Downstairs was the manager’s office, and behind several towering piles of papers was a man. His neck was a stack of acne-spattered chins doused with talcum powder. It made me think of dessert.
“Walkman, NYHC” I said, and handed him the fake ID I used to help expedite departures of deadbeat hipster renters holed up in neighbor’s buildings, quoting tenant law loopholes from behind bolted doors. The name Walkman I’d reappropriated, inspired by old yellow cassette recorders of my youth.
If the ID didn’t work, I’d wait for them to get Chinese delivery, tip the guy a ten to bring up the food myself, and when the door opened, we’d have a discussion about them finding a new residence.
“Who?” asked Neck.
“Thomas Walkman. I’m the borough field officer.”
“Unh huh,” he replied, studying the licen
