Pool_1

Even so, looking back, we are drawn to the wreckage, including that of our cities. It is hard to call them youngsters. They had those craven sneering faces of too much street knowledge and base experience. Four black scowls were saying 'screw' even before you could extend a courtesy or gesture of friendship. No. These four were not just products of urban blight, they were the heart of it. Shun inequity? No. Inequity was all they had. They fed on it, became it. You are what you eat. The four youths weren't here out of fear. They had none. The one who went by the double first name Franklin-Roosevelt, a name he couldn't - then later- didn't want to shake, somehow, he sensed something. Curiosity? Perhaps, that's what drew them here, waiting for him. What was his deal anyway? Sure, he brought stuff and just gave it away. What was the catch? Gotta be an angle. Really running numbers? They could have easily beaten the drummer, the only man who roamed through black housing alone, without regard. They could have taken his wallet, stripped his truck, or just gotten off on ridicule of a white man. Was he worth the effort? Maybe all he had was those drum sticks holstered in his back pocket. True enough, there was a silent wall of protection around this one white man. It was a wall built by the black community itself. Somehow he wasn't "them". He was "us". But these kids, in their own minds, in their own place, were outlaws. Community be damned. He was white. He was alone. He was prey. There are big wars and there are little wars. Don't expect logic. But there was something else, again, something odd, the way he made his pitch, unafraid. Voice? Expression? Eyes? Eyes! Something in the eyes. Franklin-Roosevelt saw, felt, nearly grasped something in the drummer's eyes. Suddenly a tough black kid who didn't care what anything uttered by a white man meant, had to know what this meant. No. Not just curiosity. He saw his own reflection. It was deep in a black, blacker