This is the place where I feel most at home. The place where I can take numbers and letters and make a computer respond exactly the way I want it to. The one place where things go according to plan.
The street isn’t busy this morning because most people are just now getting up for work, so my parking is primo. Since there are so few cars on the street, the black Lincoln across the street with its tinted windows and gun-clad Russians inside sticks out in a world of Priuses and hybrids.
I wave because I don’t know what else to do. The protocols for a situation like this one are so outside of my realm of expertise. I turn and walk inside the double-glass doors with my hand still c****d in wave pose.
I have my own Russian posse now. It’s just another thing I’ll have to figure out how to dea
