He smells like barbacoa, black ice little trees, Michael Jordan cologne and refried beans. He looks like a rusting El Camino resting over cinder blocks on the side yard of a small pink house of 12 people. I envision 3 bunk beds in a little bedroom. A little foyer bestrewn in dozens of shoes. A crucifix on the wall. The smell of cooking garlic, cilantro and spices simmering on a hot pan in the kitchen. Some wrinkled old woman yelling prices at Drew Carey in Spanish. He opens his mouth and smiles showing paper white teeth. He shakes me with a sweating hand. Wipes his head and does his dance. Do I have the time for my Lord and savior? Of course, but I really don’t need this useless piece of paper. Believer in the Apocalypse. Good man. Finally, a realist. Dose robots are definitely gonna get us. Amen.