there is a man who lives down my street. he is interesting – to put it politely.
he, emilio, wears suits everyday. some would call this class. but for when the suits are brightly coloured: yellow blue green white. the brightest of all you can think. he has a mustache too. made not from hair, grown naturally on his upper lip – but from black texta, sometimes drawn with a wobbly hand, no doubt. sometimes, one side is longer than the other. it’s sometimes thin, sometimes thick.
the old, little italian man with a round belly and stout body likes to sing, too. he sings opera songs, in the middle of the street. the audience glad they didn’t pay for the performance. i don’t know much about this man other than these facts. he talks to dad a lot though. told him he wasn’t always a man. told him: my wifea, she’sa sick inda head. attempting a joke. he comes around our house all the time, calling out: bob, bob, bob, are you dere a bob? he knows dad’s name isn’t bob but, i don’t think he minds.
emilio brings our bins in after they have been collected. he likes to help. it’s nice. he has good intentions, i guess. but, with his brightly coloured suits and crooked mustache, no one really takes him seriously.