“A usual workday at my coffee shop in the East Village turned out to be not-so-normal when a homeless man decided (or maybe the drugs decided) to stand up for himself. Normally, his antics were harmless, so we let him order water and pass his blurred days on our patio. On this day, however, he stomped in, walked over to the brand new computers and pressed his grimy fingers as hard as he could against the flat-screen monitors. We explained to him that he wasn’t allowed to do that and that he had to leave. After some coercion, he split, mumbling something about them being his computers and about me being mean. About an hour later, with my back to the door, he snuck back in. He passed behind me and dropped the bottom of his clenched fist directly (and with a good amount of force) onto the middle of my back. Ignoring the pain (and my confusion), I turned to look at the culprit, and noticed him, once again, pushing crystalline puddles into the LCD screens. He shot back a ‘What are you going to do about it now?’ and, with some more coercion, eventually grumbled out for the last time. Since then, he’s adapted well to his new home in front of the coffee shop across the street, where he sits on the patio and stares menacingly at our place like we killed his father.”

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