Murray has lived next to my house for the past seventeen years, and to this day I am convinced that he has just about as much integrity as the Golden Gate Bridge if it were constructed out of flimsy Popsicle sticks instead of massive steel girders. His hair is gray, the kind of gray that you just cannot put a finger on. There are those people with the gray hair that makes them look ridiculously old, and there are the other people who have the gray hair that makes them look ridiculously young (on account of them expiring at such an early age). But then there are those other people, that small minority, who have something you just cannot identify. For all I knew Murray could be anything from twenty-nine years old to sixty-four years old.
Come to think of it, Murray is obscure not only because of his hair – he has an accent as well. But again, I just cannot properly identify what sort of an accent is. Something tells me it’s Russian but then I remember I have never talked to an actual Russian person. My only experience with their language comes from movies.
When you see Murray around the neighborhood, questions will most likely pop into your head naturally. For instance, why does he constantly walk with a limp when out in public, yet when in his own house stride with the confidence of a gazelle? Something smells odd concerning his whole character.
“Hey neighbor, what are you writing about right now?”
“What the hell. Oh, hey Murray. What are you doing in my house?”
“Oh, you know, just looking around.”