Weird noises come out of his place at all hours and the windows are almost always dark. Some nights you can see little, flickering lights moving around in there like he’s maneuvering about the place with tea lights in his hands and plenty of shochu in his veins.
Oh, yeah he drinks alright. Sometimes alone, sometimes with what sounds like a million angry ghosts but always the next morning: the clatter of glass and aluminum out the back door, down the steps, and into the recycle container, often to overflowing.
He bangs that porch door a lot and, if you look over, he sometimes waves his little, plastic swords menacingly in your direction.
We turn our heads when this happens, politely sucking on our cigarettes, pretending we aren’t amused, interested, or even aware of his bizarre, red costume with the bumpy blue eyes.
You don’t fuck around with a guy like that. Not in San Francisco. Not when he’s … the neighbor.
