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By the time I unlock the door, there’s a line of four angry customers. �I’m sorry,” I say, jangling the keys in the lock. I push open the door, flip on the lights, circle around the counter. Before I can put down my keys, a man shoves a bundle of shirts into my arms. He grunts his last name. I try to smile. “Thursday after one,” I tell him. I write a receipt and hand it to him. Without acknowledging me, he takes the receipt and leaves the store. The next customer, a woman in her forties, dressed like a lawyer, is worse.

He walks closer. “I’ve been talking with my grandfather. ” I look at Mr. Santullo. He’s smiling brightly, as though delighted that he’s finally managed to get two of his favorites together for a chat. I say, “Is that true, Mr. ” Mr. Santullo answers a different question. “My grandson is Arabian,” he says. ” I don’t have a lease with Mr. Santullo. Everything has been informal, month-to-month. I’ve been living in the building and paying four hundred dollars monthly since I got out of Lompoc. I turn to the grandson.

I’ve learned to get this part of the conversation out of the way as early as possible. The longer you wait, the more cheated the other person feels. You spring the fact that you’re an ex-con on someone more than a day after meeting them, and they feel violated. It’s better to set expectations low and then exceed them. “I was in prison for a little while. ” �What’d you do? ” I can tell from her face that she’s asking if I killed anyone. If I’m dangerous. “White-collar stuff,” I say, vaguely. The way I say that, it sounds like I took a few boxes of paper clips from the supply closet at work.