Fussy

"Fussy? You're not fussy or finicky at all. I've watched you for three years now - you make your decisions in an instant.
Criteria. What you have are criteria. When met, you go."

I stood beside the Lieutenant as we surveyed the souls milling about narrow Quince Street. They were incongruous against a backdrop of freshly restored colonial houses (repointed brick and marble, shiny copper and fresh slates) in their sleeveless plaids, leather vests and jeans, pig t-shirts and 501s. The men are quiet in deference to the wealthy new neighbors, long asleep at this early hour. The management and patrons of the local bars walk on egg shells in their stompy boots, fearing that the well connected gentrifiers might spur the police or Liquor Control Board to unknown interventions. The Lieutenant knows everyone and everything in our tiny circumscribed world. He regards me with bemusement overlaid with impatience and skepticism. He has been my stern local guide and advisor, allowing me edifying missteps while discretely monitoring overall progress, but intervening before any REAL disasters. His blunt assessments sometimes verge on the harsh ("harsh" being what he peddles to others - with considerable success - in his full on leather drag and cruel Prussian bearing) He continues:

"No, you're not fussy at all - You don't seem to accept it, but you really can afford to be."