Discussion about this post

User's avatar
Yelling at Clouds's avatar

We ran the streets of Chicago looking for adventure. Our crimes were about chaos. Being chased by the cops (or anyone for that matter) was high sport. We did things that would land a modern kid on the Homeland Security watch list. My schoolmates thought I was rich because my Appalachian refugee mother insisted on ironing my shirt every morning. They didn't know anything. I didn't know anything about their homes either. Poverty and desperation, alcohol, mental illness and violence. I was the only one of my little troop that went to college. It was a non-name school that I worked three jobs putting myself through while supporting myself. I carried the anger for all my friends and all my neighbors and that anger made me strong. Now I'm become an old man. And I look at the anger as just another one of my old friends. My constant companion. My protector. My teacher. And smiling, I set it down next to me. I pat it on its head and say 'good boy'. My anger looks up at me, smiling desperately and says 'I can still help. I love you.' But its tired. I can see that. I sit down beside it. I'll stay here for a while.

Expand full comment
Sharron Bassano's avatar

Those last three lines stunned me, Sherman. They reached into my subconscious taking me to the back seat of a '49 Ford, fighting with my little brother as we waited and waited outside Brady's Bar. Kindling. Christ! That's it exactly.

Expand full comment
147 more comments...

No posts