11

At that very moment, the mailman in Derf's neighborhood rounded a corner and approached Derf's house. Of all his routes, this affluent area of Sloan was the one he liked the least.

"Why, what have you got against them?" his wife Doris had asked the prior day over a bowl of Cheerios. "Well , Doris, it's not the people, it's the busybody mindset."

"Like what," Doris had asked.

"Like - " he searched his mind for a good example. "I know, like fluoridation. Was there ever a more timeworn chestnut of a crackpot issue for city government?"

"But Zammy," said Doris. "I don't think the studies always tell you everything. You know doctors can sometimes be bought off and convinced to publish the wrong -"

"That's right, blame the experts," Zamfir said. ""Okay, forget the fluoride. City ordinances about facades. Historic preservation. They mandate color schemes! Give me a slide any day."

"What do you mean, 'give me a slide'?"

"I'm just saying, I'll take a metal slide over a law to limit what color I can and can't paint my house."

Doris blinked.

"Okay," she said, making a conscious effort to pave over the fact that she had no idea what a metal slide had to do with what they were discussing.

There must have been something to it, she thought, or Zamfir wouldn't have said it in the first place, but she would be damned if she could tell what.

There was silence in the kitchen, bright sunbeams lighting up their orange-juice glasses and turning the coffeemaker into gold. Thirty seconds passed. Zamfir and Doris actually possessed one of the stylized plastic cat clocks with the big round black-and-white cartoon eyes and swishing tail and a big smile. It had always seemed to Doris like a cliché of a certain kind of family, but she still jumped at the chance to buy one for herself, especially on special.