In a quiet apartment complex populated mostly by peaceful families and young people who seem to know far more than they should, a rather peculiar situation began attracting attention.
It all started when a mysterious pink grow light appeared on my balcony. For those unfamiliar with them, these lights are commonly used for indoor gardening. For those who are familiar with them, well... that's exactly where the problem begins.
In pictures, the light looks completely harmless. At night, however, it illuminates the entire balcony in a way that encourages even the most rational neighbor to start connecting dots that probably shouldn't be connected.
What makes the situation even more unfortunate is that just a few days before the light appeared, my wife and I had what seemed like a perfectly innocent conversation in the elevator while several neighbors were riding with us.
At one point, we were discussing the possibility of selling something "legally" someday. A few moments later, I commented that selling it already "rolled" wouldn't be a very good strategy because everyone prefers to smoke it their own way.
In my head, the conversation made perfect sense.
In my neighbors' heads, I may have been presenting the business plan for a multinational narcotics empire.
It wasn't until much later that I realized the catastrophic combination of those two events: first, an incredibly ambiguous elevator conversation; then, a bright pink grow light shining from my balcony every night like a psychedelic beacon visible from low Earth orbit.
Looking back, I have to admit that the words coming out of my mouth may have created just enough confusion to raise a few suspicions. I'm not saying my neighbors genuinely believe I'm growing anything illegal.
I'm just saying that if the property manager ever knocks on my door and asks whether I prefer to be called "Pablo" or "Mr. Escobar," I'll probably know why.
I sincerely hope it's because of the mustache.
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