Shirt untucked and tie loosened like someone who’s just been ejected from a dog track, it lures you in with its resemblance to a more famous actor, only to disappoint when it hits you up for spare change when you ask “Hey, weren’t you in Apocalypse Now?” Its house decorated with bottles of vermouth, its office with various jugs of bleach because, why not — you gotta put that abundant police department bleach somewhere. Neighbors close their windows when it passes, lest its powerful schlub energy causes them to somehow become thrice-divorced, even if they weren’t even married in the first place. It has a flip phone. Its name is Joe Estevez.