On the Fischers’ kitchen counter is a boxy chrome appliance with a door and two dials. Milton’s told us that his father works for a company that is developing a new kind of oven. Mr. Fischer wants us to watch while he puts a stick of butter on a glass dish inside and turns a dial. The machine hums loudly for a minute. Milton’s father opens the door and takes the dish out. In it is a yellow puddle.

“Every time we have a visitor, I lose another butter stick,” Mrs. Fischer laments.

“So . . . it’s a butter melter?” Arno asks, puzzled.

“No, no. It cooks!” Mr. Fischer cries excitedly. “Without heat! We call it the Radarange.”

“How?” I ask.

“With microwaves,” Mr. Fischer explains. “Set at a frequency to agitate the water molecules. They vibrate, creating their own heat.” He hands me the glass dish. “Feel.”

The glass is cool. I dip my pinkie into the melted butter. It’s hot. It doesn’t make sense.

“Groovy, Mr. Fischer.” Arno pats the top of the Radarange. “What’s one of these babies go for?”

“Four hundred ninety-five dollars.”

Silence. I paid $300 for Odysseus. Arno said his father forked over $350 for their new color TV. Why pay nearly $500 for something slightly larger than a bread box that heats stuff? Why not just use an oven?

Mrs. Fischer claps her hands. “Everyone into the dining room.”

The heavy wooden dining table is set with dessert plates and glasses. In its center is a pitcher of milk and a pot of coffee. The white cloth napkins are trimmed with lace.

“How quaint!” Tinsley gushes, primly placing a napkin on her lap.

Milton is struggling not to stare at her. When we arrived, she gave him a full-frontal hug and gaily wished him happy birthday. Then she held him at arm’s length. “Oh, you’re so cute!” Rarely have I seen Milton look so flushed and dazed.

Tinsley’s dressed for the occasion in a pink, yellow, and orange flower-pattern minidress that barely covers her buttocks. She’s wearing high white go-go boots and those round purple glasses. As usual, her neckline is revealing, and you’d have to be severely farsighted not to notice the absence of a certain support garment.

The Fischers are models of old-world hospitality. Of course, they’ve known Arno and me for years, and Mrs. Fischer is used to longhairs from teaching at Adelphi. Mr. Fischer is more or less oblivious to anything that doesn’t involve blueprints and calipers. Most people in our neighborhood use their garages for cars, but the Fischers’ is a workshop of table saws and lathes. Mr. Fischer’s hobby is inventing things. His specialty is handles and grips. He created something called the Finger-Lock knife handle that you can actually find on some knives in stores. (Maybe he can recommend a good one for digital amputation.) He also invented the Fischer Grip for glue guns and electric drills.