It used to be that if you walked in the door of a Cleveland industrial pump distributor, the guy at the door would lug you a big catalog in a three ring binder and let you spend 15 minutes flipping through it to see which ones you thought you might like to buy.

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Patrick's car careened back into David Ragan, flipping her hood over the windshield and shredding the left front fender as protective foam from the driver's side door flew onto the track.

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You had merely to lead them to the plate-glass porch door and point out a squirrel or a cat running on the railing, or the automatic pool vacuum flipping its tail in the water as it carried on, side to side, end to end.

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