reasons why and reasons why not

I categorize my life into managable lists; reasons why and reasons why not. For example, I did not have any reasons why moving was a good idea. I did, however, have plenty of reasons why it was a very bad idea.

1. I don't fit in here... At all.

I got off the bus and felt the hiss of the doors sliding shut behind me. It made me jump a little and maybe that's what got everyone's attention, that little movement. Or maybe it was the two suitcases I was trying to juggle as I felt around in my pants pocket for the address of my new apartment. Or maybe it was my hair, I don't know. It must have been something because it felt like all eyes were on me as I heaved my bags onto the sidewalk and looked around.
A street sign a little ways down the block told me that I was currently standing on Navajo and a faded billboard told me that I should consider Jamaica as my next vacation destination. I smiled grimly. I didn't forsee any vacations in my future. Across the street was a laundry mat and I hefted my suitcases, one in each hand, and made my way over to it, almost getting splattered by an old green Jaguar in the process.
" 'ey! Watch it!" a man rolled down the window to yell at me. A cloud of grey smoke trailed after his voice as he drove on.
Note to self: Watch for traffic.

A bell jingled over the door as I entered the laundry mat, struggling to manuver the heavy bags through the inconveniently small doorway. There was no way in hell I was leaving everything I owned outside on the stoop. That was like screaming, "Hey, free shit!" Uh-uh. Nope.
"Can I help you?"
"I just need directions."
"Wash and dry, one load one dollar."
"No, I don't need anything washed. I need directions."
"You don't have money, you got to leave."
"I have money, I just don't need anything washed!"
"What you standin around for then? Get out of here!"
I am ashamed to say I was chased out of the laundry mat by a woman waving a wire hanger.
Note to self: Don't ask for directions.

Outside, a safe distance away from the laundry mat and the homicidal maniac with the hanger, I saw a woman of debatable age and occupation leaning against the side of a building picking at her nails. She looked up as I walked by.
"You need something, sweetie?"
"Er... directions. To Wilshire Tower on Mercy Street."
"Keep walking straight," she told me, pointing a curving talon down the street. "Take a right at Mercy and you'll find the Tower soon enough."
I smiled. "Thanks."
She smiled too with lipstick-stained teeth. "No problem, hun."
Note to self: Apparently you can trust a hooker.

She was right, I did find the Tower. It was hard to miss, being the tallest thing on the block. It was right across the street from a bar called The Last Stop. I laughed.
The guy at the front desk barely looked up when I introduced myself.
"Sam Marconi, apartment 115."
"So you're the new roommate. Third one since July."
"They don't stay long?"
"Nah, Ethan's strange about who he let's live in his room. Shit, he's pretty strange about everything."
"What do you mean?"
"You'll see," he said to me. "Good luck with that," he said then, jerking his thumb at the stairs. "The elevator's broke."
Shrugging, I walked over the the stairs, dragging my suitcases up the steps behind me. One floor wasn't so bad.
Note to self: Watch out for third step from top; it's warped.

Left from the staircase, and down the hall a few doors was 115, my new home.
With a sigh, I dropped my bags and knocked. Immediately the door was thrown open. The man standing in the door frame -- no, blocking the doorframe -- was staring down at me with angry green eyes.
"Whatever you're selling, I'm not buying. Take your cookies somewhere else."
He tried to shut the door, but I caught it and, with considerable effort, forced it back open.
"No, I'm Sam. Sam Marconi... Ethan, right? We spoke on the phone."
The man's eyebrows rose then fell and his grip on the door eased. "Oh, right. Heh, sorry. Come in."
Note to self: Don't judge a man by his voice over the phone. You will be surprised.