“I’m going into the den. I don’t want to be disturbed for about two hours, Char—” She didn’t turn.I stepped over and kicked the switch on the floor unit. The howling died off and she smiled at me over hershoulder, “Now you’re a saboteur?”

I couldn’t help chuckling, even worried as I was; Charlotte’s like that. “Look, Poison, I’ve got some deepthought to slosh around in for a while. Make sure the kid and the bill collectors don’t get to me, will you.”She nodded, and added as an afterthought, “Still have to go into the city today?”“Umm. ‘Fraid so. There’s something,burning in the Gillings Mills account and they dumped the whole briefon my desk.”

She made a face that said, “ Another Saturday shot, “ and shrugged.I gave her a rush-kiss and went into the den, closing and locking the big double doors behind me.Symmetry and order are tools for me, so I decided to put down on paper my assets and liabilities in thismatter. Or, more accurately, just what I was sure of, and what I wasn’t.In the asset column went things like:

Name: John Weiler. I work for a trade association. In this case the trade association is made up of papermanufacturers. I’m a commuter—a man in the grey flannel suit, if you would. A family man. One wife, Charlotte; oneson, Jamie; one vacuum cleaner, noisy.

I own my own home, I have a car and enough money to go up to Grossingers once each Summer mainly onthe prodding of Charlotte, who feels I should broaden myself more. We keep up with the Joneses, without too muchtrouble.

I do my job well, I’m a climbing executive type and I’m well-adjustedly happy. I’m a steady sort of fellowand I keep my nose out of other people’s business primarily because I have enough small ones of my own. I voteregularly, not just talk about it, and I gab a lot with my fellow suburbanites about our gardens—sort of a universalhobby in the sticks.