The car situation only seemed to get worse, if that was possible. Our little residential neighborhood, once the kind of place you could shoot a canon through and not hit anybody, was now overrun with bad driving, laptop carrying, dreary looking, droopy drawered youths and their vehicles. And no one who cared seemed to be doing anything to stop it.

The day after Buddy and I talked about the recent proof I’d found online, I marched up the big ugly cement steps with the imposing statuary of the monster house and knocked on the equally ugly front door. There was no fear involved; I just figured I’d go to the source. Whatever they were doing in there, I was reasonably certain it did not involve meth or the shipment of arms to rebel groups. Perhaps I could address the problem head on by simply asking the manager to have his or her employees park somewhere else or to carpool…. we didn’t care how they got to the house so long as we didn’t have to deal with the cars.

“Hi,” I said once the door opened. “I live next door.

“Hi,” said the attractive young man who had answered it, holding a can of Monster. He offered his hand. “I’m Jack.”

Of course; his drink matches his house.

“Hi, Jack. I’m here because I was wondering if anybody in the neighborhood has told you what’s been going on around here.”

“No,” said Jack, taking a slug of Monster.

It had seemed like a good idea when I’d decided to walk up and knock. Now, however, I felt like a fool. Of course he had to know we wanted him gone. I changed the subject in my mind, since I hadn’t yet mentioned it out loud.

“What all are you guys and gals doing in here?”

“Marketing,” said Jack.

Marketing?… That was one thing no one had thought of. I realized that marketing involved writing and writing is one thing I knew how to do. Here was an opportunity to get some paid work and do some espionage. I just had to get inside.

“Are you all still hiring? Because I’d like to apply,” I said.

He looked at me curiously. “The other reason I’m here is to tell you that there are some people in the neighborhood who are a bit upset…”

“You mean the big guy across the street?” said Jack taking another slug.

“Buddy, yes. I guess he is one of them.”

“I see him over there, staring and looking pissed off. I think he has a telescope pointed at us.”

“Anyway,” I continued. ” They’re really freaked out about all the cars in the street every day and some think your employees look like gang members. But there’s another group that’s less freaked. Like me. We think having you here makes the neighborhood safer.  And as far as I’m concerned, you’re quiet. And that’s more important.”

“Have you done Internet marketing before?” asked Jack.

“A little,” I lied. “But good marketing involves writing that grabs people. I’ve done that.” I told the truth.

He put his hand on the door, ready to close it. “Bring your resume by. Or email it.”

“At the Red Rhino email address?” I asked, inserting myself into the closing distance between door and jam.

His eyes narrowed. Probably shouldn’t have told him I knew. “I hear that’s the name of the company,” I said.

“Sure,” said Jack. Then the door closed, sending me home to compose a resume that would get me on the other side of it.