AT MY OPEN front door is a white guy walking the line between middle age and old age and I cannot tell if I can trust him.
He is decked out in fleece and a clipboard, which right there has me thinking, No.
“You’ve got a great roof for panels,” he says. His smile is much too wide for someone I’ve never met before, who is not looking at me over a drink.
An uncomfortable moment passes where neither of us speaks, I take it that he understands I mean get the fuck off my porch, but he somehow takes it as a sign of my interest. So, he leans his fit old body against the door jamb like I’m nineteen and it’s my dorm room and I can decide how the night’s going to go.