Even though I wasn’t born to the tristate area around New York City, I had lived there long enough to not be considered a prolonged tourist (which is essentially anyone who lives in the vicinity shorter than a few years). I had earned my stripes, and I had the memories to prove it. I could recall when Times Square had been a thieves’ paradise and when the heroin den of Hoboken was just beginning to molt its skin. I had seen the best and worst of this place during those passing decades, and I had resided for all of it on the western side of the Hudson River. Traverse the river, and you’ll find the elitists who paint with a broad brush and who would label anyone from Jersey as “bridge and tunnel”…but the term is a misnomer for all of us who happen to inhabit the Hudson Waterfront (or Gold Coast, if you wish), a thin strip of New Jersey that runs parallel to Manhattan. (Despite what Connecticut may tell you, there is only one Gold Coast, and its borders are demarcated by the George Washington and Bayonne bridges.) Even though its towering skyline casts its shadow across our landscape just as any of its sibling boroughs, this narrow peninsula and its shores are the black sheep of this geographic family, forgotten and unobserved by our islander counterparts. No matter, though; there’s some satisfaction to be had with being a secret, for anonymity can be a protective blanket from ruinous exploitation.

As I inhabited this place over the decades, it seemed that this place now inhabited me in turn, passing on its desire for fostering the clandestine. I was always eager to find a new path to the same destination, and it wasn’t uncommon for me to intentionally take a turn too early, in order to explore new possibilities. Especially within Manhattan, it was the best way to find those “lilies of the alley” that yearned to find solace in shade, far from the garish, flashing cameras of tourist crowds that could swallow one whole. After leaving work one day and making my way uptown, such a biomass found me as I walked along 48th Street, and their collective presence engulfed me as I waited on a corner to cross the street. Apparently they have yet to learn that both sidewalks and streets are not places to simply stand still, I thought as the crosswalk sign fervently beckoned the stationary horde to move.

With a few quick pushes, I escaped from their stationary clutches and darted quickly across the street, running down the next block. Jogging past small kitsch shops and fast food joints, I escaped my captors by darting into an innocuous entrance, absconding myself through its rotating door. No flashing lights, no street performers dressed as Smurfette…they’ll never consider following me into here. As my eyes adjusted to its dim lighting, I smiled in satisfaction. With its Art Deco interior, I looked upon a classical arcade that remained ignorant of the changing city outside its doors. Outside of the Diamond District (which retained its atmosphere of an Arabic bazaar with its various kiosks hidden among nestled passageways – it’s tough to know if was constructed in such a way or whether the vendors simply brought it with them from the Middle East), such arcades were now on the decline and sliding into the abyss of obscurity. Small stores lined its walls that surely had existed for decades (or perhaps centuries); it was a parading menagerie of tall windows, adorned with golden letters that proudly proclaimed the business conducted within. As I slowly strolled past the windows and observed the elderly patrons inside, it was obvious from their animated faces that these septuagenarians and octogenarians had a profound connection with this place. Passing a cobbler’s keep, I descried a party of white-haired friends who were laughing and trading jokes with the silver-headed attendants shining their shoes. A few steps further, I passed a jewelry vendor and overheard a friendly yet lively debate between an older Hassidic Jew and a middle-aged man, adorned with a gold cross necklace and other gold jewelry that complemented his olive complexion and dark hair.

“I tell you, this Obama idiot, he doesn’t know what he’s doing,” proclaimed the middle-aged man. “Supporting these rebels…and for what? I know Assad, and he’s a decent Christian. Don’t believe what these stupid American papers are saying.”

“Oh, like you broke bread with him and you know him…”

“At least I’ve been to Syria and the Middle East! Unlike some people who just sit in their Williamsburg apartment all day and complain about the hipsters outside!”

I walked further on, absorbing each modicum of dialogue that my ears could catch momentarily. Not everyone who reaches the winter of their lives has anything of merit to impart, but there are some who have worthy lessons and legends to offer to posterity. If you’re lucky, the latter also happen to be great raconteurs who never knew how to monetize such a skill…and if you’re truly blessed, they’ll convey a tale that can change your life. In those rare moments, they give you a wink, and for the span of an heartbeat, they transform before you and become the vivacious youth they once were. Such places like this one had the power to attract such fantastic storytellers and congregate them in one place…or did it help to create them instead? I suppose that’s just another mystery for the ages.

Walking past the small stall for reading tarot cards, I finally reached a barber shop at the very end of the arcade. Unlike its more trendy competitors of late in SoHo that offered billiards and served cocktails by moustached, suspendered bartenders, there was nothing elaborate about this establishment. Other than a modest usage of chrome, the barber shop felt and looked like a relic from an episode of Mad Men. A magazine shelf in the corner was covered with various issues from subscriptions, ranging from sports to decades-old issues of Playboy. The smell of leathery aftershave permeated the space, and from their aged use, the cracked seats had probably supported generations of the same family. Leaning next to the chair nearest to the front door, a lean bald man with a pencil moustache was looking down pensively; he looked up as I crossed the threshold and stepped onto his hirsute domain.

As I stood there quietly for a few moments, he gave me a warm smile as he crossed his arms in front of his ivory barber’s coat. “You’re not lost, are you?”

“I don’t think so. I came here looking for a cut. Maybe some advice.”

“Who said that I could help you?”

I nodded. “Yeah…you’re probably right. I mean, what the hell would a Greek know about doing anything right?”

The barber retained his smile while he shook his head. “You fuckin’ smartass…always the same with you. Now hop in the chair. You’re late.”

Peter Bolton is the author of Blowing the Bridge: A Software Story and has also been known to be a grumpy bastard on occasion.

For some odd reason, the mayor of our town had decided that a few given streets needed a particular makeover. Luckily, ours had been one of them. Some additional trees had been planted (whose species was selected to withstand harsh winters, little soil, and the constant deluge of dog urine), the sidewalks were cleaned and repaired, and the streetlights had been replaced with contemporary models. These miniature lighthouses shone so brightly that some nights were better illuminated than some days. Those stellar beams proved their magnificence as they glinted off the polished belt buckle and snap of the gunslinger’s holster. He waved his arm and shouted Spanish curses at the fawning trio, who had been boldly staring us down only moments ago.

“I’m thinking that I should call the cops now,” assessed Brian, with a confused and somewhat wet Canal standing by his side. The poor pooch shook the rainfall off of his coat, tilting his head up and sideways toward his towering master. It was obvious that he was patiently waiting for his master to start moving towards the dry, warm interior behind the lobby door.

Copying Canal, I tilted my own head as I scrutinized our supposed vigilante. “Hmmm…you’re too late,” I interjected. “They’re already here.”

Taking a second look for herself, Rhonda looked down the street and recognized the same person in those dark clothes. “Well, look at that…it’s Captain Richie.”

As if he could detect the announcement of his own name (but likely following the gaze of his intimidated audience), Captain Richie turned around and spotted us under the weeping night sky. Subtlely, he adjusted his frame into something less menacing, and he flashed a broad smile in our direction as he waved amiably at us. We waved back, and just as I considered walking down the street towards him, he turned quickly and ushered the trio through the open door, giving the one woman a not-so-friendly push through its frame. Just as well, I thought. I’m not certain that I should be talking to any cop in my pajamas. He briefly turned to us in order to issue one last wave, and then he escaped into the embracing shadows himself. The whole encounter couldn’t have taken more than 30 seconds.

“Well, that was weird,” commented Rhonda, while she simultaneously patted Canal’s head and looked at him adoringly. Oh, I know that look, I thought. There’s a puppy in our future for sure.

“Yeah,” I agreed. “Must have been some sort of domestic disturbance issue. Maybe this has happened before and he knows them? More importantly, I didn’t even know that Richie was fluent in Spanish.” I paused. “Speaking of weird…Brian, you didn’t happen to see a naked white chick running around out here, did you?”

Brian, still focused on the other end of our block, finally became aware of my seemingly random question. “Wait…what…naked chick? Huh?”

I shook my head. “Never mind. Forget that I asked. You got leaks in your place too, right? Oh, and I forgot to ask before: you planning on being on the board?”

“Yeah, I got leaks worse than yours,” he said through gritted teeth. “And am I gonna run for the board?” He shrugged. “Maybe…I heard that Babbu wants to be on the board.”

I laughed. “But where’s he gonna find the time? Isn’t he still running that social media campaign? What’s the name of his site…KirpanWedgiesAreHateCrimes.org?”

“Oh, trust me, he’ll find the time,” answered Brian. “That guy’s an insomniac. I see him going in and out of the building in the dead of night. Along with that Chinese lawyer/escort…”

“Chinese lawyer/escort?” Rhonda asked with fascination.

“Hmmm,” I pondered. “Lawyer/escort? That sounds like my version of a superhero.”

Brian nodded. “Yep. I talked to her once in the elevator, and Babbu knows her law firm. She’s definitely a lawyer…but about half the time that I’m out here with Canal, I’ve seen her being picked up by a different guy in a different car on that corner.” He pointed down the street.

I raised an eyebrow questioningly. “Well, I’m not sure if that makes her an escort…but from what my Chinese friends tell me, that isn’t outside the realm of possibility.”

“What about you?” Brian asked. When I raised the either eyebrow as well to clearly emphasize my confusion, he clarified his question. “What about you being on the board? You seem pretty sensible.”

I grimaced. “I don’t know…to be in charge of this loony bin? There’s no reward in being the mayor of Crazy Town. I know, I know…that’s even more of a reason to be on the board. Man…this place has got bad juju. There’s just something wrong with this building…”

Embracing its frontier spirit, the people of Little Peru had stumbled upon a symbiotic way of dealing with some of their smaller pest issues. Instead of practicing cleaner habits (which, aside from a strict regimen for laundry, were not employed), they had invoked better sanitation by fostering feral cat colonies throughout the neighborhood. We had learned the colony nearest to our building had been proclaimed los bastardos by the locals, and at this point, one calico bastardo nonchalantly wandered out of the alley that was a few steps from our entrance. Unfortunately, the normally placid Canal took notice before any of us, and likely suffering from the delusion that mangy feral cats must taste like filet mignon, he bolted with fervor towards the bastardo, dragging his unhandled leash behind him.

“Canal!” roared Brian. “Get back here now!”

With Brian in the lead, all three of us pursued the barking chaser, following him into the alley on the northern side of our building. Having only the width of two people, the dim alley really served no purpose other than to provide an access door on its side for our electrical closets and boiler rooms; the only likely people who had explored this dingy concrete corridor were plumbers and electricians. At its end, there was a wooden fence that marked the border of a neighboring building’s yard, and as Canal began to close the distance between himself and his intended meal, the agile bastardo writhed and escaped through a miniscule gap under the fence’s bottom. Sitting at the fence and robbed of his trophy, we caught up to the whining Canal, and Brian reclaimed the leash once more.

“Bad dog!” reprimanded Brian, with an aggressive yank at the harness around the thick trunk of Canal’s body. “Goddamnit, Canal, I swear…”

“Holy shit…”

I had heard that particular whispering tone in Rhonda’s voice before. By nature, it was easy to startle her. Sometimes, she would need to put the wee in the wee hours of the morning, and waiting patiently outside the bathroom door for my turn, my mere unexpected presence upon her exit was enough to make her shriek and undergo palpitations. However, you couldn’t really regard such amusing fits as actual fear. This tone, however, carried a palpable dread to it. Somewhat concerned myself now, I followed her line of sight to its end and immediately felt a slight shiver crawl up my spine. “Woah…now that’s fucked up.”

Years ago, while touring an ancient cave in southwest France, a guide had pointed us to the handpainted Paleolithic images on a nearby wall, and he explained the theory that our ancestors might have used the flickering of a torch in order to animate them. Using their latest technology of fire, they might have been able to convert these smeared drawings into the primitive version of a flip book. So it seems that the classical elements can bestow life in more than one way, and in this soaked alley, water took the place of fire as it ran along the wall and performed a similar form of dark arcane magic. In a spot at almost eye-level to our small group, we stared at the faint yet clear shape in the concrete wall of a human hand with fingers spread. This outline, though, was not the analogous signature of a Hollywood star or a proud mason; in this case, it was convex rather than concave. As the rivulets ran vertically through its fingers in the dim light, tricks were played on the eyes, and one could swear that those fingers were desperately waving for attention, for help that could wrest its owner from this hulking condensed prison. My imagination couldn’t decide whether its intentions were benevolent or hopeful of pulling some company into its lonely cell.

Shuffling next to us, Brian followed my finger and nodded gravely as I pointed to the specific patch of concrete that was sure to provide a year’s worth of nightmares. “Well…that is definitely not Han Solo. But you were right…there’s definitely something wrong with this building.”

Peter Bolton is the author of Blowing the Bridge: A Software Story and has also been known to be a grumpy bastard on occasion.

Accompanying what can only be described as a lupine snarl, a gruff voice prodded at our backs.

“What are you two doing here?”

After you’ve chased a naked apparition in your pajamas and find yourself interrogated on a rainy street in the wee hours of the morning, I can testify that you will start to question the surreal nature of the last few minutes…in fact, you will begin to place serious consideration on the theory that you’re still in your bed and that you’re having dreams triggered by the twilight consumption of greasy pupusas. However, just as it was addressed in the movie Total Recall, nobody sweats in a dream…and my sweaty butt clipped those supposed wings that belong to Morpheus. As the voice repeated its question, I immediately became sober under the expansive awning, shaking off the sort of inebriation that comes from late-night fatigue.

“You hear me? What are you two doing here?!?”

If I was going to face death or injury, I’d rather surrender my mortality knowing the face of my demise. Not knowing what to expect, Rhonda and I turned to confront our questioner, and I was pleasantly relieved to recognize the volatile yet friendly company before us.

“Brian! Hey, how’s it going?” I asked, relieved that I would live to see another day. “We came out to see what the yelling is all about. And I see that you’re taking Canal for a late night walk. What’s up, pups? Did you have another late night emergency with your bladder?”

Facing us, Brian and his large yellow mastiff were standing under the wide expense of a black Apartment 5 umbrella. The Steelkilts’ dog Canal had been given his eponymous name due to being found near the Erie Canal in upstate New York, tied to a tree with numerous cigarette burns on his little puppy body. After several years of healthy eating, that wounded little puppy was long gone. Canal, which had entertained the thought of shredding us only moments ago, was now all smiles and eagerly came forward to lick our hands. Much like his towering owner, Canal had an immense size to him…but unlike Brian, he was more inclined to show affection.

“Yep,” Brian commented, looking down at his beloved pet. “He kept whining until I got my fat ass out of bed. And he would have done it all night, too!” Looking up, he nodded his head in the direction of the boisterous bunch down the street. “So, you heard them too, huh?”

“Who can’t hear them?” joked Rhonda, crossing her arms tightly in front of her for warmth.

“Do they have to carry on like that?!?” Brian paused. “I hate yelling…” Cocking his head to one side, Brian pointed with the hand that held the leash. “Well, look at that…looks like they finally stopped fighting. Now they’re looking at us.”

We all turned to look down the street, observing that the feisty love triangle had called a temporary truce. The ensemble stoically pointed themselves toward us, ignoring the light spatter of precipitation falling on their heads. Now that isn’t creepy at all, I thought.

Here, though, I should probably tell a little more about the inhabitants of Little Peru. Little Peru actually wasn’t a town full of Peruvians. For hundreds of years, Little Peru had actually been a neighborhood of Irish and Italian immigrants across the Hudson river from New York City, but several decades ago, a municipal agreement with the state and the feds had led to a wave of incoming Peruvian refugees. In accordance with precedence found in other nearby real estate, the Europeans fled the town, and the Peruvians had set up shop…but not for long. As the Peruvians prospered, poor Caribbean immigrants had arrived, and the blue-collar Peruvians had left in order to upgrade their lives in the Jersey suburbs. Almost every decade, the cycle repeated itself, where one Hispanic demographic took the place left by another’s exodus. Of course, some of each outgoing mass stayed behind, ensuring that another layer remained in this Latino melting pot. In the end, though, Little Peru wasn’t so much a town as it was a staging area, bereft of any sense of community. Eurocentric allotments like cathedrals and gardens became neglected and abandoned; they became architectural husks among the urban landscape of empty Tecate cans, chicken bones, and tainted rice.

Unlike other towns along the Jersey banks of the Hudson River, Little Peru had not become another affluent area that housed the upper class, with raised balconies facing the towering skyline of Manhattan. In numerous ways (some of which were charming), it was a piece of America that had reverted back to a frontier, recolonized by native Central and South Americans instead of indigenous North Americans. You could find possums and racoons wandering the backyard lots, and live chickens darted from the pollerias and down crowded streets as they fled for their lives. Living within the isolated bubble of this town, many locals had never set foot outside its borders to visit the rest of their host country; they were more than happy to stay within a comfort zone that offered ubiquitous Spanish and a copious number of barber shops, all with televisions that blared Univision and dubbed Chuck Norris movies. Though the people of Little Peru may not have heard of the word gentrification (probably since most of them knew only a little English), they looked at any white person as any Comanche warrior would back in the 19th century. They saw us as potential harbingers of unwanted change, and I had heard the disgruntled mutters of more whites (in both English and Spanish) while passing sidewalk fiesteros. In order to embrace our new home, Rhonda and I had started to make purchases in the local shops and to speak a little Spanish, and some of the local population had warmed to such gestures…but like they say, you can’t win over everybody. Consequently, there were some who stayed cold to the touch. The three stoic folks on this drenched street had those cool unwelcome eyes, and they used them to stare us down. You can give me the evil eye all you want, I thought. This is my home now just as much as yours. And if you don’t like it, you can go fuck yourselves with a can of Goya beans.

“They’re a regular bunch of friendlies, aren’t they?” joked Brian.

The Mexican standoff (or polyethnic standoff, to be politically correct) was broken when the stoic three whipped their heads towards the swinging front door of the adjacent apartment building. Through the frame and down the street, we heard a booming voice command them from somewhere inside.

“Mira! Deja de gritar!”

The stoic three lost their composure, and with limp shoulders and vapid smiles, their voices turned to a sickening saccharine as they obviously apologized to the silhouette in the door’s frame. An outstretched hand silenced their incessant whining, and the rest of its accompanying body walked out into the street. Rhonda gasped at the figure in dark waterproof clothing, probably also taking note of what I had already noticed: the rather large handgun in a holster on his hip.

Peter Bolton is the author of Blowing the Bridge: A Software Story and has also been known to be a grumpy bastard on occasion.

When Rhonda pulled the door open, I was expecting our nocturnal nudist to do something volatile; I was putting my money on some kind of spasmodic reaction, born out of panic and surprise. Instead, I hadn’t counted on the possibility of the truly unexpected. Unabashed, the stairwell revealed its great magic trick: it had made the acerbic vixen disappear. She had vanished, leaving a barren stairwell that flickered in tune with the fluorescent lights along its walls. Rhonda turned to look at me menacingly.

“Now, wait a minute,” I protested, “I’m telling you that she was sitting right here, third step up from the floor. I swear!”

Folding her arms in order to hide her clenched fists, Rhonda patiently stood her ground. “Okay…I’m not saying that you’re a liar. I believe you…but then where is she?”

“I don’t know,” I sighed, “Maybe she got up and went back to her own place?”

Rhonda shrugged. “Well…we tried to help, but it didn’t work out. Now can we go deal with the windows and go back to bed?”

“Sure,” I replied, nodding with eyelids that begged to be shut with nails, “I just hope that she’s okay. Let’s get back inside…”

Rising from the bowels of the stairwell, I was interrupted by the belligerent yell of a woman, along with the unmistakable sounds of breaking glass. Rhonda’s furrowed brow of skepticism suddenly softened at the audible evidence of my claims, and I couldn’t resist looking at her with a certain amount of swagger.

“Told ya,” I shot, as we both tracked the source of the noise and quickly descended the stairs onto the floor beneath us. The din echoed through the hallway as we quietly shuffled our feet across the tiled beige floor. Almost at the other end of the hallway, we could now hear clearly the sounds of an argument between a man and a woman. We reached the apartment next to the elevator, and we stood on either side of the door, pressing our ears close enough to the door so that we could eavesdrop on the maelstrom beyond its frame. Even though we only listened for a few minutes and despite the lack of eloquence present in the debate, we began to assemble the garbled bits of their disagreement and comprehend the nature of the conversation.

Rhonda looked at me questioningly. “Is that Mike and Lisa?” she whispered.

“Yeah, it’s them,” I whispered back. “Who knew that Crave Case was already married and that Lisa was his girl on the side? And he bought this place for them to be clandestinely carnal? I guess that he’s an O.G. after all.”

Rhonda shook her head. “Dumb girl…she can yell all she wants, but that’s a classic blunder: he’s not gonna leave his wife. She’s young…but she’ll learn.” She paused as another glass broke on the floor inside. “So, I guess that your rape victim isn’t inside there, huh?”

“Unless that was Mike’s wife,” I guessed, ”and then Lisa beat the shit out of her and tore off her clothes. Hmmm…now that’s my kind of girl fight…”

“You men are all such pigs,” she replied, curling her lips in disgust. “Okay, we’re done here. Let’s go home.”

Even though it disturbed me to leave such a mystery unresolved, my desire to sleep between my own sheets was far stronger. However, fate cares little about your health, and at that moment, another scream pierced the night…but not from behind the apartment door in front of us. This one was obviously outside of the building, somewhere in the street just beyond the lobby door. Unlike the cacophonic battle that continued to rage within Mike’s condo (which paid no attention to anything but itself), this particular cry didn’t originate from petty jealousy and mistaken notions of love. This utterance had a detectable note of panic, and both Rhonda and I were able to recognize it as just that. Our eyes locked and agreed on that point with silent affirmation.

My eyes rolled back in exasperation. “Is there a fucking full moon out tonight or what?”

“Is that your naked girl?” Rhonda proposed quietly.

“I have no idea. Maybe…”

“Let’s go then,” Rhonda insisted, “But let’s be careful.”

Like you have to tell me, I thought. Even more careful than before, we traversed through the building, making our way down the stairwell next to the elevator and applying only the balls of our feet to the ground. If you’ve ever attempted to sneak out of your house as a teenager, you’ve acquired such skills of stealth, and in a few cases, you might have perfected your craft. You never think that such skills might come in handy again later in life. In fact, you’d probably bet all of your possessions on that one…but as I’ve learned on more than one occasion, that bet would be a mistake. Upon reaching the lobby, Rhonda and I peaked through the clear glass panels of our heavy lobby door from a number of different angles, looking at a mostly abandoned stretch of sidewalk and asphalt. However, down the block to our left and on the other side of the street, we could faintly distinguish a few people facing each other in the front of an small apartment building. Even though we couldn’t understand the Spanish conducted between them, it was obviously a disagreement. Probably about something important at 3 in the morning…like how Jarrito is so much better than Inca Cola, I joked to myself.

“Let’s go back,” I suggested, content with the knowledge acquired about the commotion outside. “It’s obviously not her. Let them argue about whatever…”

I could tell from the expression on Rhonda’s face, though, that we weren’t done here yet. Fully awake now, her voyeur self was invested in this present situation, and she had the curiosity of a cat. Damn both her physical nose and her feminine yet feline nose for trouble.

“I can’t see what’s going on through this door,” she surmised. “Well, I’m gonna step outside in order to get a better view down the block.”

Before I could even attempt to argue against that proposition, she bolted out the door, and I quickly followed behind her. We stood on the sidewalk just outside our lobby door, finding shelter from the drizzling rain under the large blue awning. It seemed that Mika and Lisa’s conflict had absorbed the power of the storm, and the previous torrent had withered during our wandering through the building. With a better view now, we could identify two Hispanic men in the midst of a drunken argument, and between them, a young woman was desperately attempting to shield one from the other, using her own body as an escutcheon. The slight downpour, though only a modicum in comparison to before, prevented us from hearing the exchange only a few hundred feet away. Both Rhonda and I were so engrossed in concentration at the flurry of Spanish curses, we didn’t immediately notice the sound of beastly growling behind us.

Peter Bolton is the author of Blowing the Bridge: A Software Story and has also been known to be a grumpy bastard on occasion.

In general, stairwells tend to be the black sheep of a building, especially in a condominium. A meticulous amount of detail is dedicated to many interior portions of a building: the lobby, the elevator, the hallways, the apartments themselves. When a real estate agent guides a young couple through a building, the agent is more than happy to show them each of the previously mentioned areas…but rarely will an agent take these hopeful purchasers through the stairwell. Typically built with lesser materials, the stairwell is a neglected branch in terms of basic maintenance and care, much like a derelict grandfather that’s been stuffed into a backroom amid soiled diapers and unwashed dentures. Its dingy floors and poor illumination invite the visits of those who seek the comfort of shadows, like lazy addicts who seek quick relief from a smoke. Even though our condo building had hatched only a few months ago, our stairwell was already beginning to emerge from its pupation stage, with faint nicotine stains on the wall and dehydrated stains of unrecognizable goop on the steps. It certainly wasn’t the kind of environment that would entice anyone to strip down and physically bond with it …which made it all the more confusing why a young woman would decide to strip naked and place her ass on what could only be described as a petri dish.

Yet there she was on the stairwell perpendicular to me, with legs bunched tight and crossed arms. Even though a part of her face was shadowed by her disheveled blonde hair, I thought that I could make out a mark on her cheek. With her visage now turned towards me, she gave me a truly malevolent glance, blue eyes piercing through running mascara; it didn’t help that the pervasive fluorescent lighting gave her white skin a ghastly sheen. In that moment, I never felt more that I should have a nazar on my person, as protection from her potentially arcane scorn. In fact, based on her scrutiny, you would have thought that I had done something truly egregious by walking into the stairwell; it seemed like the kind of expression that a woman would reserve for a pervert caught in her bedroom, donning her panties on his head. In an state of shock, I reached up to touch my crown. Nope…not guilty.

Squinting with hatred, she repeated her last statement in a slur of increased exacerbation, adding a snarl for emphasis. “What do you want? Can’t you see that I’m busy? Well…what are you waiting for?!? Get the fuck out of here!”

My mind, under more normal circumstances, would have been able to process such events with a bit more alacrity. However, given the hour and my frazzled mood due to our leaking windows, being ridiculed by a nude angry woman tipped the scales of my fragile state; consequently, my usual articulate self evaporated as my brain blew a fuse. Instead of inquiring any further, I simply whispered a meager sorry, accepted my banishment with my tail between my legs, and closed the door to the stairwell with all the poise of a gloved museum curator. Only after taking a few steps back from the door did my psyche eventually regain some sense of itself. Wait a minute…you can’t just leave her in there. What if she’s a rape victim? What if she needs help? What if she’s delusional from intoxication and despair? Coming to grips with the situation, I decided that I might need a little help with this one, and I hurriedly walked back into my apartment nearby. As I entered my abode once more, Rhonda was busily placing the needed towels along the window sill and along the floor. Hearing the door open, she turned towards me with a questioning look, furrowing her brow at the garbage bag still in my hand.

“What’s happened?” she asked, studying my face.

“I just ran,” I began, “into a naked chick sitting in the stairwell.”

Rhonda stared back at me with skeptical incredulity. “You know, if you don’t really want to take the trash down, just say so…”

“I’m serious! She’s just sitting there, with running mascara! I think that she might be some sort of rape victim! Go grab a Bible and I’ll swear on it!”

“But we’re atheists,” Rhonda reminded, “And we don’t have any Bibles lying around.”

Exasperated, I tossed the garbage bag to the side as my hands tried to do the talking for me. “Okay, go get your Kindle, and I’ll download it. Or download something that you care about, like Twilight…”

“I don’t think that it counts on the electronic version of a book…” Rhonda commented.

I didn’t pay any attention to her interruption. “…and I’ll swear on that! Just come with me and see! I’m not fucking around!”

At this point, I could tell that she was starting to reluctantly take my word for the truth, despite the compulsion to dismiss me. She turned away from the window in order to face me. “You’re not joking? There’s a naked woman in the stairwell who’s crying?”

“Yes! That’s what I’m saying. I think that she has a black eye. I’d go to her, but if she’s been assaulted or raped, she probably doesn’t want to talk to a dude. She certainly didn’t want to talk to me! So, please, come out there with me.”

With a heavy sigh, Rhonda capitulated with only an indication of shrugged shoulders. “Okay, I’ll come…but you better not be fucking with me! And if that chick is actually out there, she’s probably some dumb slut who picked up the wrong dude at a bar…and even though I’ll help her, I’m going to give her such shit…”

“Okay, whatever,” I replied, “Let’s just help out. Come on!”

After quickly throwing on a pair of jeans and a T-shirt, Rhonda joined me at the front door, and together, we creeped down the hallway towards the stairwell. Hmmm…maybe I should have also put on some real clothes instead of these pajamas, I thought to myself. After all, I wouldn’t want to disappoint all of my fans. I momentarily chuckled at the thought as we reached the stairwell’s heavy door. Rhonda looked back at me for verification, motioning towards it with one hand. I nodded, and with a loud thud from the door handle’s torque, she yanked it open.

Peter Bolton is the author of Blowing the Bridge: A Software Story and has also been known to be a grumpy bastard on occasion.

“Hey, honey…Are you awake? Did you hear that?”

In truth, I had been awake for a while before she had even asked me that question. Recumbent under the covers of our bed, I had been stuck in a half-lucid state for the past few minutes, in that rare frame of my mind where you can have an enlightening conversation with your subconsciousness. As always, I had entered this trance slightly discombobulated, questioning my temporal conditions. (It wasn’t unusual for me to awaken with such odd notions.) Perhaps the last few decades of my life had only been a dream? Had I dreamt through my twenties to only emerge and repeat my youth in middle age…so that (as mentioned in True Detective) the future was behind me, as it had always been? Or perhaps I was currently having a vision of the future from the slumber of my teenage years? Or maybe I should dive back into the abyss and dream again, so that I could fly through passageways like a diving hawk and then compare dreams with Rhonda when we awoke? I would always get past these notions, though, and my mind would wander into some other odd, tangential direction. I was in the midst of exploring another hidden corridor when Rhonda repeated the same question from before.

“Peter! Wake up! Do you hear it?”

Just keep pretending that you’re asleep, advised a subconscious voice. She’ll eventually go away. I laughed at the thought. Clearly, this new apparition from my depths didn’t know Rhonda all that well. I struggled to open my eyes and turn my head towards her, with the same effort that a newborn chick invokes to overcome its shell.

“Ehhh…huh? What sound? Where?”

Rhonda pointed at the doorway in conjunction with her answer. “From the living room. I think that it’s happening again.”

We waited for a few moments, so that I could get a chance to hear it for myself. Yep…I heard it. Pleep…plop…pleep. That goddamn motherfucker was back. “Yeah,” I grumbled, “I hear it. I’ll take of the living room. You check on the other rooms.”

I sat up in bed and looked at the alarm clock. 3:13 AM…But, hey, who needs sleep? Mornings in spring are usually very pleasant, but only a farmer could appreciate it at such an early hour. Unconsoled by the thought that a distant migrant worker was sharing my fate, I swung my bare feet over the side of the bed and accidentally stepped on the tail of our cat. He cried in a startled panic and ran from the room. Good…now we’re all happy. Merry Fuckin’ Christmas in June. Blindly stumbling through the darkness, I eventually made my way into the living room. In the tranquil blackness that surrounded me, I could observe the beautiful skyline of Manhattan through those windows, despite the moderate rainfall that was pouring down…but at such an hour, I wasn’t exactly in the mood to appreciate anything. Fuck those fuckin’ windows. After smacking my hand against the wall a few times, I eventually found the light switch and invoked the necessary illumination. My eyes adjusted to the piercing light that insisted on stabbing my retinas, and I focused on my adversary across the room.

“There you are,” I drawled across lazy lips. “You bastard. I knew that you’d be back.”

It had been three months since our debacle of a condo meeting in the garage, and during that time, Rhonda and I had come to learn quite a deal about our new home. We had gained the knowledge about our walls, which were apparently thinner and less soundproof than we had hoped…since we were now privy to the nuptials of our adjacent neighbors. (Namely, that she was a typical moaner and that he was a heavy grunter.) We observed that the wooden floors, despite being beautiful, were so delicate that they could be scratched by a sudden gust of wind or breath. Most importantly, though, we had become well acquainted with the lesser strengths of our builders, of which window installation happened to be one. During any fall of precipitation, our home suddenly transformed into the cabin of a sinking ship, and during the first few encounters, it had invoked the same feelings of helplessness and dread that would befall dying sailors. If I wasn’t in my pajamas, I’d be more eager to abandon ship…after enough repetition, though, the dread of such an event had ameliorated to the point of simple sighs, since we were now resigned to our doomed fate. I could hear Rhonda behind me as her feet shuffled across the floor.

“So, I thought that they had fixed the windows for good?” she croaked with fatigue.

“Guess not…I’ll call Richie tomorrow about it. Fourth time is the charm, right?”

Rhonda shook her hood as the water dropped from the window’s frame and splattered against the sill and floor. A puddle had already formed directly beneath the frame. “It’s too early to try and be funny…uh…what’s that smell?”

I sniffed and smelled nothing. Curious, I scanned the room and found the likely culprit sitting by the front door. Her damn bloodhound nose…how does she do it? I noticed a standing bag of kitchen garbage resting against the front door, and I lazily flopped my hand towards it with the motor controls of a toddler. “Must be the garbage over there,” I guessed, “Though I can’t smell it myself.”

“You really can’t smell that? It’s filling the whole place…Tell you what, I’ll take care of the window if you take down the trash to the garage.” Observing my reaction that conveyed the simple question of Why me?, she explained her viewpoint. “I’m not dressed! I don’t want anyone to see me.”

I raised an eyebrow dubiously. “Someone is going to see you at 3:13 in the morning?”

I could see from her expression that no words should be offered in response. Her visage, which both pleaded and threatened me, gave me all the impetus to make the right decision. Desiring to avoid any chance of a murder-suicide ritual, I cursed under my breath as I walked towards our discussion’s subject. I yanked on the Leaning Tower of Pee-yoo, hoisted it into the air by its finger-strangling ribbons, and exited the front door with a sweet-voiced thanks on my heels. Still cursing the gift of her olfactory senses (and missing the cheek-warming comfort of my pillow), I reached the end of the hallway and opened the door to our nearest stairwell. I was halfway through the door when I came to an abrupt stop, startled by the fact that I wasn’t alone.

Sitting naked upon the stairs and sitting sideways to me, a young blonde woman was staring at the wall before her, her legs bundled tight and crossed arms covering her breasts. She seemed to be squinting her eyes as she slumped somewhat forward, in an apparent attempt to descry some hidden image from the concrete slab in front of her. Despite looking slightly cold, she seemed perfectly calm as she turned her head to regard me with an inquisitive glance. Her heavy eyelids refused to open, as if the mere thought of such travail meted out exhaustion. Instead, she lifted her hanging head in order to get a better look at me.

“What do you want?” she hissed.

Peter Bolton is the author of Blowing the Bridge: A Software Story and has also been known to be a grumpy bastard on occasion.

Nearly a third of our gathering had now scattered to the wind, as the remaining contingent was continually encircled by our new furry attendees. Contrary to my previous thoughts, I was now hoping that Vinny would now brandish his sidearm and handle this problem accordingly. In fact, I was now irritated enough to be fairly lenient at the thought of arbitrarily executing people around the garage. Richie, on the other hand, was calmly attempting to approach the darker-colored shepherd when a woman’s thick German accent came from nearby.

“Ve are zo zorry! Zey are zo bad sometimes…but, do not vorry. Zey are very nice dogz. Just move very slowly around zem.”

A tall, pale lady of slender build and an older Arabic gentleman walked leisurely towards us, smiling and waving to everyone present. If they descried the annoyed looks on all of our faces or were aware of the present canine menace, they gave no indication of it. Their expressions seemed both affluent and a tad aloof, especially when it came to any inclination towards controlling their animal companions. They stopped near the loquacious dog who was continuing to proclaim his inherent dislike of Babbu, and the emaciated banshee focused her gaze on the two men in the center of this group.

“Allo, everyone. Und now I should introduce us, yah?” began the apparition, who had to raise her voice in order to compete with her barking wards. “Ve live in ze penthouse, and ve are…”

Up to this point, Richie and Raymond had kept a cool candor in the wake of the loonies’ procession, but there was no mistaking that their shared shroud of patience was beginning to wear thin. I assumed that we were all experiencing similar feelings, but it was the acerbic Babbu who took hold of the diplomatic mantle and spoke assertively on our collective behalf.

“Hey! Bitch! Get a hold of your stupid dogs! Before we have to shoot them!”

“Or get stabbed!” interjected Mike, motioning at Babbu. “Use your knife, bro!”

Sans her valiant steed, the vision of Famine opened her mouth in shock, placing a hand over her wounded heart. I was confident that her face would have become flushed if her thin frame had possessed enough blood to do so.

Donning a scowl, her husband stepped forward with a finger raised against Babbu. “That’s completely uncalled for, sir! You should show some respect to my wife…”

“I don’t give a shit! I’ll sue you if that dog gets any closer!” interrupted Babbu.

“THAT’S ENOUGH!”

Along with the dogs, all became silent and turned to face a flustered Raymond, whose tone indicated that any and all patience had left the garage tout de suite. With a flushed face, he rolled one hand into a tight ball at his side while raising the other open, and he cleared his throat in a visible struggle to purge any hostility from his voice. As to where it went from his throat, my guess was that he was attempting to strangle it in the clenched fist at his side.

“Ladies and gentlemen, thank all of you for coming…but I’ve decided to postpone this meeting for now. We’re now missing a considerable number of people, and it wouldn’t be fair to them if we continued it in their absence. So, I propose that we try again next week. Same place, same time. How does everyone feel about that?” When nobody responded after several thumping heartbeats, Raymond took the lack of response as an affirmation. “Very well. God bless all you. Richie and I will see you next week.”

With the stated sanction from Raymond, people suddenly snapped out of their shock-induced coma, and realizing their chance to escape, the crowd began to rapidly disperse in various directions. Even the dogs adapted to this new ambiance within the garage, and they lazily trodded back to their clueless owners, who were now chasing down Raymond. I grabbed Rhonda’s hand again, and I pulled her towards the nearest stairwell. “Come on, let’s get back upstairs before the National Guard shows up. Plus, this floor is turning my toes into icicles.”

She nodded her head as we both started walking towards the stairs. “Okay,” consented Rhonda. “But that’s why you should listen to me and start wearing two layers of socks. When are you going to realize that I’m always right?”

“Ven you make ze shoes for me from ze dogs,” I replied. “And did I hear her call one of them ‘Hasselhoff’?

Rhonda laughed. “Yes, you did.”

As we approached the door to the stairwell in order to leave the bleak interior tundra of our garage, we passed by one parking space that happened to be vacant. The clear space provided me with an unobstructed look at the garage’s concrete wall, and with only a passing glance, something caught my eye that was barely distinguishable. A miniscule spot blinked at me from the wall’s grey skin.

“What is it?” posed Rhonda, with a slightly concerned tone. She tended to be spooked at the possibility of any and all surprises.

I started in the direction of the blinking spot. “I don’t know…let me see…”

Colors and shadows flashed through the thin mark as I began to identify the linear nature of its overall shape. Unfortunately, it wasn’t the portal to an alternate dimension that I had been seeking most of my life. “It’s a crack in the wall…all the way through! It’s thin…but I can definitely see the street on the other side. I’m able to spot cars and people. Jesus…this building is supposed to be brand new. And it’s already starting to crack?”

“Don’t be so down on the place,” chided Rhonda. “New construction ends up cracking a bit and making odd shapes in the walls. It’s called ‘settling’. It’s totally normal.”

“Maybe you’re right…” I replied with a pensive shrug.

“I’m always right…”

With a flick of the wrist, I gave her a quick smack on the ass as she yelped in surprise. I couldn’t help but smile as she stabbed me with a questioning look that demanded answers.

“Where I come from,“ I explained, “there are penalties when a woman lies.”

“Can you not quote Princess Bride at every opportunity?” she inquired with some annoyance.

As we opened the door to the stairwell and entered its dark confines, I couldn’t help myself. “As you wish.”

Peter Bolton is the author of Blowing the Bridge: A Software Story and has also been known to be a grumpy bastard on occasion.

With a furrowed brow, the behemoth inhaled another ample breath, as he prepared to roar yet again. “Listen, fellas, you need to stop this nonsense…immediately! You’re scaring my wife, and I will tear the limbs from your bodies if all of you don’t calm down! Right now!”

The entire room froze into place with bated breath, including the two maniacal instigators of this fiery conflict currently at play. As I could sense with the others, a part of me was inclined to flee from the scene…but there was another portion that refused to leave and had nailed my feet to the ground beneath me. This train wreck, even though possibly dangerous to myself and Rhonda, still was too fascinating to tear away frm. Noticing that he had my attention along with the rest of the room, the giant lowered his arms and raised his chin in a supreme triumph, needing only a beard on his bare face in order to resemble the almighty Zeus. He was about to issue another thunderbolt of a proclamation when a gentle but firm voice addressed him from behind.

“Honey…Stop being such a bully! You know better!”

I could see his mild-mannered wife pulling on his shirt, and he turned to face the disapproving miniature presence. His towering physique leaned down to hear the quick utterance of a susurrous scolding. True, I couldn’t make out an actual word of it, but I knew almost instinctively from its tone that it was likely a stern reprimand. As with the case of every human language, every expression has its own musical cadence, and just like a pop song repeated tirelessly against your battered eardrums, you only need a few notes to recognize it. If asked to, I could audibly identify a Russian mother berating a small child from a sampling of uttered phrases, though I know only a few actual words in that tongue…and much like that example, there were a few key notes being played by the small spouse that evinced an almost pedantic nature. Consequently, the music did sooth the beast, and the giant turned to face us once again as a changed man. Though his face betrayed no apology, he did seem to be a little less tall now.

“To all of you,” he began, “ I apologize for my outburst. That was very un-Christian of me to threaten all of you like that. Sometimes I lose my head when I get frustrated, and then I get a little crazy. I promise that I’m not going to tear any limbs off of anyone. I just…I just want the yelling to stop.” He paused. “I hate yelling.”

“Well, I certainly wouldn’t want to see you angry,” confessed Raymond jokingly. Some general laughter, fueled by relief, broke out among the various homeowners in attendance. “Tell me, my Goliath of a friend, what are your names?”

The giant’s countenance softened and molded into a sheepishly apologetic expression, looking almost comical on his menacing frame. “Oh, right, I’m sorry. Good point. My name is Brian Steelkilt, and this is my wife Carol. I would introduce you to our son, but he’s still a work in progress.” He placed one of his large mitts on his wife’s slightly swollen abdomen, caressing the area with a paternal solicitude. “We’re expecting him in a few months.”

Raymond joyously clapped his hands a few times. “God bless you! Our building family will actually get its first child! Congratulations to you both!” Rhonda and I joined the general smattering of applause that broke out, and a few amiable shouts of Congrats were echoed around the garage.

Surprised by this sudden emergence of warmth from the very people that he had threatened only moments ago, Brian’s facial color changed from a warpaint red to a blushing pink hue. “Thanks, everybody…that’s really nice of you.”

I noticed that this interruption had only caused Babbu and Vinny to suspend their quarrel for the time being, but their gladiatorial postures still betrayed their bloodthirsty desire to recommence combat. Their anxious looks at each other caught the eye of Raymond as well. “Okay,” began the loquacious property manager, “back to our slight quabble from before. Now, sirs, can we put aside our differences for now, especially in order to calm the situation for my friend Brian and his expecting mother? I think that it’s a sign of providence that our Goliath was defeated by a loving, beautiful mother-to-be instead of a cast rock. So, how about we just agree to disagree, gentlemen?”

Vinny tersely shook his head. “That’s a no-can-do, guys…he’s still got a knife.”

“You idiot,” shouted Babbu in a defiant excitement, “I already told you…”

Up until this point, the police captain Richie had been attentive but taciturn, obviously allowing Raymond to be the official spokesman of their joint leadership. However, at this point, I could see from his body language that his patience had cracked like the surface of a frozen lake (which must feel like this goddamn floor, I thought), and his resignation immediately retired from the scene. He stepped between the snapping pair, showing a palm to Babbu but turning his body in order to address Vinny. “That’s enough,” he commanded the two of them. “Mr. Singh, please calm down. Vinny…I am not your CO, but have you attended your community awareness training yet?” When Vinny didn’t respond after a few moments, Richie continued. “Well, if you had, you would have learned that the Kirpan is an important article of the Sikh faith, and it’s to be allowed on his person as a religious right. Is that understood?”

After hearing Raymond speak at length, I had gotten the general impression that he was fairly competent, but I didn’t get any sense of a leadership quality. After only hearing a few words from Richie, however, I understood how he had perhaps attained such a rank within his precinct. His mere presence gave an immediate impression of authority. It worked even more on Vinny, whose disposition was clearly altered and gave way to calm.

Though somewhat begrudgingly, Vinny nodded at Richie. “Understood, sir.”

Richie, in turn, nodded back before raising his voice to address everyone present. “Okay, so that’s settled. If the two of you wish to continue your discussion, you can do so afterwards. In order to not waste the time of everyone here, let’s now get back to the meeting. Raymond?”

“Absolutely,” began Raymond. “Thanks for the assist there, Richie. Now, I think that we should quickly go around the circle and introduce ourselves. It helps me so that I can associate a name with a face…”

“Brummer! Hasselhoff! Komm zurück…Schnell!”

Along with these quick shouts, I suddenly heard a commotion at the other end of the garage. Claws could be heard raking across the concrete, as two quadrupedal creatures scrambled toward us from the shadows. Only a few feet from Babbu, they stopped close enough in order for the overhead light to reveal their identities as two large German Shepherds. The darker-colored one fixated upon Babbu, barking ferociously at him; the lighter-colored one began to run around the outer perimeter of our circle, as if to select a separate target for his own machinations. At this point, the truce arbitrated by Richie and Raymond immediately fell apart, and the simmering sense of panic among the homeowners ignited into a small conflagration. Some of the homeowners erupted with shrieks of fright, and a few people even began to run towards the stairwells in the corners of the garage. Rhonda and I stood our ground, clasping hands and discussing our next step in a silent exchange between our eyes.

Vinny once more started to reach for his sidearm. “I’ll shoot it. Babbu, get out of the way!”

“If you hit me, I’ll sue all of your police buddies and your family!” retorted Babbu.

I could clearly see Mike as his husky frame undulated in fright. “Oh, shit, man…this situation is all fucked up!”

The escalating cries and the loud yelps from the menacing canines reignited the flame that had been doused in Brian, and his irritation served as an incantation, channeling his inner demons once again with their horns raised. Protectively, he put his body in front of Carol. “If somebody doesn’t take care of those dogs, I will! And nobody get in my way!”

Peter Bolton is the author of Blowing the Bridge: A Software Story and has also been known to be a grumpy bastard on occasion.

“Why are you here?” demanded the Sikh gentleman. “Did you follow me? I will sue you for harassment, buddy! I promise!”

Giving no quarter, Vinny started walking towards him. “You try it, pal! My union’s lawyers will eat you alive!”

I looked at Rhonda and mouthed the words What the fuck? as we tried to understand the situation unfolding before us.

Raymond quickly placed an arm against Vinny’s chest in order to prevent any escalation. “Whoa, whoa, hold on a second, Vinny. Gentlemen, surely we can come to some sort of understanding.” Calmly, Raymond redirected his attention to the newcomer. “Excuse me, sir, who are you?”

In response to being addressed in such a civil manner, the Sikh gentleman ameliorated his stance and regained some of his composure, though the anger never left his eyes. “My name is Babbu Singh, and I apologize for my outburst…but this maniac deserves no respect. He should be stripped of his rank and thrown out of the police force!”

“This,” shouted Vinny in response, “is the lunatic that I was talking about at the bar! Some cute, drunk chick squeezed his butt and gave him a little wedgie…and he yelled at her until she broke down and started crying. What kind of an asshole does something like that? I almost whipped out my mace!”

“She touched my Kachera!” screamed Babbu, with his eyes glazing over with a slight madness. “They are holy undergarments that should not be ridiculed or disrespected! And I still demand that she be tried and punished for hate crimes!”

I surreptitiously questioned Rhonda. “You still think that he’s a nice guy?”

“Hate crimes? What the hell is wrong with you?!?” shrieked Vinny. “She was flirting with you, dummy! She was probably trying to fondle your junk…you were gonna get laid, towelhead! Who gives a shit about getting a skid mark in your magic underpants? So fuckin’ stupid…That’s it! I’m gonna tase him just for being a goddamn retard!”

“Jesus,” confided Rhonda, “Can you believe that this guy carries a gun?”

“She was oppressing me…just like you! You heard him! He’s going to murder me!” proclaimed Babbu, swiveling his head in order to address all of us. “I’m going to bring you up on charges, buddy! And I’m going to record all of this!”

As Babbu opened his suit jacket and retrieved his phone from an inside pocket, I saw the shimmer of something metallic, dangling in the clutches of a holster. I couldn’t exactly make it out from my angle, but Mike appeared to have the best view. Upon identifying the mysterious article, the girthy gangster was suddenly infected with the spreading contagion of insanity. He placed a protective arm in front of his girlfriend Lisa, and he pushed the both of them back as he pointed towards Babbu’s mid-section. “Woah! Check it!” bellowed Mike. “Bin Laden’s got a knife! He’s gonna start slicing us all any minute!”

When this heated argument had begun, the pleasant candor from the start had quickly become evanescence, as the paroxysmal debate compelled the diameter of our enclosed circle to slowly widen. In particular, the various homeowners had begun to put distance between themselves and the two combatants. Now, with Mike’s proclamation, our tense gathering began to teeter on the edge of panic.

Noticing that the entire room was now focused on his every move, Babbu turned to face his accuser. “What are…are you talking about my Kirpan?” With a flourish, he pulled back his jacket in order to display an ornate sheath and blade in a tight holster. “You mean this? Do you even know what this is? And did you just call me Bin Laden? Just for that, I’m going to bring you up on hate crimes as well!”

“Put the knife on the ground,” commanded Vinny, in a tone without any jest. “Put it down, now.” Vinny slowly moved his hands down his sides, creeping smoothly towards his sidearm.

Babbu noticed that the situation was becoming serious, and the tone of his voice softened a bit…but only a bit. “Listen, you ignorant rednecks, my Kuchera isn’t even sharp. It’s a holy relic that I must keep on my person. And if you don’t back down right now, I will call my lawyer and have the both of you in deep shit!”

I grabbed Rhonda’s hand and gave it a firm squeeze. “Rhonda…I’m thinking that we might want to get out of here…”

From my peripheral vision, I noticed some movement from a couple to my left. A petite woman had been flanked by her giant husband since the onset of our gathering, and at this moment, the giant firmly moved his wife to the side as he stepped forward. His pallor shockingly shifted from a normal shade of pale to a seething cauldron of red, as the boiling in his mind seemed to sublimate the sweat from his bald head. He used the both of his hands in order to point at the two parties of this ridiculous debate.

“That’s it! I’m gonna kill everyone here!”

Peter Bolton is the author of Blowing the Bridge: A Software Story and has also been known to be a grumpy bastard on occasion.

“So, ladies and gentlemen, congratulations on being condo homeowners at this new address!” proclaimed Raymond. “I’m sure that you’ll enjoy your new home here at Casa de Perros, here in this wonderful ethnic neighborhood of Little Peru. Yes, for those of you who know Spanish, that does translate to ‘House of Dogs’…and, yes, we did know that before we started using it.” Raymond smiled at the few laughs that came his way. “As it turns out, dogs were an important part of the ancient Incan culture in Peru, and the name is a tribute to that heritage.”

In response, a few of the white couples nodded their heads approvingly. The phrase how progressive could be heard a number of times among them.

Raymond continued. “I happen to know quite a bit about Little Peru since I’ve been visiting this neighborhood for decades. Richie and I go way back, having grown up in the next town over. We saw the empty lot on this spot for a long time and talked about how much a bunch of God-loving families would love to live in this upcoming neighborhood. So, Richie rounded up some of his friends from City Hall, and I rounded up a few business friends. Together, we formed a partnership that was able to construct this wonderful building for all of you!”

As some of the other owners politely clapped their hands, I nodded my head approvingly and leaned in close to Rhonda’s ear for a whisper. “The police captain and people from city hall helped to build this place? Man, this place is as legit as it gets.”

“Though, ladies and gentlemen, “ continued Raymond, “you shouldn’t actually ask me any questions about the building work. Richie knows more about that, since his dad used to be in construction. Instead, you can save the more general questions for me, since I’ll be your property manager. Who’s better at managing your property than one of the guys who helped build it, right? And contrary to what you may have heard, not all property managers are thieves. I certainly don’t have it in my heart to steal from blessed families like yourselves. Actually, the real thief that you should watch out for is time. It robs us of everything, doesn’t it?”

As several couples clasped hands and exchanged glances after reflecting on Raymond’s philosophical musing, I noticed one portly white fellow briefly talking with his wife before finally raising his hand. Put your hand down, buddy. We’re not in fifth grade. His attire was reminiscent of hip-hop culture, with enough space in them to be considered large on Biggie Smalls. In fact, they might have actually been worn by Biggie Smalls. I nudged Rhonda. “Ten bucks says that chubby is gonna ask if he can go to the bathroom.”

Rhonda suppressed a laugh as Raymond addressed his questioner. “Yes, sir. Do you have a question?”

“Yeah,” began the inquiring fellow. “I was wondering where we can find our butler?”

Raymond looked perplexed before responding. “Uhhh…your what? What’s your name, sir? Go ahead and introduce yourself.”

“Oh, yeah, no problem,” he said awkwardly, clearing his throat before continuing. “Yo, my name is Mike, and this is my girl Lisa. We was wondering about the butler situation. You feel me?”

“I’m not sure…do you mean the building super?” asked Raymond, with a raised eyebrow.

Mike shook his head. “No, man. You know…the guy at the front desk when you walk into the lobby. Like in those big buildings on the waterfront in Jersey City. You feel me?”

I stepped close to Rhonda, lowering my voice. “I think that 2 Live Chew is talking about a concierge. And I dare you to go feel him.”

I thought that Raymond was having a similar thought (without the need to ‘feel him’), since his countenance suddenly switched from perplexity to comprehension. “Ah, I see,” began Raymond. “I think that I know what you mean…”

“Sorry, everyone! I finally got here!”

Raymond and everyone else turned their heads at the sudden interruption. Quickly approaching our enclosed circle, a dark-haired gentleman headed towards us in a grey police uniform and in knee-high leather boots. His slicked-back hair and his long thin nose made his head particularly aerodynamic and aquiline. His boots made quick clicking sounds as he moved quickly across the cement floor, proceeding with a cadence that would inspire jealousy from any goose-stepping soldier.

“Hold up, fellas! Sorry that I was late. I had to respond to a call from a bar, and my bike’s engine choked up a bit on my way here. That incident at the bar took most of my time. Some loon was yelling at a woman over God knows what…it took me forever to diffuse the situation and get him to shut up…I was this close to shooting him with my Taser!”

I looked at Rhonda questioningly (and somewhat frightfully), and she nodded her head in affirmation. “Yep,” she said, “That’s the cop from the floor below us.”

As the Gestapo-reminiscent officer took a place by Raymond, the latter held out his hand to greet the newcomer. “I’m sorry, sir. You are…?”

“Vinny Rizen,” said the newest guest to the circle, shaking Raymond’s hand in the process. “I just bought my place in the building, too. On the third floor.”

Raymond’s moustache pulled at his lips to sport a broad smile. “God bless you! Welcome then! For a second, I thought that you were one of Richie’s guys. But then I remembered your name in the building’s files. You work in another town, along the waterfront. Right, right…well, good to meet you. We were just about to make introductions between everyone…”

“Stop! Stop! Hold up!”

As Vinny fumbled with his ringing phone, everyone else once again turned to see a figure dashing towards them, frantically waving in a clumsy run.

I sighed. “For fuck’s sake,” I quietly rasped, “when are we actually going to start this thing? At this rate, we should just go ahead and build a goddamn campfire with some tents…I can feel my warmth draining through my shoes, into this cold floor…”

“Tell me about it,” agreed Rhonda. “Wait a minute…I think…yep, that’s the Sikh guy. I talked to him in the lobby that one time. He seems nice…”

The lanky fellow in a dark suit and a blue turban was panting when he finally arrived a few feet away from me and Rhonda. He waved both hands at everyone while he stood catching his breath, shining a warm smile at everyone around us. He was in the midst of scanning the group with a kind gaze when his vision stopped on the penultimate arrival to the group. His amiable pose gave way as his attention focused on Vinny, and his face transformed into a vicious scowl, with his lips curling to form the next word at the motorcycle cop. “YOU!!!”

The hissing tone finally distracted Vinny from his phone, and he raised his head in order to meet the menacing look of the Sikh gentleman. Vinny’s visage also twisted to match the disapproval of his challenger. “Oh, shit…Of all the fuckin’ luck! Not you again!”

Peter Bolton is the author of Blowing the Bridge: A Software Story and has also been known to be a grumpy, muttering bastard on occasion.