. It was college that opened his eyes to the power of it, however. Cultural Anthropology with a Sociology minor. All you really had to do was be observant and then communicate what you see. Unfortunately, he had only been adept at one of the two requirements.
The shapely blonde slunk off to lick her wounds and the boys in the rack hunkered down to see if anyone else worth peeping would come along. In many ways, he was proud of them. Spunky little 12-year-olds out to find out about this pre-pubescent sexuality. Still, he'd have to turn them in if they persisted in drawing attention from any passersby. He zoomed in an overhead aisle camera to see them giggling and peering out between satin robes.
He sat back and remembered the good old days. Right out of college, a useless degree in his hand and no demonstrable skills. But he could watch people. For hours and hours, he would watch people. He'd worked at all the big stores... Sears, Penny's, even Montgomery Wards. Initially he just worked floor security, but finally moved up to watching the stalls.
The changing stalls had become a very sought after job among professional voyeurs at that time. Still, there was enormous turnover. Sex crimes background checks, lie detectors, and videoed surveillance rooms ate everyone up. Gabe always assumed there was a camera on him anytime he was watching the stalls. He never beat off, he never took pictures, and he never brought friends in to watch. And he became a local legend in catching lifters. He got to work with all the department and clothing stores at one time or another, and better yet, he got paid to watch people undress.
Some were 'strippers,' really playing it up for themselves in the mirror. Beautiful and ugly alike staring into his eyes unkowingly as they worked their butt or bustline. Some were 'unwilling flashers,' businesslike undressers who changed back and forth so fast you'd think the stall was ten below zero. A few buyers pressed and folded everything back perfectly, neglecting to get dressed for quite a while. And a very few were the kinks, the lovers, and the lifters.
And it was not all about the stripping. Busting the lifters made him feel powerful. Young boys liked to swap their old clothes for new ones, men stuffed their own clothes with items, and women usually bagged it. He began to recognize patterns and predict the buyers from the lifters. The way a woman waited on the attendant to turn her back, or the way a man would look around the stall once inside. It was as if he were an angel, keeping tabs on the sins and ringing them up.
But when technology caught up with him, he had to reevaluate his reasons for his chosen profession. Security strips and cameras had slowly pushed him out of first one, and then all of the major chain stores. Each time he would be offered the security "spy in the sky" job for the floor, but he turned it down. Eventually, he had to admit the truth to himself. The stalls turned him on and he couldn't give them up. Technology, and privacy laws, were pushing him out.
That's why Bussleman's was his last chance. It was the only clothing store in the area that still used a stall security camera. He had jumped at the offer when Mr. Bussleman had called him, hardly noticing the cut in pay. As he saw it, he'd broken even in the deal. He was the only one left, the only stall man hired. And that left him doing it 10 hours a day six days a week for the past three months. And sometimes he'd come in seven days a week. What else did he have to do that compared?
The set up was ingenious really. Regular ceiling surveillance hidden in black bubbles along the changing row. None had a clear direct shot into the stalls which fooled the inspectors. But each had a small mirror that, when positioned just right and zoomed, showed the stalls. One camera relied on a complex arrangement of three mirrors to get a dressing customer fully into view.
The boys had grown tired of the aging women and business men going in and out of the stalls and snuck off. Almost immediately afterward, a cute brunnette in a red mini ducked into number one. Everything she had on was red: socks, underwear, bra. And everything she tried on was red as well. And slinky. That usually meant she would pose a bit, but unfortunately she was a speed changer and even the ground coverage failed to show much. Just another Madonna wannabe with a red fetish, he shrugged.
Gabe had added two cameras of his own design and unknown to anyone else. Both were pinholes with incredible clarity which had cost a pretty penny. They sent images to a receiver he carried in his changing bag, while he kept the remote in his pocket. The two lucky stalls which hid them were the obvious choices, one and six. Stall one was the first changing room and the most used. Stall six was far in the back, and attracted the people who wanted privacy. That was his favorite. If a good candidate came in, just a click on the remote saved the visit for posterity. Or more specifically, for his collection safely hidden at home.
Two teenager girls smacking gum and laughing almost burst in on an unsuspecting middle aged man trying on running shorts. He was mid-step into the second leghole when they ran right into the locked door, flailing and shouting. As soon as they realized their mistake, they ran into an open stall, obviously howling in embarrasment. The man, who just had to be an accountant Gabe surmised, almost died from his embarrasment, having fallen forward sharply and striking his balding head on the side of the mirror. Trying to untangle his feet, check on his bruised forehead, and meanwhile repeating "Occupied!" at the top of his lungs made for an interesting spectacle. Gabe found himself smiling at his job as often as he was aroused.
The girls hid out for a while making sure their balding victim cleared far away before coming out. Apparently in the same sorority, one didn't wear a bra under her lettered sweat shirt and didn't think anything about lifting it in front of her motormouth friend. Not having a pinhole in four, Gabe adjusted the overhead to look at her as she changed. A B-cup barely, but definitely young and perky. Pink, puffy nipples were no longer his cup of tea but these were nonetheless impressive. She even rubbed across them once, but seemed to be oblivious to anything buy the syrupy conversation.
Gabe glanced over to the wide camera, thinking that the peeping boys might be back with all the loud voices emanating from the stalls. Instead, he saw Mrs. Bussleman chatting with the clerk who was reracking clothes. With her back facing toward him, he could not see her face, but he knew her instantly. She was always stunning, but truly a rare treat since she only visited the store on special occasions.
Claudia Bussleman looked about 20 years younger than her husband, but matched his friendly demeaner. He had only met her twice, and both times he found himself stumbling for words. She had an incredibly beautiful face, one of those profiles that screamed former Miss Junior Cotton Festival. But she hid her age well with shoulder-cropped dark hair and dark glasses. Perpetually smiling, she always seemed to touch the person in front of her during conversation, as if she could listen more intently while absorbing you though her fingers. Gabe still shivered when he thought of her handshake.
