"What house are you looking for?" I ask the pizza delivery guy who is hanging around Roxanne's porch looking puzzled. He keeps looking down at the order slip.
"Is this Pestalozzi?" he asks, saying it not "PEST-uh-Loze-ee" but "PEST-uh-Lousy". This makes me smile. My parents live on Pestalozzi.
"You're off by a block," I let him know. He suddenly realizes (I think about the biblical phrase "scales fell from his eyes" like the conversion of St. Paul).
"Sorry," he says, getting back in the car. "Got turned around. You're right."
And off he goes.
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