Our neighbors piled into our car, a Plymouth with fins and a bad gold paint job. I didn’t like their looks, guys with tousled pirate hair, dirty shirts missing buttons, faces pounded flat, no doubt in prison. They appeared uncouth, even frightening, but turned out to be quite charming. My husband and I drove them around the city, whatever city it was, seeing the sights, whatever sights they were, then dropped them in front of the Y because we were on our way to a ballgame. When we returned, they greeted us with cheers.