For actual derailment videos, look elsewhere. Very disappointing.
That said, if these two aren’t banging, I’ll eat my Lionel Lines 1668E K-4 Torpedo Locomotive. And I really don’t want to eat my Lionel Lines 1668E K-4 Torpedo Locomotive. It’s very valuable. Also inedible. So that should tell you something.
21
“I still can’t believe you live in a gated community,” Maria said as she leaned toward the master bathroom mirror and dusted her nose with loose powder. “It’s so... exclusionary.”
Well, yes. By both definition and intent.
Peter could list all the practical reasons he’d moved to a tiny incorporated city of less than a thousand residences perched amid the rolling hills of western San Fernando Valley, and done so immediately after receiving his firstGods of the Gatespaycheck. He’d used that paycheck as a down payment on the least expensive home for sale in the community, and he hadn’t regretted it for a moment since.
Those three gates Maria disliked kept Google’s photography vehicles from driving by and sharing images of his house with randos on the internet, most of whom were harmless—but not all. The guards at those gates also prevented buses of star-hungry tourists from rumbling past his home all day as they sought out the properties of his more famous neighbors.
Furthermore, the setting was idyllic. Almost ridiculously so. A greenbelt and nature preserve bordered his side of the community, and his home’s hilltop spot guaranteed spectacular sunset views. Since the area had been developed in the 1950s, backyards resembled forests, with mature trees gently rustling in the breeze,and all the houses were different, rather than cookie-cutter clones of one another.
There were no sidewalks. No streetlights. Almost as many people riding horses as driving cars. Other than occasional helicopters overhead, whisking various musicians, athletes, and actors—and their guests—to and from nearby houses, quiet ruled this corner of the world.
But he was honest enough to admit the truth, at least to himself. Practical reasons hadn’t made him choose this community, and they hadn’t driven him to scrimp for five years to pay off every last cent of his mortgage.
These two square miles of LA were exclusive. Famously so, and famous people lived here. People who’d undeniablymade it.
Every time one of those three gates opened for his SUV and he drove inside, it was like being judged by some pitiless, omnipotent being and found worthy. His heart weighed less than a feather, and all his risks and struggles had reaped their rewards, and no one and nothing could make him return to where he’d been.
That lifting gate was a concrete reminder: This community was his. This property was his. Thislifewas his.
And now Maria was his too, finally, here in his home, and she loved him and understood him, and he’d never been so happy in all his life, and he was trying very, very hard not to panic.
But she didn’t need to hear all that. To her, the gates weren’t a sign of divine approbation. They were just... long pieces of painted metal.
Meeting her gaze in the mirror, he finished buttoning his shirt by feel. “I’m a private person, Pippi.”
Either she was too busy with final preparations to shake jarred fish an eighth of an inch from his nose, or there were no herring-friendly pockets in that tempting little dress.
Such a shame.
“Let me rephrase.” She straightened and twitched the folds of her dress until they fell into place. “I can’t believe you live in a gated community whose gate is shaped like a giant oxen yoke, as if you’re all humble nineteenth-century beet farmers. Even though one of your neighbors is a reality TV star with a golf course on her property, and you nearly peed yourself every time one of the cows on the island mooed at you.”
If he protested that the golf course only featured two holes, because there wasn’t enough available acreage for more, Maria would mock him. Rightfully so. Even though his own property barely encompassed an acre and didn’t contain a single putting green.
The other issue, however, he’d gladly address.
“Those fucking cows were unnaturally large and loud, and their huge eyes brimmed with malevolence.” Chewing cud and plotting murder. That was all they did, apart from occasional naps. “They were picturing pieces of my trampled corpse digesting in their four stomach compartments.”
He might boast a small barn on his property, but a bovine would set foot—hoof—in it over his dead body. And given their inherent maliciousness, that might literally be true.
In the face of his remembered terror, Maria only laughed at him.
Okay, then. Time to go on offense.
“I know you Swedes like them, sweetheart, but beets?” Aiming for sheer provocation, he flicked the tip of her powdered nose. “They taste like dirt. Socialism and dirt.”
As anticipated, her nostrils flared in patriotic aggrievement, and she elbowed his ribs. “Beets taste like free college tuition and universal health care provided via governmental policies aimed toward the common good.” She paused. “Also somewhat like dirt. And blood.”
“Aha!” Turning from the mirror, he jabbed a finger in her direction. “I knew you—”
But she wasn’t done quite yet.
“Not to mention growing economic disparity, despite our largely left-wing governmental policies.” Her brow creased. “Which is troubling, frankly. If anything, those beets aren’t socialistenough.”