Esau lives in a rambling brick fortress on a sprawling corner lot west of City Park in a neighborhood that was tree-lined and lush even when it passed for Denver’s “ghetto.” If he bought it before Esau turned five, his dad couldn’t have paid two hundred grand for what amounts to a mansion, and today he couldn’t sell it for less than a million-two if he tried. Following Esau’s directions, I park on Race Street and dip up the alley to knock on the back door.
He greets me with a deep, canned-tomato-sweet kiss and “Oh yay, bread!” He ushers me up five narrow stairs into a large kitchen, unremodeled and steamy. He’s lit three lopsided, non-matching candles at the kitchen table and half-tucked a striped button-down shirt into a pair of flat-front khaki pants that were only just un-balled from t
