Ham On Rye

“Are you a cynic?”
“I’m unhappy. If I was a cynic it would probably make me feel better.”

Any boy who brought an umbrella to school or wore a raincoat was singled out. Most of our parents were too poor to buy us such things. And when they did, we hid them in the bushes. Anybody seen carrying an umbrella or wearing a raincoat was considered a sissy. They were beaten after school. David’s mother had him carry an umbrella whenever it was the least bit cloudy.

When I was back in my bedroom I thought, these people are not my parents, they must have adopted me and now they are unhappy with what I have become.

The first thing I remember is being under something. It was a table, I saw a table leg, I saw the legs of the people, and a portion of the tablecloth hanging down. It was dark under there, I liked being under there. It must have been in Germany. I must have been between one and two years old. It was 1922.

Still water runs deep.”

The Mexican kid was great, he kept trying.

Becker was at the door. I punched him on the shoulder. “You’re the best I’ve known.”

“Thanks, Hank …”

“Goodbye

“Any advice?” he asked. “No.”

Now they were mobilized. The Tribe was in danger.

“You got a nasty friend …”