They entered our town, six of them. Maybe they bussed in. Who knows? They strode right down our main drag, shaking their heads disdainfully. Breakfast was at The Salty Nut, right in the middle of town. They were watched closely by everyone, as we do with strangers.
All were in their twenties, pale white women in sweatsuits and ponytails. They rose as one, flashed badges--U.S. Department of Design Coordination. We had evidently been singled out for an upgrade. It seems our strapped government would be offering certain towns for sale to foreign countries in exchange for cash to pay down our debt.
We weren't crazy about this.
Sloppiness and blandness were to be eliminated and we had no say in anything. The women worked quickly as a team, rearranging furniture, changing the hair style of the waitresses, moving the owner Pappy's part from the left to the right side. All of us men had to wear bow ties during daylight hours. Up and down our streets, in and out of businesses and residential homes, they exerted their taste on us. Arguments were quickly waved off. They redressed children and the elderly, cleaned them right up.
They ordered painting, caulking, plastering, retouching, shining and sweeping, all day for an entire week, including Sunday. They finished up by shellacking church pews. An empty lot was converted into a bocci ball park in case the Italians were interested in buying us. And everyone was required to exfoliate once a week.
They left as suddenly as they arrived, possibly to a small town in Ohio.
That was six weeks ago. We wait uncertainly. I'm afraid to remove my bow tie. Even at night.
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