And...Cut.

I thought the fat Mexican never forgave me for leaving my office blinds up and letting light shine onto Walton street (how brazen!), but here he is, puffing up the steps to our door, offering to help us haul the last bit of stuff--cats, golf clubs, CPUs, cleaning supplies--out to the Corolla. He says he watched the movers yesterday, and it looked like they did a fine job. He says it's too bad we're leaving, we were some nice folks to have across the street.

"But I thought you hated me," I say. "You screamed at me from your stoop. You threatened to call your goon friends. You didn't like the way I sat at at my desk in the window and played with my hair. It frightened your little girls, you said."

He shakes his head. "I was a bad man then. I got worse before I got better. Lost my job as the crossing guard at the school, I was low, man, low. You know how you haven't seen me, man? I been in Indiana; I got clean, got my life turned around, you know what I'm saying? My wife, she's a queen, man; she took me back. I was crazy, I tell you, loco." He slaps Todd on the back. "Sorry man. I'm sorry I threatened you and all."

"It's alright, man," Todd says.

We pile the stuff into every last crevice in the Corolla, buy a case of Old Style at the Rico, turn up La Ley on the car stereo. We have a car party. The drunk couple from the alley come out to see what the ruckus is. They bring their own beer.

"Don't you fucking leave!" the lady screams. Her hair is a crimped orange mane; she struts and points. "You motherfuckers, you think you can just get up and fucking leave, but you know what? I'm the bitch who leaves! Yeah, that's right. Have some fucking respect!"

"Shut up, bitch," says her man-friend, smaller and darker than her.

"That's right, I'm a bitch! A bitch is supposed to bitch like a bitch!"

"You're gonna piss off all these people--"

"I'll piss off whoever the fuck I want, and you know why? Yeah, motherfucker, it's cuz your drunk ass can't tell me what to do. Yeah, that's right! Who pissed all over hisself last night? Yeah, that's right! You can't fucking hold it. You're the drunk motherfucker who---"

They're still going at it as we pull away. We leave the beer in the alley for them, next to their bashed-up Blazer. Junior at the Rico flags us down as we approach the corner, grinning big, and loads us up with two gallons of pico de gallo. He says we might need it where we're going.