I became paranoid about my surroundings after moving to Newport Beach, CA. The paranoia grew slowly, and I think it began with my introduction to a neighbor living on the floor above me.
I met my neighbor one evening when I was headed out for a run. He gave me a creepy smirk and waved at me from the passenger seat of a car belonging to someone he seemed to have only just met. When I returned home, he was loitering near an open garage directly below my apartment. There, he fiddled with his skateboard, and walked back and forth between the garage and a white pick up truck. I noticed an open suitcase splayed on the ground of the garage.
I wasn't distressed by this incident until I remembered the cops visiting this garage last December. When I had walked by then, I saw the cops circling a man sitting groggy-eyed on an old couch. He looked like a squatter interrupted from his nap. I put one and two together to conclude that the man I mistook for a squatter was actually this very neighbor.
The week after the waving incident, I observed my neighbor entering and leaving the garage repeatedly at odd hours before disappearing from our property completely. Presumably he left, or our waking hours fell out of sync.
Some time after my neighbor left my immediate memory, I spotted the cops congregating at his garage again, but my neighbor was no where in sight. I bit the bullet and asked if they were here to address a straggler. No, the garage dweller was my neighbor, but there was a domestic situation I wasn't to be privy to. This somewhat quelled my interest in the matter; at the very least, I could feel safe.
About a month ago, however, I heard a man screaming "help me!" followed by the noise of a slamming door. I was alone at the time and raced onto Next Door, hoping I would learn more about if the commotion came from my mystery neighbor. Someone had called the cops, but I didn't get closure.
The trouble surrounding my upstairs neighbor catalyzed a morbid fascination with the scaries of Newport Beach.
A scary facet about Newport Beach, for example, is how insulated neighbors are from one another. When I moved into my apartment complex, I quickly came to the analogy of our apartments as human enclosures. All of my neighbors keep their shades closed at all times. It's impossible to tell who I live next to without intercepting mail (I don't do this), following police logs, or participating in the many forums of Next Door. I thought perhaps this was an isolated condition of my apartment complex, but I was dismayed to discover this attitude plagues many residential neighborhoods, too.
This is vastly different from my experience in New York. No matter where I lived, I always knew my neighbors. Intimately. In the FiDi, I did laundry for my roommate's dealer. In SoHo, I bought groceries for my elderly neighbor who was unfortunately attached to an oxygen tank. In Williamsburg, I watched horror films with the pharmacist and his Alaskan Malamute next door. In Bushwick, I partied at our local dive bar with the three RISD grads at the opposite end of our hallway. (One a fuck boy, two a sad boy, three a standup Dominican man in a surprisingly committed relationship) On the Upper West Side, I used the roof deck of one Columbia professor who lived adjacent to me.
Without asking, I knew the time my neighbors woke up, how they made their coffee, what they had for dinner, if they ate alone, when they showered or had sex, and when they got new plants. Knowing so much about my neighbors made me feel bonded to them and safe. Our walls were never thicker than a strip of paint, but at least we were all in this plastered shit hole together?
One recent day, I made the mistake of checking the crime rate in Newport Beach. You might be equally horrified to learn that the property theft rate in Newport Beach is higher than that of New York City.
Just a thought, but would the crime rate in Newport Beach decrease if a thief knew beforehand what was available for the taking? If he could see a house's interior from the outside, he might determine there is nothing worth stealing and forego the effort. Or, more realistically, a thief may notice a security alarm and decide against breaking in.
Lately at night, I think about all the ways I would escape if someone broke into my apartment. Would I be brave enough to defend myself against my attacker? Should I reconsider my habits and start sleeping with clothes on? Could I negotiate my way out of the intrusion? Would I remember the police is 911, or will I trip up and dial 999? (This is the number for the police in Singapore)
Another story I frighten myself with is a hypothetical show down on the field opposite my apartment complex. If someone were spraying bullets indiscriminately, could the bullets penetrate the thin clapboard of my flat? Would I be safer in the closet or the bathroom?
Because I take Uber and Lyft so regularly, I sometimes have nightmares about a malicious driver. This driver might kidnap me because he's racist, or turn a weapon on me for slamming the door too forcefully. I read recently that if you are stuffed into the trunk of a car, you should kick the taillights loose, stick your arm through, and wave it frantically so the next driver can see you, assuming another driver is present at the time. I think this could be useful advice, but I'm not sure if cars are designed to be this shoddy.
Sometimes I also think about an unassuming gunman that becomes triggered while shopping at Whole Foods. The last cabbage bunch is taken yet again!!!
The shades, in a silly way, give Newport Beach the ambiance of a ghost town. It contributes to a sense of isolation, fear, and paranoia I've felt since moving here. I haven't once had Californian sunshine or breeze ventilate my apartment, for that would require opening my windows and shades. I'd much rather be boxed in like everyone else, hoping to come off as less conspicuous than the next door over.
If there's anything this year has taught me, it's that I don't want to live alone anymore. Not without an upgraded alarm system, bullet proof window panes, and a 160 pound boyfriend to protect me if someone were to get past my hypothetical iron clad door.
I'm really hoping I sleep well tonight.
I met my neighbor one evening when I was headed out for a run. He gave me a creepy smirk and waved at me from the passenger seat of a car belonging to someone he seemed to have only just met. When I returned home, he was loitering near an open garage directly below my apartment. There, he fiddled with his skateboard, and walked back and forth between the garage and a white pick up truck. I noticed an open suitcase splayed on the ground of the garage.
I wasn't distressed by this incident until I remembered the cops visiting this garage last December. When I had walked by then, I saw the cops circling a man sitting groggy-eyed on an old couch. He looked like a squatter interrupted from his nap. I put one and two together to conclude that the man I mistook for a squatter was actually this very neighbor.
The week after the waving incident, I observed my neighbor entering and leaving the garage repeatedly at odd hours before disappearing from our property completely. Presumably he left, or our waking hours fell out of sync.
Some time after my neighbor left my immediate memory, I spotted the cops congregating at his garage again, but my neighbor was no where in sight. I bit the bullet and asked if they were here to address a straggler. No, the garage dweller was my neighbor, but there was a domestic situation I wasn't to be privy to. This somewhat quelled my interest in the matter; at the very least, I could feel safe.
About a month ago, however, I heard a man screaming "help me!" followed by the noise of a slamming door. I was alone at the time and raced onto Next Door, hoping I would learn more about if the commotion came from my mystery neighbor. Someone had called the cops, but I didn't get closure.
The trouble surrounding my upstairs neighbor catalyzed a morbid fascination with the scaries of Newport Beach.
A scary facet about Newport Beach, for example, is how insulated neighbors are from one another. When I moved into my apartment complex, I quickly came to the analogy of our apartments as human enclosures. All of my neighbors keep their shades closed at all times. It's impossible to tell who I live next to without intercepting mail (I don't do this), following police logs, or participating in the many forums of Next Door. I thought perhaps this was an isolated condition of my apartment complex, but I was dismayed to discover this attitude plagues many residential neighborhoods, too.
This is vastly different from my experience in New York. No matter where I lived, I always knew my neighbors. Intimately. In the FiDi, I did laundry for my roommate's dealer. In SoHo, I bought groceries for my elderly neighbor who was unfortunately attached to an oxygen tank. In Williamsburg, I watched horror films with the pharmacist and his Alaskan Malamute next door. In Bushwick, I partied at our local dive bar with the three RISD grads at the opposite end of our hallway. (One a fuck boy, two a sad boy, three a standup Dominican man in a surprisingly committed relationship) On the Upper West Side, I used the roof deck of one Columbia professor who lived adjacent to me.
Without asking, I knew the time my neighbors woke up, how they made their coffee, what they had for dinner, if they ate alone, when they showered or had sex, and when they got new plants. Knowing so much about my neighbors made me feel bonded to them and safe. Our walls were never thicker than a strip of paint, but at least we were all in this plastered shit hole together?
One recent day, I made the mistake of checking the crime rate in Newport Beach. You might be equally horrified to learn that the property theft rate in Newport Beach is higher than that of New York City.
Just a thought, but would the crime rate in Newport Beach decrease if a thief knew beforehand what was available for the taking? If he could see a house's interior from the outside, he might determine there is nothing worth stealing and forego the effort. Or, more realistically, a thief may notice a security alarm and decide against breaking in.
Lately at night, I think about all the ways I would escape if someone broke into my apartment. Would I be brave enough to defend myself against my attacker? Should I reconsider my habits and start sleeping with clothes on? Could I negotiate my way out of the intrusion? Would I remember the police is 911, or will I trip up and dial 999? (This is the number for the police in Singapore)
Another story I frighten myself with is a hypothetical show down on the field opposite my apartment complex. If someone were spraying bullets indiscriminately, could the bullets penetrate the thin clapboard of my flat? Would I be safer in the closet or the bathroom?
Because I take Uber and Lyft so regularly, I sometimes have nightmares about a malicious driver. This driver might kidnap me because he's racist, or turn a weapon on me for slamming the door too forcefully. I read recently that if you are stuffed into the trunk of a car, you should kick the taillights loose, stick your arm through, and wave it frantically so the next driver can see you, assuming another driver is present at the time. I think this could be useful advice, but I'm not sure if cars are designed to be this shoddy.
Sometimes I also think about an unassuming gunman that becomes triggered while shopping at Whole Foods. The last cabbage bunch is taken yet again!!!
The shades, in a silly way, give Newport Beach the ambiance of a ghost town. It contributes to a sense of isolation, fear, and paranoia I've felt since moving here. I haven't once had Californian sunshine or breeze ventilate my apartment, for that would require opening my windows and shades. I'd much rather be boxed in like everyone else, hoping to come off as less conspicuous than the next door over.
If there's anything this year has taught me, it's that I don't want to live alone anymore. Not without an upgraded alarm system, bullet proof window panes, and a 160 pound boyfriend to protect me if someone were to get past my hypothetical iron clad door.
I'm really hoping I sleep well tonight.
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