The sun is shining. It is the first day of March. I am sitting in my living room with my feet propped up on an Indian pouf. My wet dog, freshly bathed is lying beside me. I look out my window and see my neighbor's disabled van, across the street. Ticketed. The ticket has been there for over a month, flapping from beneath the wiper. Its my neighbor, Fredo's way of rebelling against the system. His fight the man. He had the van parked in the back on the lot of one of the vacant row homes. It was ticketed there as well, so he moved it to the front, where it garnered even more tickets. He refuses to pay. In a city that makes use of the Denver boot, it will be interesting to see who wins.

He is a Mexican. His face is unusually long and angular. His front teeth are missing. He washes cars in front of his house in good weather and regularly makes threats to kill someone, dump their body in Lake Michigan and dissolve it with lye. I don't think anyone takes his threats, delivered with a grin, seriously. At the same time I would not want to cross him.

His mother is outside, either in front of the house, or out back, most mornings. She picks up garbage and sweeps. Her English is very broken and you are never quite sure if she actually understood you or not. She is a sweet, smiling woman who keeps her yards, front and back, in perfect order.