Rick stood by the curb and watched the kids throw hot dog buns and half empty cups of juice at each other. A neighbor in a clown suit ran across a lawn, chasing, screaming and laughing with the kids. The block party had started; Rick turned to leave.

"Hey, I'm Phil," a man said to Rick, extending his hand. Rick shook it. Phil was wearing a zip-up cashmere sweater and khakis. Rick was in a torn t-shirt and jeans and flip flops.

"Sheldon and I live down the street from you, I think," Phil said.

"You guys are the architects," Rick said. "Good to meet you."

"Not architects. Everybody assumes that, because we . . . live together," Phil said. He smiled. "Sheldon's a landscape designer. I'm an architect."

Rick nodded.

"You're the one with the yard that's got that nice wind-swept post-hurricane, post-tornado ground torn asunder landscape look. Some people are not happy with you."

Rick turned toward his yard. "I keep meaning to clean up a little bit." From a distance he noticed a new bush had come loose and gotten snarled in the weeds rimming the front lawn. Come to think of it, the weeds were starting to look like wheat, and the dandelions like large sunflowers. It was starting to shape into a nice country farm scene.

"You're in transition, yes?"

Rick thought. "I guess I am. Yes."

"We're having a party in a couple weeks. You should come."

"Ok. That would be good."

The kids were now chasing the clown, actually Fled, who was squealing in genuine fear, after a soda can hit him in the head.

Fled stopped and told the kids to stop. One, not one of Fled's kids, threw a burger at him, splattering ketchup all over his momentarily exposed white oxford shirt. The kids laughed hysterically and tore off toward the barbecue. Fled called for napkins from Rita, who ignored him. ...read more Rick and Fled