Robert Milling

Robert Milling pulled his Toyota around the corner slowly, judiciously. He looked both ways for jaywalking children whose dusty feet claimed ownership of every public space. He sniffed as he passed the entrance to the trailer park. He didn't approve of its haphazard landscaping and unruly configuration. Trailers were lifted askew into spaces too large or too small. The open spaces were defiled with three-legged sofas, abandoned bicycles, and dolls with no heads. He didn't understand why people chose to live that way.

His own home, a proud but humble California rambler, was located two blocks away. He saw it standing in relief from its neighbors as he neared. The freshly painted white trim clearly outlined the sharp corners of its boxy form. He believed in the pride of homeownership. He believed in community spirit. He believed he could lead his little blue-collar neighborhood into the middle class with carefully a mowed lawn and a yard free from discarded goods and household items intended for indoor, personal use.

So pleased was he with its appearance from the road that he almost passed it. He had to brake hard to direct his car into his driveway. He turned off the ignition and exited, folding a soft brown coat jacket over his arm.

"Hi, Robert. You keeping McAllister's in the black?" the young woman asked. Her loosely curled hair tangled around the band at the nape of her neck.

"McAllister's is doing just fine, Miss Isabelle. How are you this afternoon?" He frowned slightly as he spoke.

"I'm just fine, too," she smiled and walked away.

Robert Milling turned to collect his mail and step inside his neatly kept box.