“Yeah, since you totally starved and were a bag lady in New York. Jesus, you were probably the only graduate student in the city who lived around the corner from Pastis,” Puja replied. Sanjay, seemingly bored, retreated to the bathroom.

“Anyway, what I meant was that I think I have the potential to be a huge hit in this town. You know—the big fish, small pond scenario. It doesn’t hurt that I clearly live in the most fashionable neighborhood and—”

BANG! BANG! BANG!

“Hey, hello?” a man whispered (loudly) at my prewar door.

“My fans have already come to see me!” I sauntered over, smiling.

It’s not that I was expecting Elton John with a fruit basket, but Mister Rogers? Before me was a gray-haired man with thin eyebrows and a sprayed-on tan.

“Uh, um, hey, where is he?” Mister Rogers peered inside, eyes darting from side to side. Puja waved, warily.

“That’s not a man!” he exclaimed. Puja had long straight hair (which she talked about incessantly), was five foot four, 110 pounds. She was wearing a short skirt and pink flip-flops. It didn’t take a detective to figure out that my sister was, in fact, not a man.

“Who are you looking for?” I closed the door a bit so he’d stop eyeballing my 850-square-foot gem. He was starting to freak me out.

“Hey, hey up here! Up here!” a timid male voice beckoned from above. I looked up, along the winding staircase of my new building. Standing two floors up was a twenty-something guy in designer jeans and a tight-fitted black T-shirt with the word “bitch” on it. If he hadn’t been emaciated and wearing a three-seasons-ago shirt, he’d be really cute—just the kind of fag I’d have been more than happy to hag.

Mister Rogers muttered a “Sorry” before bounding up the stairs.

“Hey”—cough—“hey you”—cough, cough—“welcome to the building!” the skinny guy yelled to me.

“Thanks.”

And with that, we both closed our doors.

Things were slightly off in Mister Rogers’s neighborhood.

Chapter Two

My first day of work! I put on my Monday best (beige Theory suit) and hummed through the beautiful cobblestone streets of Center City, Philadelphia. After skillfully maneuvering myself through what felt more like a village—how quaint!—than a city, I arrived at the courthouse, a large, nondescript brown building at the corner of Market and 6th Streets, a mere twenty-five-minute walk from home. Even better, it was right across from Independence Hall! This was the birthplace of America and I was in the thick of it. I couldn’t believe my good fortune.

Inside, I followed the cardboard signs that read, “New Clerks” in uneven black marker. I was careful to smile at all the security guards. There were dozens of them. But of course. This was a really important place where really important business went down. This was tax money being well spent.