Can I blame her, the way people park in New York? Maybe not, but I still want to shit in her mailbox. The way people park in New York should be reason enough to make bumpers out of tire rubber instead of making them dentable, nicely painted continuations of the car’s body (they ARE called bumpers for shit’s sake). I’ll assume that one of the cars I was wedging my own car in between belonged to her, but seeing her standing there on the sidewalk burning holes with her “I dare you” stare as I wedged in front of her house made me want to gun the gas and trade paint with both the cars in my way. Relax, lady! I’m in like Flynn! She carries herself like I’m part of an invasion, like she’s disgusting herself with the thought, “How dare he live in MY neighborhood!?” I see this unfriendly lady all the time, strutting around with her fat ankles and her big shaggy dog, gracing the neighborhood with approval here, reproachful stares there. Lady, what do you want? Times change. Old neighbors die and move out, new neighbors move in. I said hello to her once, and she responded with contempt. No neighborly return of hello, just straight into a snide speech about the trash cans in front of my building. Hey lady, an ounce of sugar goes a long way. Save the bitch in you for someone who deserves it. All I did was said hello. So go fuck yourself. I ain’t the super. You don’t like the trash cans arranged like that, tell it to someone who gives a shit. Sometimes people make me sick, with their damn unfounded unfriendliness. I parked my car perfectly and watched her watching me. What do you got to say now, lady? Shove it up your ass unless it’s Hello, or Good morning, or Nice day, huh? I took my bag with my several sweaty shirts from a long twenty-four hour tour at work and walked my tired body toward the place where I live. I earn my place in this neighborhood, lady. And I don’t need your steely stares telling me otherwise. And you know what else? You still owe me that Hello.