I fumble with the lock, pulling the door as hard as I can until it finally clicks into place. I button my jacket this cool morning as I descend the porch’s side stairs. I don’t use the front stairs much anymore. I’m trying not to advertise wear I live to all manner of passersby.
McDonald’s hashbrowns fill the air with a dirty-dishrag smell as I wait for the hand to switch to the walk signal. I stand between the old man with wide glasses who picks his nose and stores his findings in his pocket, and the much younger man wearing large headphones and wiggling his head and arms, presumably in tune with the music on his discman. I should mention: I’m not a morning person. These characters may, later in the day, get a warmer, isn’t-that-charming reaction from me, rather than this suspicious side-eyed annoyance.
The lights change, and I cross. Someone at the corner passively honks. Flirtation from the man in a beat-up brown van? Ooh. How … effective.
Beyond navigating the gas station entry/exit without getting hit, I watch a black minivan make an ugly three-point U-turn in the middle of the street.
Arriving at my block’s parking area, I glance down the alley between building and row of parked cars. Too many noses are too close to the wall; I’ll go behind. The center of the parking lot is essentially one giant puddle, so I stay close to the row of cars. I pass behind a bulky delivery van and then a Subaru, whose reversing lights turn on. The car starts backing up as I’m inches away. I let out a “Eeeeeh!” as I trot on my tip-toes to get out of the way, both startled and as an alert to the driver to actually check before backing up.
I hop over the narrowest sliver of puddle, and arrive at the back door of my office.
As my former roommate would say when she’d throw the gearshift into park: Lived.