Yesterday morning, I took the Acela Express to New York because I wanted to feel prosperous on the morning of closing on our new Manhattan pied-à-terre, a tiny co-op on the Upper East Side. Several minutes after pulling out of Baltimore, however, I came to a terrifying realization: every other person in my carriage exuded a green and crafty aura that evoked no one so much as vice president Dick Cheney. What is happening to America, that our success stories have become so soulless and reptilian?

The Acela was not the only pit of vipers into which I was to descend. Having already alienated my lawyer and my broker—New York shysters, both—I had low hopes for weathering the transfer proceedings with my sanity intact. It was Rob’s last day of professing at NYU but, thankfully, Faustus agreed to keep me company. While I signed checks and contracts, Faustus occupied a corner of the table with his knitting and cast malevolent glares over the rims of his eyeglasses at everyone present; occasionally, he leaned over to stage-whisper comments like, “Everyone here is loathsome . . . except you!” and, “I hope they all get swallowed into a gaping chasm of despair!”

Later, he demonstrated a karate stance in Burger King, and a woman at a nearby table nearly choked trying to keep her milkshake from spraying out her nose.