For once, I was actually not running late. Lunch packed, Oskar excited about daycare and Red-Headed-Stranger ready for my commute.
And there, Mr. Infamous himself.
I knew it was him before he even said hello. Secretly, I was super-thrilled that Oskar was growling and barking and behaving like the enormous guard dog that he so brilliantly is.
"I used to live here," he began.
"Yes, I know."
"So you should be getting a letter for me. When you do, could you call me at this number?"
At this point, he even pushed his driver's license in my face, as if I needed confirmation that the owner of the poorly dyed tresses really was Mr. Fakey Business himself.
"Um ... what kind of envelope do you think it will be in?"
I was stalling, thinking of the countless pieces of mail I had already trashed. I get at least 8 things per week addressed to the guy.
"Oh, like a good-sized legal envelope."
And so he left.
Did I even consider asking him WHY after two-and-a-half years he is still using my address?
Of course not. I don't think I've ever been that close to someone-I-perceive-to-be-a-felon.
Well. Unless you count that guy I moved in with during grad school ....
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