San Diego - Rodrick 1

Rodrick wears his white socks pulled up like an old-school basketball player. There is about five inches of pasty flesh between the tips of his socks and the bottom edge of his shorts, which had once been white, but had since evolved into more of a cream color. A long black Pittsburgh Steelers t-shirt is draped over his withered torso and the neckline has been stretched out enough that it reveals a thin white patch of his chest hair.

His skin hue is only a shade darker than his creamy white shorts and the only element of color on his entire body that echoes of life is his faded blue eyes. He is a hunchback not in the question-mark/45 degree angle/"I'm sort-of a hunchback" meaning of the word, but rather in the perpendicular to the Earth/Sphinx riddle three legged creature/"I'm a full blown hunchback" manner.

As far as I can tell, Rodrick's hobbies include walking to and from the 7-11 down the block and breathing. Being the shirker that I am, I often find myself lounging on the floor of my living room, by the large window that opens onto Sixth Avenue, which allows me an unfettered view of pedestrians.

In a self-serving effort to increase my karma, I sometimes notice when Rodrick walks by my window and I pause my game of Madden '97 and walk outside to open the door for him. Three legged creatures have a hard time opening doors sometimes. I also make an effort to greet him whenever I see him, and he responds softly in a child-like voice.

One day as I am opening the door for him, he looks up at me with his faded blue eyes and asks whether or not I am Jewish.

"No," I answer. "I'm not Jewish."

"You look Jewish," says Rodrick, which is strange because being half-Korean and half-Iranian, I look anything but Jewish. I quickly add that to the list of various races I've been mistaTim for (which includes Chinese, Japanese, Mongolian, Italian, Chilean, Filipino, amongst others) and politely smile at him.

"I'm not Jewish."

"Is Tim Jewish?" He asks while cocking his head to the side.

"No, Tim's not Jewish either."

"What is Tim?"

"Tim is Italian and Polish," I answer. I silently wonder if Rodrick, thinking neither of us are Jewish, is going to just walk by and into his apartment without every speaking to either of us again.

"I'm sorry," he begins. "It's just that you are so polite, I thought you were Jewish."

"Nope, not Jewish," I answer.

"I would like to get to know you guys," Rodrick proclaims boldly.

"That sounds great," I respond.

"Well, okay," Rodrick says as he lurches by. "What is your name?"

"My name is John, and yours?"

"My name is Rodrick, nice to meet you Jamie."

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