RENT SPY EQUIPMENT. SPY EQUIPMENT
RENT SPY EQUIPMENT. AV EQUIPMENT HIRE.
Rent Spy Equipment
- The process of supplying someone or something with such necessary items
- an instrumentality needed for an undertaking or to perform a service
- A tool is a device that can be used to produce or achieve something, but that is not consumed in the process. Colloquially a tool can also be a procedure or process used for a specific purpose.
- The necessary items for a particular purpose
- The act of equipping, or the state of being equipped, as for a voyage or expedition; Whatever is used in equipping; necessaries for an expedition or voyage; the collective designation for the articles comprising an outfit; equipage; as, a railroad equipment (locomotives, cars, etc.
- Mental resources
- lease: grant use or occupation of under a term of contract; "I am leasing my country estate to some foreigners"
- (of an owner) Let someone use (something) in return for payment
- Be let or hired out at a specified rate
- Pay someone for the use of (something, typically property, land, or a car)
- a payment or series of payments made by the lessee to an owner for use of some property, facility, equipment, or service
- let for money; "We rented our apartment to friends while we were abroad"
- a secret watcher; someone who secretly watches other people; "my spies tell me that you had a good time last night"
- descry: catch sight of
- Work for a government or other organization by secretly collecting information about enemies or competitors
- Discern or make out, esp. by careful observation
- Observe (someone) furtively
- (military) a secret agent hired by a state to obtain information about its enemies or by a business to obtain industrial secrets from competitors
Saturday morning run
This story, written by myself, was inspired by the trip on which this photo was created:
When you step on the train at 6:33 AM in Naperville and make the right turn into one half of the car, there are but a handful on the lower level and maybe ten on both sides of the upper level. Most of them are sleeping or reading, some have the tell-tale white iPod earbuds; some are reading, and one or two sits and looks out the window at the similarly empty downtowns as they're passed, station by station. The conductor comes by. You say good morning, he replies with the same. You ask for a "five-dollar ticket", a long way of saying "weekend pass". He peels off a ticket from a roll he has, punches a single box, and accepts your paper bearing the depiction of Abraham Lincoln and walks off to collect his next fare. A few people get on with each stop toward the city but the car remains nearly empty, with the train only absorbing a mere half dozen or so at each station. As it approaches Chicago, an appreciable din rises in the car; a few cell phones ring and their owners begin to chat. Upon our arrival on Union Station's track 2 in Chicago, they line up, one by one, and exit the train. Some are in the vestibule before the train stops; others wait in their seats until the queue has cleared before them.
As you step off the train and onto the platform, you make a right turn like you've done so many times in the past, it seems almost involuntary like breathing or blinking. You walk down the platform, past the beams supporting the ceiling. Each one reads the same thing: 2 - 4. Overhead you see advertisement signs hanging from the ceiling. Joan Cusack appeals to you to try U.S. Cellular. A Hewlett-Packard mobile phone now runs on Windows. Stop and eat at Noodles and Company. Signs above tell the engineers just how far they have before they hit the end of the track. 300, 250, 200, 150, 100. You follow the rest of the herd, filing through the double automatic doors and into the station.
You step onto the concourse, the grand concourse that has seen a billion passengers in its existence. To the right is a small waiting area down a short stairway, perhaps four or five rungs, and the doors leading to even-numbered platforms: track 4, track 6, track 8, and so on. But you make a left turn, like you've done so many times before. You don't know why, because you always end up turning right and proceeding into the Amtrak waiting area. But you do anyway.
The experience of Chicago Union Station in the early hours on a Saturday is an eerie one. This structure handles a third of a million people every weekday. White-collar downtown commuters filing off in the mornings, returning in the evening for their suburban homes. As you walk by, you see the small newsstand. The big steel gate is rolled down two-thirds of the way; a stockboy is loading up the racks with the morning editions and snack treats. You look for the people, the 300,000 who come by every day. You see very few. Most of those you see are police - both private rent-a-cops and Chicago's finest. As you pass by the Amtrak waiting area, you steal a glance and see a smattering of passengers who are still waiting in their seats, sustained all night by complimentary bad coffee, waiting for a train to begin boarding that still has no equipment. There's only a few morning commuters beyond the concourse, and you don't bother making eye contact with any of them.
You pass through and eventually find yourself on the north concourse, the other side of the station. This is where more trains, trains on the Milwaukee District and on the North Central Service for the north and west suburbs, start and finish their runs. You see below the marquees announcing that you are about to enter the platform servicing Track 15 that this is an exit to Madison Street. This is what you want, so you go. As you walk down the platform, the experience is more eerie yet. You look to your left and see a single Metra locomotive, resplendent in blue paint, sitting silently on a service track. To your right, you see one train, it will depart in a while for points west. You notice a single hard-hatted employee with an orange safety vest walking down one service platform; you also notice a single morning commuter, walking the same plank you are. The entire area is lit by boring orange vapor lamps, save for the smallest slivers of daylight peeking around the corners beyond the ends of the platforms. Slowly but surely, you encounter the end of the platform, which is a staircase that goes up. And up you go, to street level.
The Madison Street entrance area is situated a foot or two below the street level itself. The area is made of a purple marble stone; you look up and see a few cabs - a yellow cab with the name Yellow on the side, and an orange one behind it entitled Wolley. You walk up and find yourself deposited on the sidewalk proper. To your right is a bridge over a branch of the Chicago River; to y
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