A description of my "vibe"

This happened a while ago, but I just wanted to have a record of it somewhere, and, well, this is about as official as it's gonna get. I guess in a sick way it could be one of those "Lives" columns in the NYT Magazine...

On a Saturday night last October, I was sitting in my Evanston apartment when the buzzer rang. I got up to answer it but instead of hitting the "talk" button, I accidentally hit the unlock button. I went into the hall to see who I'd let in. It was this young street guy, probably in his 20s, and I'd met him before at Burger King. He nagged me and pulled me into a conversation about demons, so I bought him some fries. Now he was in my building pretending to be looking for "someone he knew" who "lived there." I tried to ignore him and went back inside and locked my door. He walked up and down the stairs for a few minutes, then he knocked on my door and started calling out for someone by name. I said that person wasn't here. I went back to ignoring him.

A half-hour later I went out and as I was walking along Davis Street, the same guy rode up to me on his weird little low-sitting trick bike. He began to explain to me again that he had been looking for someone in my building. But I know the way this guy talks. I can tell just by the sound of his voice that he's full of shit and simply wants to hound people enough that they'll give him money—then hound them some more, because he's a moronic Chicago-Evanston kind of beggar. So I interrupted him:

"Yea—I don't care."

"What?"

"I don't care."

"Oh, so you're gonna put off your lame, Satanic vibe..."

"Yea."

And he rode away.