I've been here long enough to see the men behind the counter at the corner deli grow older, their moustaches constant in length but peppering into a comfortable gray. I've watched the owner's son turn from a wide-eyed 11 year-old, the little cleric, into a broad-shouldered 17-year-old punk whining in Arabic while his father yelled back in guttural frustration.

I don't know their names. They don't know mine. Common sense and American propriety would say I should know them, that we're strangers until we greet, shake hands, and show our cards. But no one is bothered. When I don't have a spare quarter they front me, and they never let me pay them back. They live on the block and I see them in the laundromat, and we laugh in recognition. In the scope of these few blocks, I would rather be a cause for laughter than have a name.