I took myself for a little drive uptown, as I do from time to time when staring out the window proves too dull. It�s easy to be bored when you�re the smartest girl in the world�and I am, my friends, with my IQ of 6,755, a score so high that the board charged with calculating it tossed their No. 2 pencils aloft and scrambled across the table to ravish me en masse. �It�s my brain you want!� I cried, but they persisted, because I am extraordinarily beautiful, and my false modesty only made them want me more.

People are intimidated by my stellar intellect, desperate beauty and ability to name any classic rock song within three notes. I am accustomed to their awe, and have cultivated a soothing nature as a result. I speak to them as if they were tiny lambs, aware that any perceived slight on my part could end in their suicide, or worse. I tell you all this because today I encountered something for which I have no name�just a vague and unsettled feeling that my power might be slipping.

My little drive (which I mentioned at the outset) was supposed to take me up a few blocks and then back to the office. I do not need to be physically close to my office, as I�ve developed my psychic ability to the point where I can check e-mail without a computer, but it brightens up the place to show my face there once in a while. My business cards read Executive Assistant, but it�s understood that I�m just there to boost morale.

I pulled over at a gas station to fill the tank of my car�a classic Bentley given to me by a grateful producer of educational television programs. Attendants rushed to wash my windows and pump the gas (which the grateful US government gives me for free because I invented cold fusion). I smiled and tipped each one a crisp one-dollar bill, addressing each by the name embroidered on his uniform. �Earl,� I said, warmly, extending the cash through the window, �Manny.� They accepted the gratuity with thanks and appropriately deep bows, although the one called �Sylvester� kissed my hand, letting his tongue linger between my first and second fingers. He inhaled my perfume even as I slapped him�with a smile�and turned the key in the ignition.

I conducted the car to the exit, and paused to let traffic come to a halt before pulling out into the road. Just then, a burly woman in a candy-pink wrapper shuffled up, an unlit cigarette dangling from her lips, her hair falling to her shoulders in a neo-Colonial pouf. My car blocked her path, and rather than walk behind me, she stopped short.

�Cunt motherfucker, move it, will ya?� she yelled at me in a rich baritone.

I was taken aback, but managed to hold off the enraged gas station attendants who rushed to my aid. No one had ever spoken to me in this manner. I was unsure how to proceed, but unwilling to lose face in front of Earl and Sylvester.

At a loss for words, I rolled down my window, and called, �Have a lovely day!�

�Have a lovely day?� I whispered to myself, pulling into traffic. Am I so unused to abuse that I have no defense? Sure, the gas station attendants had been impressed by what they saw as grace, but I knew I had failed an important test. Giant river otters, unused to man, had been gunned down for their luxurious pelts by unscrupulous hunters who took advantage of their amiable nature. I looked at the reflection of my eyes in the rear-view mirror. Could I be next on the Endangered Species list?

Nothing gold can stay, Pony Boy.

Star of the day. . .Nigel Blackwell