There was a new neighbor on the block of Carl’s childhood home. As a new hire at the Chicago Police Station, he wanted to check them out. See if they had a criminal record or if they were some yuppie leftover from the gentrification article on the South Side.

He walks up the porch, all business, slight scowl (for extra intimidation) engraved into his face. He knocks. He hears shuffling and the click of a lock. He hooks his fingers in the top of his vest.

The door opens. “Hello, I’m officer Gallagher.” The formality feels foreign on his tongue. The screen door that had yet to open obscured your face. He couldn’t quite see you yet.

Finally, it opens. You realize he’s a cop and not a Milkovich dropping by a warm welcome. You stand in the doorframe and his eyes pop open a bit wider. “Uhh….yo.” He reverts back to old slang when he sees, well, you.

He expected some grump with a rifle to scare off pigs and thugs—or some man-bun vegan freak waiting on this hood to turn into a neighborhood. Not you. Not those eyes, not that hair, not those lips.

“Welcome to the neighborhood.” A lopsided smile creeping across his lips. He really meant it. You were more than welcome to be his next door neighbor.