Ross is a ritzy, countrified neighborhood, all narrow roads and enormous lots, estates half hidden behind stands of trees. Tad’s home turned out to be a brand new, red brick two story house, surrounded by palm trees. Three bedrooms (which I did not see, but inferred), a pool (which I saw) a jacuzzi (which I heard about), a wide back yard surrounded by a giant stand of tall trees looming and vaguely threatening as though, like Birnham Wood, they’d all just marched up to the fence holding them back. Tables were set out with rounds of polenta topped with chevre, cheese trays, crackers… A caterer walked around offering raw or barbecued oysters and a trio played classical jazz. There was also a volleyball net and a pingpong table.

In spite of all this, there was something new and empty about the place. Not enough people were there to fill up the back yard, and the house itself was too bare and polished inside. There were hardly any photographs of poeple, but many old framed advertisements from the WWII era, which Tad seems to collect. The house, someone told me, had been built by Tad after demolishing the original structure, and the tall palms that surrounded it had been rearranged. Two of them looked as though they were dying.

Tad himself looks to be barely 30 years old, young, fairly good-looking, with pale skin and light red hair. He must be planning a family. I can’t imagine living in that place alone without feeling like a peanut in an oil drum.