Scopaesthesia

Scopaesthesia: a supposed phenomenon in which humans detect being stared at by extrasensory means.

           I return the dust cap to its place and collapse the legs of my roommate’s telescope. Nothing to see tonight, or any nights really. It has always confused me why he wanted one while living in Manhattan, mecca of light pollution. On 99.9% of the nights, the skyglow which obscures the stars, the planets, the Milky Way, and whatever else is out there is too pronounced to see anything else. Did he want to use it for nefarious purposes? I’d rather not speculate.

He started as a Facebook post on ‘NYC Apartments and Rooms, Sublets, New York City Housing’ advertising an open room for the summer in the Lower East Side. A shockingly cheap rent was advertised for a spacious room with a single exposed brick wall and access to a fire escape that could act as my personal porch. I had assumed he was a scammer or lying or something similar, but I was desperate. I’d landed a graphic design internship with a prominent media outlet I admired and didn’t want to commute all the way from South Jersey. I’d been at home for the previous two years since graduating while the familial tensions built a general anxiety within me that I had rarely felt before. I would easily succumb to mood swings, indecisiveness, and a lack of motivation.  I felt unstable, in search of a new status quo but conflicted as to what that could be. Occasional freelance work could only distract me so much from the fact that I was working in the same bedroom I had in high school and rarely saw another human outside of my mom and fourteen-year-old sister. When I saw his post, I decided to head in the upcoming weekend. The idea of spending the day in the city with the risk of being scammed, robbed, or murdered seemed more appealing than another Saturday in Collingswood. It was also supposed to be a beautiful day.  

           The journey to the city was uneventful with the exception of a suspicious passenger across from me on the NJ Transit. A teenager wearing all black was talking the ear off of the person next to him. I overheard pieces of the conversation. He spoke with a general malaise about how much he hated his life, his family, his job. His conversation partner got off in Newark, leaving me as the kid’s closest fellow passenger. While in the tunnel on the final stretch of the trip he stood up and leaned over in my direction saying, “I’ll be right back.” As soon as he shut the bathroom door behind him I stood up and walked briskly through as many cars as I could to get as far away from him as possible. I exited the train without incident.  Sometimes I wonder why my usual paranoia surfaced at this moment but not when I was deciding to see an apartment I was 99.9% sure was fraudulent. 

When I arrived in the late morning it was as lovely as a spring day could be. It allowed me to tolerate the walk out of Penn Station, the most miserable part of the city, to Herald Square to take the M-Train down to the Delancey-Essex stop where my potential new apartment would be a 5-minute jaunt from. I navigated the narrow streets as the buildings towered over me as if I was traversing a gulley. I imagined living here, less than a minute away from a million cute cafes and trendy bars and used bookstores with reading corners. I imagined a routine where I would stop by one of these bars after my nightly commute and enjoy a beer and a book as I became a regular in the neighborhood. My Cheers-esque fantasy was halted by the scuttering of the largest rat I had ever seen emerging from a garbage can. It perched on the lid for just a moment staring me in the face, perhaps welcoming me, or warning me.

           “I’ll buzz you up in just a second-J” was the text I received after notifying my potential roommate that I was on the stoop. 5 minutes passed without any update. I took a step back and examined the building. The street was lined with a row of five or six modern brick buildings with completely uniform entrances, stairs, balconies, fences and garbage cans. Now would be a good time to mention that I had very little identifying information about J. His Facebook page featured a pixelated image of a white guy around my age. It was hard to tell whether the pixelation was due to simply poor photo quality or an intentional choice to obscure his identity from the NSA or what have you. J’s name was listed as Jason. He was an NYC native, having lived there since his childhood and attended Brooklyn college. J, Jason, had never posted on this apartment-hunting group before and had an incredibly limited Facebook presence. 10 minutes now. As I pondered this the door opened and a woman struggled to exit with a young child, maybe two or three years old, who was too distracted by a colorful package sitting in the entranceway to keep on moving. The woman decided to pick her up and the door started to close on her. I ran up the stairs quickly and held it open. A brief mumbled ‘Thanks’ was directed my way as she proceeded down the stairs. I had one foot in the entranceway now. I glanced down at the package and saw it was addressed to J. It was large and speckled with confetti-like dots with no brand name or discernable label. I glanced into the building and saw the elevator was right there. J must’ve gotten busy with something surely. He knew I was downstairs. I was feeling courageous, so I let the door shut behind me and grabbed the package making my way to the elevator. I glanced down at the package to confirm the apartment number and pressed the button corresponding to the 6th floor.

           The door to my future apartment was open. There was an attempt to close it, but the deadbolt made it futile. All my preceding risk-taking felt explainable and rational if I was confronted by J or the police for trespassing. Now I felt like I’d gone too far. There was no turning back from forcing my way into a stranger’s home without permission even if all the doors were opened for me. Yet now I’ve attached myself to this package. My temptations get the best of me. I cracked the door open to drop the package inside, an action easily explained by an over-eager mailman. It was beautiful. Immaculate hardwood and an alley kitchen with stainless steel appliances accented by dark green cabinets and a cream backsplash were the first things I saw. Everything else had been organized and designed with impeccable taste. The kind of taste which infuriates you because it’s rooted in both good style and lots of money.

           I smelled fresh mint tea. Two cups on the coffee table, steaming, with a stack of papers sat between them. J planned a welcome party for me, he’s sweet but not punctual. The doors to the two bedrooms on opposite sides of the apartment were open. I’d certainly made enough noise at that point to alert anyone inside. J must have stepped out. No one was out on the well-furnished balcony, so I approached the living room and grabbed a cup. Sipping, I saw the paperwork below was a subletters agreement with my name filled out. The whole form was filled out and there was an envelope addressed to the property management company already filled with stamps. 30 minutes now. Worried I am about to be mugged or stabbed or shot, I began hyperventilating. I looked at the form again and saw my own signature. I collapsed.

           I can’t tell you why I stayed in the apartment. When I awoke later that day it was dark out and there was no sign of J. I felt awful, unsure if I was poisoned or just exhausted. It was too late to go home so I tried to sleep on the couch, one eye open. The next day passed, and then the next. There’s been no sign of J. I feel like a squatter living another man’s life even though I am here legally and very much my own person with a social life and a regular seat at the bar downstairs. When I opened the package after a few months of unanswered texts, I was surprised to see an expensive telescope made for amateur astronomers. I was hoping the package would give me a clue after all this time. Something that would rationalize this situation. It provided me with no answers, just an insight to his hobbies I suppose. I let my family know that the apartment worked out and that I would move-in ASAP with my new roommate who was so friendly and accommodating and intelligent. The internship turned into a full-time position. I love my life here, rats and all. It’s the new status quo I was looking for. 

           6 months now, back on the balcony. A light flashes across the alley way below the balcony and into my eyes. It blinds me for a moment. Is it a spotlight or some sort of long-range flashlight? I fall back a little and regain my composure, looking down to its source and see nothing. Squinting, I decide to set up the telescope again and aim it to where I think this light came from. It’s too dark to see anything specific. The dumpster and brick wall behind it are blurring into one as a face jumps into view. It’s obscured, pixelated, looking right at me.