In the past few months, I have done less than well to partition Home from Work, and I am not talking about location.

My first attempt at repairing that fault that was to try and finish a book I’ve been at sporadically since May. My plan was clear: I would walk to the Dubliner, a place which boasts a charming atmosphere something similar to the Fáilte I felt during the Upper East days. On my way out of the house, I decided to phone my good friend April to catch up. She had been traveling and, well, I had been working too much.

Since I don’t get a signal inside my apartment and I was not prepared to try to talk while at the Dubliner [where I would have to compete with the Murphy's-drenched laughter of a few good Irishmen], I chose Vickery’s parking lot as the location for the conversation.

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Although loyally concentrated on April’s remarks on New Orleans’ grandeur, I couldn’t help but notice about halfway through our conversation when a guy my age, wearing emerald swim trunks, descended the steps from the back door. He started some waving gesture with one hand, and in it I could see a small, black electronic device.

Turning towards him, I made eye contact and offered the traditional “what’s up, bro” nod – the kind where you tip your chin up while keeping your face relaxed and evercool. As he continued to repeat his homebrew sign language, I finally realized he was motioning in the direction of our house. From all of this, I decided upon a rough translation of his movements; something along the lines of, “You don’t get service inside Vickery, either?”

With my face I signaled a theatrical “NO!” in an attempt to express exactly how victimizing this consistent disadvantage has been.

As he began dialing on his phone, my conversation with April had come to a close.

I hung around the parking lot until his conversation ended.