I see my neighbor walking toward me. He’s backlit by the morning sun, so I don’t see the aggravated expression on his face when I say, “what’s up, man?”
“No comment, Michael.”
He walks past me, throws something in the trash can, then turns around.
We walk together in silence until we reach his apartment, at which point he veers off and says, “Sorry, I just can’t comment.”
I’m not sure why he mistook my friendly “what’s up” for an interview, but rather than press I say, “Good luck and give it hell.”
He turns back to face me.
“That’s exactly what I’m going to do,” he says. “You always get it, man. Thanks.”
I walk toward the rising sun. I am confused, but maybe I should feel confident. According to my neighbor, I get it, even though I’m not sure I do.