Mistaken Identity

I live in a quiet, four house cul de sac. At least it was until a rental company bought out all the original owners, except me. 

Doreen was the first tenant to move in. She’s a brunette with short, curly hair —kind of like mine. She wears the shortest skirts. They’re like a bandaid wrapped around her waist. Cars appear in her driveway most days starting around one o’clock in the afternoon. It took me a couple of months to figure out she’s a hooker. I keep thinking I should go introduce myself, but given she looks like she could be a bouncer in a strip club, I keep my distance.

Harold came next. He’s small in stature, always wears a suit and bowtie, and reminds me of Peewee Herman. I met him at the mailbox one day. He introduced himself and told me he’s an expeditor. I said, “A what?” He said, “I’m given special things to sell without anyone knowing.” I guess he does alright, given the Rolex on his left wrist and the diamond pinky ring the size of Gibraltar.

The renter of the third house is a mystery. He’s not around much; when he is, he stays to himself. Harold says he’s a hit man who goes by lots of names. I assume Harold is making this up.

Speaking of Harold, I watch him get in the back seat of a police car. “They think I deal drugs,” he yells, as an officer closes the door and the car drives off.
I guess it’s time for me to leave all this behind. I don’t want to. I like it here. But it shouldn’t take the police long to figure out Harold’s not the drug dealer on the street.