I walked out of the Korean deli at the corner of Berendo and Vermont at 1 am with the toilet paper I forgot to buy hours earlier as I was engaged in a meeting for my project.

I managed to walk 20 feet towards the Local when a shrill voice rang out and set the hair on the base of my skull and back – because the hair isn’t going to the top of me head anymore – straight up.

“Buck,” she screamed.

I could see her in silhouette; spiky blonde hair, black tank top and a tight black skirt slit just enough with what looked like velvet black ankle boots but I really need new contact lenses.

“Buck” she screamed.

The Korean deli owner at the corner of Vermont and Berendo calls me by my last name, which he thinks makes me sound like a thug,  while he reads the Bible behind bulletproof glass.   How did she know my name was Buck?

Perhaps a lucky guess from a denizen of a neighborhood moving from the Central American to the Anglo-Millennial. Do I know you, I thought.

“Buck,” she screamed.

The Original Drinker sat on the window ledge on the local Lavendaria  drinking his  Jose Cuervo, scratching his bald head and laughing at me.  “Looks like it’s child support time Carnal!”