I was in just about to step into the shower, as I heard the doorbell ring. I quickly wrapped myself in a towel, ran to the door, and opened it to find Joyce Bulifant standing there covered with engine oil. Behind her, on the curb, sat her Monza 2+2, hood up and smoking. She asked if she could use my phone. I said, “No. You’re covered with grease.” She said, in the most haughty impertinent tone, “Do you know who I am?” I said “Yes, and you’re still covered with grease.” I told here there was a 7-11 down the street, shut the door, and took my shower. Later, when I checked my porch, she’d left tiny greasy footprints on my welcome mat and a slimy hunk of chewed tobacco.