Just came home and some huge cholo dude (complete with too-big Dodgers jacket, droopy pants, Cortezes, and head tattoos) was on my stoop, waiting. He looks at me all befuddled and scared (I’m terrifying in person) and asks if Michael (my neighbour) is home. When I point him to the right stoop, he walks away and trips over himself apologising, and tells me to have a nice evening.
Sometimes I forget that living next door to a polyester suit-wearing, weed-dealing comic book artist isn’t only just skunk smells wading through my windows; it’s also customer service and not using Apple maps.
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