Grove Street, 1:09 p.m.

High up I jumped. Clutched some leaves and pulled, the snap shaking loose a burst of droplets. Love my yellow rain outfit. Everyone else is inside.

Call me Robford. It's what I call myself. Aren't you lucky.

The mailman had come not more than twenty minutes ago. Enough time had passed for him to clear out. Now my job began.

All those letters, calling for the name of The Replier.

I, Robford.

Started at the McCreedy place. Husband and wife out to the casino this Saturday, as usual. They had six letters. I took two.

Next, of course, the Bishops. Pam and Oliver. Backyard picnicing type people. Creepy yet often busy and not at home. Some kind of real estate profession. The buggers had eleven letters. I took three.

Did four more houses. Put the mail in my knapsack. Went home stomping puddles all the way.

I live in a Colonial style house which I think I inherited. Turned up the oil heat and started some water for Chamomile tea.

Across the boggy room, on a table kept neat, my Royal Alpha 600 sang her siren's song. I wanted to type like a madman. My fingers were itchy.

I sat and opened one of the McCreedy's letters. It was from their insurance company, and they wanted another premium to be paid. The main part said:

We appreciate your patronage, policy, and account with us. We are, however, unable to offer policies on a "C.O.D. basis", as your letter inquired. The payment structures are in place to insure that our claims service runs at an optimal level. Please contact an account representative if you wish to change your policy, or have further questions. Remember that in order to maintain your policy, your premium must be paid within thirty days.

What a load these people were. I thought for sure my last letter would get the McCreedys a better deal on their insurance. What the hell was wrong with paying up your premiums once you actually had a claim? Even better, paying once the claim money was delivered.

This called for another Reply:

Dear Partridge Insurance,

It deeply depresses my wife and I to be faced with your extremist rules. We wish to cancel our entire policy and account, but are willing to give you ten days to adjust your ways. If Partridge Insurance still insists that constant moneys be paid to it before it has even received a claim, I will tell all my friends to find another company. Moreover, I will cause trouble for you.

I signed it with Mr. McCreedy's name and sealed it with the blank payment stub in their handily-provided Reply envelope.

The teapot was literally bursting with steam, and I got up to shut it off and make my Chamomile. Lots of honey and milk in it.

I thought of all the traffic, out there in the city. Tons of expensive cars lined bumper to bumper in four lanes leading into oblivion. I never had a job in the city, and I'm both lucky and glad. Poor sons of bitches scratching for existence.

I did more Replies after my tea. Took me into the early evening, and Wheel, and Jeopardy!

I thought about the different things I had told various companies today. It's like I can talk to them and say anything I want. All those BigBoys and corporate movers and shakers, getting a good talking-to from an average citizen, telling it like it is.

I think I keep a cat somewhere in the house. Nice pussy. I give it a new name every day. I suppose one of these times I should check between its furry little legs and figure out its gender.

"Here pussy. Here Byron, Byron, Byron."

An inquisitive head peeked at me from around the corner.

"There you are, Byron. Want some tuna?"

I read his mind. Opened a can. Fed the tiny beast.

"I'm not bad, huh Byron?"

He has auburn fur. Only one ear, though. Alley cat life, you know. Like struggles in the city, but perhaps with more understanding and eventual wisdom.

Why is the Final Jeopardy question either a no-brainer or some esoteric pinch of a forgotten statistic or name? I hate getting the last one wrong. And Alex is so smug.

I want to teach my cat to attack Alex Trebec. Jump on his head and dig in with all claws.

Putting myself to bed now would be too early.

"Come here, Byron. Time to figure out your sex."

He didn't come. Happy, fed, statiated pussies rarely answer you until they're hungry again.

"Fine. Go lurk in gender obscurity."

I could find another cat of a known gender, then see if Byron got horny or not.

But tomorrow his name would not be Byron. Maybe a girl's name tomorrow. Kind of fun just the way things are.

And fun is my middle name.

I am Robfunford, the Replier.