Living in the Ghetto Can Be a Good Thing

Living in the slums of Brooklyn totally has its advantages. I was taking out the trash last night, when my front door slammed shut behind me. My old ghetto house consists of three apartments, but everyone was out for the night. No keys, no phone, no jacket. It was just me, Sam the homeless cat, and the beginnings of a rain shower. There was no way to get in the windows on the ground level. I went around the side of the house, stood on a bucket and tried to pry open the window there. When the window damn near chopped off my fingers, I realized it wasn't a good idea.

So I headed down to the bar on the corner. I yelled over the blaring country music, "You gotta a phone book?" The bartender who was missing two front teeth said, "Yeah." I explained my predicament, and a Puero Rican man wearing lots of gold bling offered to try to break in. "I grew up in Brooklyn," he said. "I know how to do it."

So we wandered down to 409 Marlborough Road, and he broke his credit card in my door. (It's a dead bolt darling, 'fraid a credit card just ain't strong enough.) So he pulls a screwdriver out of his pocket and attempts to pry off part of the door that's blocking the latch. It works! And then he's cool enough to nail the strip back on—no one ever has to know. All I have to say is that I'm glad I'm moving to the slums of Manhattan.