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when new. White stucco walls supported a roof of Spanish tiles, forming the retail and office portion of the building. Attached to this was a long, one-story shed, whose few courses of brick upheld the framework of painted metal and sparkling glass beneath which thrived Billy’s stock.
    Pushing open the unlocked door, Billy went in. He flipped the CLOSED sign to OPEN and turned on the lights.
    The front of the store exhibited a counter, a cash register, a roll of wrapping paper on its upright cutter-spindle, a wrought iron table holding various cards that customers could inscribe, and numerous plants on display. What it lacked was refrigeration units. These Billy had torn out, for he refused to sell cut flowers of any type.
    It was just too much like a surgeon setting up a shop to sell bloody organs he had removed from helpless patients.
    Only live plants left Billy’s store, and he had to be convinced that their new owners would treat them right before he let them go.
    Business wasn’t great, but he somehow eked out a living. And nothing pleased him more than matching up a happy plant with an appreciative human.
    Going to a glass-paned wooden door leading to the actual greenhouse, Billy could feel the emanations of the various plants within. Cyclamens and clivias, azaleas and hyacinths, orchids and violets, all radiated their individual personalities, welcoming Billy back for another day.
    Throwing open the door, Billy stepped into the warm, moist, richly scented embrace of his growing charges. Time for another day of work.
    But what a pleasure it was!
    The morning passed in a busy flurry of repotting, watering, mulching, clipping, dividing, misting, and sowing. A few customers came in and had their needs met, but generally Billy was alone with his eager green friends.
    Around noon—Billy could tell the time to within a few minutes by the position of the sun—a commotion sounded out on the street. Laying down his trowel and wiping his hands on the apron he wore, Billy headed out to see what could be happening.
    Out on the sidewalk, he looked down the elm-bordered street toward the noise.
    A garish madman was leading a parade.
    This was Billy’s first thought, while the crowd was still at a distance. As they approached, he saw no reason to modify it.
    The stranger at the head of the procession was dressed like no native. He had on a multicolored Hawaiian shirt that stretched across his big stomach like a jungle scene distorted by non-Euclidian geometries. He wore pale orange pants equally tight and thick-soled shoes obviously intended to compensate for his shortness. His bald pate was trying to hide beneath a few reluctant strands of hair. A great deal of gold jewelry festooned his neck and fingers. He chewed aggressively on an unlit cigar, around which he occasionally uttered a heartfelt exclamation as some new sight caught his roving eye.
    “Wunnerful!”
    “Jesus, whoda thought it—”
    “What a find!”
    “Lookit that old house, fer Chrissakes!”
    “Where the hell’ve they been hiding this town? It’s just perfect!”
    The fat stranger waddled past Billy where he stood at the entrance to his store. When his glance alighted on Billy, it rapidly bounced off, perhaps refusing to acknowledge that he had actually seen the light-green man.
    Following some distance behind the man were scores of citizens of Blackwood Beach. They shared a look of immense curiosity and puzzlement, apparently finding this intruder as much of an improbable spectacle as he found their town.
    Billy hailed the man nearest him, who happened to be Tom Noonan, owner, publisher, editor, reporter, and typesetter for the town’s newspaper, the Blackwood Beach Intelligencer .
    “Hey, Tom. Who’s this character?”
    The burly Noonan stopped beside Billy. As he frequently did when nervous, he unconsciously stroked the three stubby fingers on his left hand, whose upper joints he had lost when first learning to operate his cantankerous,