There are a bunch of cops in my neighborhood this Saturday afternoon, and they say they’re looking for a guy running through backyards on my street with a handgun.
My neighbor is out front drinking a Beck’s, rhythmically peeking back in at the TV and the Yankees-Angels game. Currently, the Angels are winning 1-0. My neighbor – who I know rolls his own cigarettes – is wearing a Yankee jersey with no number.
I’m listening to Rancid and the police helicopter, having an afternoon coffee.
It’s hot outside, too.