Meeting Danny

The entire stairwell smells of smoke, and when I get to the vestibule of our apartment building, the dog and I see the source: a thin, bald, stubbled man in an old parka, dress pants, and jazz shoes sits on the stoop, smoking the remnant of what looks like his third swisher sweet and sucking down a Monster energy drink. Next to the butts of his cigars lie a one-hitter that looks like a cigarette, a thin, tightly-wrapped joint, a jar of blueberry-lavender preserves, and an old set of skis.

He sees me seeing him through the glass door of the building, and begins to gather up his his things, but something about the look of me, maybe, or the dog, changes his mind, and he smiles at me like he's recognizing an old friend.

"Hey," he says, sticking out his fist for a bump as I come out with the dog, "I'm Danny."

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One year ago today: Expertise

Two years ago today: Biometric Timebomb

Three years ago today: Thankless Work