JESSE MANAGES THE PARKING LOT THAT BORDERS MY MAYORAL COMPOUND. At least, I can't see how he doesn't. The owner is a white-haired loser of Arabic descent who you never see until he's jumping out of his silver Benz (license plate DOINTBIG) to berate you for parking in one of the 412 empty spaces gathering dust in his lot, which over the years has played host to everything from gang inititations to soccer matches to open-air fucking. Maybe, just maybe he's unaware of the extracurricular nighttime activities his lot is privy to, but I refuse to believe that he doesn't know a man has been living there for the last five years. That, plus the fact that Jesse sometimes fixes things at Habib's Market, which this jerk also owns, and I'll bet they have some kind of agreement.
The several people living in that freight truck (behind Jesse in the picture) a few years ago were starting to get a little out of hand around the time Jesse started becoming a familiar face, and I'm pretty sure they left soon after that because Jesse ran 'em outta there. That's just one of the examples of the order he brings to the lot, and the block in general - not the least being his automotive repair skills - so I'm glad he's around. Sometimes he wilds out, albeit a lot less often after my old Crip landlord Fuji leaned out of his window one night with a BB gun and shot Jesse in the 40-ounce for being too loud. It's not uncommon for me to go to sleep or wake up to the sound of Jesse cussing someone out, or playing his Seal cassette. But you can't move to the desert and complain about sand. Well, you can, but you'd be an asshole. Jesse sometimes warns me when the owner's coming and a friend's car is in the lot. He's hardworking, smarter than most of you, and has only asked me for money once. I gave him three bucks.
PS: Franky noticed him having a mild heart attack in his truck a couple of months ago. When does Obamacare actually kick in?