curled up from the macadam.
"Henry, you realize that we've transformed into disaffected young black men? Armed gang members who cruise the streets for
their enemies? The parallel is unavoidable." Gil made this remark as he steered us past the whirligig house.
It had been over a week since Steven Sugar spray-painted COMMUNIST SHITHEEL! across Al Gore's face in hot pink, the longest interval between attacks so far. July had melted into August. As the miniature
windmills stirred, they spilled colored speckles across the road.
"I'm not complaining, mind you," said Gil, "I actually kind of like being a disaffected young black man." He gave me a bloodshot
sidelong wink.
Papa took a peanut from the can in his lap and popped it in his mouth. My grandfather wore the kind of sunglasses that are
given out at an optometrist's office to protect a patient's dilated eyes: a pair of filmy orange squares.
Gil's eyes fluttered and his head nodded. The Skylark drifted left. I shook his shoulder, and he snapped up straight. "You
know, Henry, like in the rap music. Compton and South Central. Long Beach."
"Like a drive-by," I said.
"Old school," said Gil.
"It's not the same," my grandfather said, finally unable to contain himself.
"It's not?"
"We're not out to kill the little shit. That's the difference. We're sending a message."
"The methodology's the same. It's a hit, Henry."
"No, it is not." Papa stomped his foot several times in the backseat well. "It is not."
We drove past a postage stamp of a park, a tetherball with no ball, a slide, a few benches, and trees. A tabby cat lay on
its belly in the grass, waiting for a pigeon to get careless.
"Back when I was organizing," Papa began, and I had to stare down at my shoes to conceal a smile. This opening gambit was
one of my mother's favorite pieces of shorthand, our family's equivalent of the "When I was a boy, I had to walk to school
. . ." speech.
If I complained about the too soft spray of the showerhead in our latest apartment my mother was wont to say, Back when I was organizing, and sounding her best and gruffest Papa imitation, we considered ourselves lucky indeed if, on occasion, the company goon squads deigned to release us from our cages to bathe in a rainstorm.
The grin was still curling the corners of my mouth when I glanced up and caught sight of Papa in the rearview mirror. For
an instant, a trick of refraction briefly caused the skin of his cheap sunglasses to warp translucent; and I saw that my grandfather's
eyes were locked on me. I quickly cast my gaze away. We took a right onto a new street, like the other streets, houses and
grass and pavement.
He continued: "We never lost a fight. Because we knew it was a fight. When some scab crossed the line, he was kicking another
guy's kid right in the face, tearing the clothes right off another man's wife, burning down his house. That's a goddamn fight."
He stomped his foot again, and this time his optometrist's sunglasses slid off his nose and down into the well.
For a few seconds he scrabbled around for them. Then there was a crinkle of plastic and a grunt of triumph. Papa sat up, and
I looked in the rearview mirror to see that the sunglasses had been restored, but the thin orange lenses were dented now,
as if someone had clocked him. He sat breathing hard for several seconds.
When my grandfather spoke again, he sounded oddly sedated. "I'll give you an example," he said, and then he told us about
Tom Hellweg.
My grandfather, Henry McGlaughlin, grew up with Tom Hellweg in Bangor, a city in the northern part of the state. They had
lived on the same street, and once broke their legs together. This was in a sledding accident on Drummond Street Hill when
they were both thirteen, only a couple of years younger than I was now. The steepest road in town, Drummond scaled all the
way up from the bank of the Penobscot River to the residential hills where the long-departed lumber barons of the nineteenth
century built their
"Henry, you realize that we've transformed into disaffected young black men? Armed gang members who cruise the streets for
their enemies? The parallel is unavoidable." Gil made this remark as he steered us past the whirligig house.
It had been over a week since Steven Sugar spray-painted COMMUNIST SHITHEEL! across Al Gore's face in hot pink, the longest interval between attacks so far. July had melted into August. As the miniature
windmills stirred, they spilled colored speckles across the road.
"I'm not complaining, mind you," said Gil, "I actually kind of like being a disaffected young black man." He gave me a bloodshot
sidelong wink.
Papa took a peanut from the can in his lap and popped it in his mouth. My grandfather wore the kind of sunglasses that are
given out at an optometrist's office to protect a patient's dilated eyes: a pair of filmy orange squares.
Gil's eyes fluttered and his head nodded. The Skylark drifted left. I shook his shoulder, and he snapped up straight. "You
know, Henry, like in the rap music. Compton and South Central. Long Beach."
"Like a drive-by," I said.
"Old school," said Gil.
"It's not the same," my grandfather said, finally unable to contain himself.
"It's not?"
"We're not out to kill the little shit. That's the difference. We're sending a message."
"The methodology's the same. It's a hit, Henry."
"No, it is not." Papa stomped his foot several times in the backseat well. "It is not."
We drove past a postage stamp of a park, a tetherball with no ball, a slide, a few benches, and trees. A tabby cat lay on
its belly in the grass, waiting for a pigeon to get careless.
"Back when I was organizing," Papa began, and I had to stare down at my shoes to conceal a smile. This opening gambit was
one of my mother's favorite pieces of shorthand, our family's equivalent of the "When I was a boy, I had to walk to school
. . ." speech.
If I complained about the too soft spray of the showerhead in our latest apartment my mother was wont to say, Back when I was organizing, and sounding her best and gruffest Papa imitation, we considered ourselves lucky indeed if, on occasion, the company goon squads deigned to release us from our cages to bathe in a rainstorm.
The grin was still curling the corners of my mouth when I glanced up and caught sight of Papa in the rearview mirror. For
an instant, a trick of refraction briefly caused the skin of his cheap sunglasses to warp translucent; and I saw that my grandfather's
eyes were locked on me. I quickly cast my gaze away. We took a right onto a new street, like the other streets, houses and
grass and pavement.
He continued: "We never lost a fight. Because we knew it was a fight. When some scab crossed the line, he was kicking another
guy's kid right in the face, tearing the clothes right off another man's wife, burning down his house. That's a goddamn fight."
He stomped his foot again, and this time his optometrist's sunglasses slid off his nose and down into the well.
For a few seconds he scrabbled around for them. Then there was a crinkle of plastic and a grunt of triumph. Papa sat up, and
I looked in the rearview mirror to see that the sunglasses had been restored, but the thin orange lenses were dented now,
as if someone had clocked him. He sat breathing hard for several seconds.
When my grandfather spoke again, he sounded oddly sedated. "I'll give you an example," he said, and then he told us about
Tom Hellweg.
My grandfather, Henry McGlaughlin, grew up with Tom Hellweg in Bangor, a city in the northern part of the state. They had
lived on the same street, and once broke their legs together. This was in a sledding accident on Drummond Street Hill when
they were both thirteen, only a couple of years younger than I was now. The steepest road in town, Drummond scaled all the
way up from the bank of the Penobscot River to the residential hills where the long-departed lumber barons of the nineteenth
century built their
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