Our friend joshb checks in: “got my little treatise about prospect heights and psychosis published in this week’s ny press…”:
Excerpts:
“My rent checks are addressed to a Caribbean gentleman with a toothy smile and a habit of praising God while bagging our recyclables. My landlord’s friendly, though prone to breaking repair promises: Nearly three years after moving in, our ceiling still flakes like cheap baklava. The crumbling paint is always a conversation starter…”
“A couple days later, I asked my landlord, point-blank, ‘You’re not thinking of selling the building, are you?’ ‘Oh, no, Andrew, I like you guys. You’ve got nothing to worry about.’ He smiled with teeth as bright as our flaking ceiling…”
“Am I Prospect Heights? Perhaps. I frequently drink myself incorrigible. I refuse to wear deodorant. I’m prone to shouting at arthritic Hispanic women who block the sidewalk. It is not a glamorous neighborhood, but it is home, the security blanket against the big, bad city. So it is here where I draw the line, my own Alamo…”
Link: Going Postal [NY Press]