
David Harris stood at the front of a group of about fifty protesters gathered in a church parking lot just east of a strip of I-43 designated as Jeannetta Simpson-Robinson Memorial Highway just north of downtown Milwaukee. He was closely listening to the instructions being given by a young woman wearing a black T-shirt with I Can’t Breathe printed in large, white, block letters across the chest. Groups of mostly young adults were standing in clusters at a distance from each other, their faces covered in protective Covid masks. A handful of people David’s age stood alone on the edges. Some children wove between their parents’ legs.
“This is how it works.” The woman pulled her mask down to her chin and spoke loudly enough that she didn’t need the megaphone, which she held in her hand. “It is extremely important that you follow the established procedure. If not, we’ll have accidents, and that will work against us. There is another group on the overpass with signs. The idea is to get the traffic stopped on the freeway under that Wright Street overpass. Drivers will look up and see those signs.” One of the other young women standing behind her tapped her on the shoulder and held out a cell phone. She read the text, nodded, then turned back to the group.
“Some of you will get out of the vehicles you are riding in and form a line behind our stopped cars and in front of the freeway traffic. We will get you signs to hold up. Drivers are to remain in their vehicles. Remember, this can be dangerous. Again, do not break from established procedures.” David wondered if she had been in the military. Her command of the group seemed she had trained somewhere. Her diction and volume was that of a drill sergeant, as well as was her emphasis on adhering to procedure. Not that David really knew; he was lucky to turn eighteen the year the Vietnam era draft ended.
“Those willing to drive, please step to this side.” She indicated the direction with a sweep of her arm. David moved with the group of about twenty.
“OK, drivers. Anyone with outstanding warrants, tickets, even a parking ticket, please remove yourself from the group.” People glanced at each other. “Think about it. If you got ticketed two weeks ago, did you pay it? Was there a warrant issued for not paying parking tickets two years ago? They may not have found you to issue it. Maybe you don’t even know you have a warrant out there. You know the game. Cops stop you and tell you there’s a warrant you don’t even know about.” A young man whispered to the woman next to him, then stepped away.
“Next. The State of Wisconsin requires both a valid license and current auto insurance. Don’t have it? Step out.” She looked around the group. “Be honest with yourself and us.” One young man stepped out.
“Now, if you have an out-of-state license, it doesn’t mean you can’t drive in Wisconsin, but we don’t want you driving in this demonstration because if you are arrested, if you are ticketed, that becomes a public record. Anyone has access and the opposition starts yelling that we are outside agitators. We don’t want that. There are enough Milwaukee folks pissed off with what’s going on to hold marches. We appreciate you all being here from other places and can use you up top, but not on the freeway.” David looked around again. Two young women and a young man stepped out. The group was now six down. Would they have enough drivers? The leader did a head count, then turned to consult with two others behind her. David figured there were four lanes beneath the overpass, two cars in each lane would be enough to stop traffic. Three passengers per car to stand in front.
It was a nice Saturday afternoon in September. They would hit the freeway just about the time suburban and rural folks were driving into the city to start tail-gating outside the Brewer stadium. David wondered if a warning would be sent out on phones like he had received a few months back coming home from Chicago. On the freeway outside Kenosha, an alert came up on the GPS screen of his Prius: Civil unrest, Racine, WI. Reroute to avoid Wisconsin Highway 20.
The young woman turned back to the entire group. “Passengers and drivers. Last question. We can make bail for some of you, but not all of you. Hopefully, it won’t happen but if it does, will those of you who have resources to pay bail, please step forward.” About half stepped around each other to the front. David nodded at the few people he knew from actions over the years – Planned Parenthood defenders, Homeless Village participants, Occupy Wall Street, labor strikes. Even though many of David’s “boomer” friends had decided they couldn’t risk Covid, there was still a handful.
“Remember, getting arrested means missing work. If being on the freeway will cause a hardship, remember we can still use you on the bridge.” She waited to let her message sink in. “We have enough folks to fill the cars. Don’t feel bad if you want to step out.” David noticed the group’s demographics changed complexion.
“Here’s what we do,” the young woman went on. “Listen carefully. It is essential that everyone stays safe. No accidents, please. And peaceful. No out-of-control behavior, even if provoked.” She then explained how the cars will move from the Silver Spring entrance, several miles up from the overpass where the freeway is four lanes. Two cars will move over to occupy each lane. They will then slow down. You slow down together, then stop safely, together. Emergency flashers go on. Passengers exit the cars and form a line holding their signs above their heads. At the same time, there will be a lot of noise from the protesters above on the overpass. They will hold for seven minutes, by which time traffic is expected to be stalled back to the on-ramp and slowed down for at least a half hour. Any longer and the cops will be on the scene. Command will indicate when time is up and everyone will walk, not run, walk, to their cars. Drivers carefully move up to speed, then exit at different ramps a minimum of four exits away. There won’t be enough squads to cover all the exits. Remember some of them are up directing traffic at the stadium.”
David was nervous. Things could go wrong. What if a crazy pulled an automatic rifle out of his pick-up truck and shot into the crowd? What if his car stalled? What if he couldn’t get in the lane where he needed to stop? He approached the organizer and asked if anyone had done this before. Could he talk to them just to be sure he knows what to do? He could see the young woman look into his old eyes, see the drooping lids, notice his stooped shoulders. She offered to relieve him of his driving duty and put him on the bridge, but he insisted he was OK. He just had some questions. David looked around and saw Glen. He knew Glen from the teacher’s union. Glen had been president for fifteen years. Probably retired now. He walked over.
“Have you done this before? The driving, I mean,” David asked.
“Nah, I’m not driving. I’ll be a passenger. I’ll ride with you if you want. I’m not assigned.” David was happy with that. They stood together waiting to have two or three more added to their car. A young couple, probably in their early thirties, joined them.
“She told us to go with Bernie,” the young man said to David, indicating the organizer had directed them. “That you?” He smiled under his mask.
David laughed. “I guess I got that nickname with this group.” He grinned at Glen. “Guess there’s a resemblance. I’ll take it.” David would describe the couple as hipsters. Probably lived in the nearby Riverwest neighborhood. He introduced himself with his proper name and learned that the couple had been at all the protests both in Milwaukee and Kenosha. They were there in August when Kyle Rittenhouse killed two protesters and wounded a third with his AR-15. They didn’t say much about it, even when David probed. Glen finally stepped in, “It was traumatic for you, I’m sure.” The girl nodded and looked away.
“It’s the largest mass movement in history.” David then schooled the two. “Going around the world. We’re not the only place with police brutality. Yep. Round the world.” The two nodded politely. “Back in “66, it was open housing,” David went on. “We went for 200 nights straight. Father Groppi’s Youth Council. The night we crossed the 16th Street bridge for the second time, the police burned down our meeting house while we were gone. Came back and it was burned up.” The young couple looked curiously at David, nodded, but didn’t say anything. David took it as a cue to continue. “Chicago ‘67. Police killed Fred Hampton in his bed. Twenty-one years old. Middle of the night. Why? Because he was bringing folks together. Hampton was a Black Panther. Started the Rainbow Coalition. Folks think that was Jesse Jackson. No. Hampton. The Young Patriots were white Appalachian kids moved to Chicago.” David went on, now he had actually caught their interest. “Young Lords were Puerto Rican. Hampton had them working together on housing issues, school issues. FBI had him killed.” David stopped to hear further directions given by the organizer, then went on. “We gotta watch out now. Whites and BIPOC all out here now. Makes the powers that be nervous.”
The young woman checked her phone. “Amber and Kent are up on the bridge,” David heard her say as she showed a photo to her partner. “Good crowd. Looks like a couple hundred.”
An hour later, David rejoined the group as well as those who had been on the bridge at a debriefing at the church. Things had gone well. The traffic stop was perfectly timed so it broke up before the police could respond. The bridge was cleared, and everyone was now on private property where they had started. Squads were parked along the streets, but police didn’t enter the lot.
David was impressed. He asked one of the organizers where and when their meetings were held, told them about his long life of activism, how he had managed a community organization focusing on access to the construction industry that was well known for keeping Blacks out of the skilled trades, and how he was now retired and willing to help. The young woman replied politely that due to Covid they were not meeting in person and directed David to social media group discussions.
The orange and yellow leaves scattered on the sidewalks crunched beneath the feet of the dispersing group. David walked with the crowd toward his car. Up ahead, he spotted Tyrell and sped up to catch him. He clapped the broad-shouldered, middle-aged man on the shoulder, and Tyrell turned, a surprised look on his face.
“Mr. Harris,” he grinned and held out his hand to meet David’s. “Haven’t seen you in a week or two.”
David smiled. “Aww, come on. I’m not that frequent, am I?” Tyrell shrugged. “Great demonstration. Well organized. Were you a driver? I was a driver. Cool how they do that, stop the traffic.”
Tyrell shook his head. “Nah, I wouldn’t do that. Occupational hazard. You know, shut down my sideline.” He winked at David, who chuckled knowingly.
“Hey,” David said. “About that. I want to ask you something.” He pulled on Tyrell’s sleeve in an attempt to move him out of the walking crowd.
“I’m with my friends here.” Tyrell motioned to three men he had been walking with, then shot a glance side-to-side, checking the patrols along the sidewalk and resisting David’s pull. “I’ll get ya later. I’ll text, like we always do.”
With that David fell back and made his way to the car, smiling behind his white facemask.
Two weeks later, Tyrell met David on the bike path near David’s house. Tyrell, making the delivering of David’s order part every other day, trotted up to the older man who used to run beside him, but now walked due to his bad knees. The younger man dropped his pace. They walked, chatting about nothing for a few blocks.
“So, you’re a pothead. What you want with this other shit?” Tyrell said as he pulled a small pouch out of his pocket and, checking around for observers, handed it to David.
David smiled. “Ah, you know, back in the day, we did a lot of psychedelics. Acid, ‘shroom, peyote. Turn on. Tune in. Drop out.” Tyrell nodded. He had heard this story from David before, a few times. He wondered if David knew he had shared that story with him or was it that he shared it with so many people that he didn’t remember who he told it to or who he didn’t. Timothy Leary, Ram Dass. Harvard professors who did research. Psychologists who went to prison. Gave some guys acid and had major breakthroughs.
“Sounds like Tuskegee to me,” Tyrell interrupted. He didn’t have all night, and David could keep him there half of it with his jawing. He had always thought David was pretty fit and sharp for his age, but in the past year or so, maybe it was the lock down, who knows, Tyrell noticed David getting rapidly older. David hadn’t handed over the cash yet. Tyrell wondered if he had forgotten while he was telling stories.
“Well,” David continued, trying to keep up his breath as he talked. “Some research is starting again now. Treating PTSD, OCD. Giving it to folks in hospice. Good results. Psilocybin is the active ingredient in these mushrooms.” Tyrell shrugged. David never told him anything he didn’t already know. “They say it works on the part of your brain that identifies yourself as separate from others. It removes that barrier. That’s why people say they feel one with God when they use psychedelics. For folks in hospice, it gets them used to the idea of dying. Letting go of their individuality.”
“So, you dying?” Tyrell asked bluntly.
“No, no, no. Healthy as a horse.” David pushed his chest out.
“Healthy enough to have sex?” Tyrell teased. “Dose of a good woman makes you feel one with God, too, you know.” The two men laughed.
“You know how much of it to take?” Tyrell asked, slowing his pace even more so David could get his breath. “The guy I got it from said it depends what you want. I tested it for fentanyl, and there’s none of that shit in it. Guy said at your age, you need somebody to watch you. Most folks don’t have a problem, but most folks are young, you know. I don’t want your going crazy or dying on my conscience. Who you got?” Tyrell was aware of people passing them, both walking and biking, and nodding politely, not looking too concerned. They probably thought he was an aide escorting his elderly charge from the new apartment building for people who were fifty-five and up. He played into the role by stepping in a bit closer to David, ready to support him in case of a fall. David took some time thinking, so Tyrell asked again. “You got anybody to sit with you?”
“Would you do it?” David finally asked. “I mean, I’d pay you. What you get at your regular job? I’ll pay you that. I figure, five, six hours.”
Tyrell took a bit of time calculating the risks. David lived in Shorewood. Tyrell didn’t know quite where, but he did know that eyes were on the streets so the likelihood of someone seeing him going into David’s house was high. David had worked in the poverty community, but Tyrell figured that, like most folks managing those agencies, he didn’t have Black friends who stopped over at the house, especially much younger Black friends. If he had to haul the old guy to the hospital, it could land him in a heap of trouble that he didn’t need. He’d have to tell the medics what David took, and the finger would point to him immediately as to where the drug came from. Then too, he didn’t particularly want to spend an afternoon with David.
“Three hundred bucks.” Tyrell thought of the dental work his daughter needed. He saw David flinch. “And you gotta have a backup who I can call if something goes wrong. I can’t drop you off at the ER, and I’m not calling an ambulance and waiting with you either. This shit tied to me, and I’m picked up for elder abuse, old man. You know it’s not my regular gig.”
David clapped his hand on Tyrell’s shoulder. “Sure, sure. That’s understandable. I got ya, man. I got ya. Not my first rodeo with psychedelics, you know. I’ll be OK, but not a bad idea to have some company. Maybe you want to do some, too.” Tyrell looked away as he shook his head, then turned around and began the run back to his car telling David he’d be there noon on Saturday.
“One more thing,” Tyrell walked back so he didn’t have to shout. “You know hospitals are full. You go down, you go down. They might not be able to help you.”
“Something to consider,” David answered. “But not my first rodeo.”
“And the cash for what I gave you. I need that now.” David apologized and reached into the pocket on his track suit, pulling out the cash and handing it to Tyrell without even a glance around. Tyrell cringed. “I’ll confirm before I come, so watch your phone.” The younger man trotted off.
Tyrell texted his confirmation and told David to be watching at the door and to turn off any security cameras. He took the license off his car and replaced it with one from his uncle who had died recently from complications of Covid. There were very few times when he went to a customer’s home, even with the small bit of marijuana he handled, generally in amounts not meriting charges. He knew that when things go south, it’s never the executive director of the local nonprofit, or the elementary school principal, or the county courthouse judge who get charged.
“I figured I’d get a head start,” David said when he welcomed Tyrell inside the Cape Cod on a street tight with houses. “I took it about a half hour ago, ‘bout half past eleven. I’m starting to feel a bit of something.” He grinned at Tyrell who looked around quickly at the smallish house cluttered with books, newspapers, coffee cups, and dirty plates. David picked up the dishes and hauled them to the kitchen. “Let’s see if God reveals himself,” he chuckled. “Have a seat.” Tyrell slipped into a chair near the window. “I guess I could have cleaned up a bit. I’m here all the time, not like I’m running around doing stuff. You know, this not going out is getting to me. By the way, thanks for wearing a mask. I appreciate it. You out working?”
“Essential worker,” Tyrell replied. “Wife’s at the nursing home. We’re high risk, so I’ll keep my distance from you. Let’s open a window.” Tyrell stood up and let the crisp fall air in, not only to clear the germs, but to get the old-man-stink out.
David walked over to a turntable set on top of a cabinet holding record albums and put an album on. “Got a new turntable. Nothing like the old vinyl. Glad I didn’t let my ex-wife talk me into dumping them like she was always nagging at me to do.” He handed the Aqualung album cover to Tyrell. “Jethro Tull. Ian Anderson. Great musician.” Tyrell took the album cover and flipped it over to see if he recognized any of the music. He didn’t.
Tyrell asked for the emergency contact person, like they had agreed upon, and after a bit of chat, David moved to the food-stained couch, put an eye mask on, and lay listening with a grin on his face. Every so often, he would pull his breath in suddenly, startling Tyrell and pulling his attention away from a copy of Rolling Stone he’d picked up off the end table. David’s hands moved in the air as if conducting an orchestra.
The album ended. David sat up, then looked at Tyrell, and asked,“Who are you? What are you doing in my house?” The tone wasn’t angry, but it wasn’t friendly either. Tyrell hadn’t anticipated this. What if David started screaming, or ran out for help, or called the police? He could be trapped, hauled in, or even shot as an intruder. You never know what will happen when police come. But then David’s face softened.
“It’s nice here, isn’t it?” David stood and looked out the picture window. “Look at the colors. Look at the sun in the trees.” He headed for the door. Tyrell hurried to catch him, steering him back to the couch. “Who are you?” he asked again.
“Let’s just say I am the ghost of Christmas past,” Tyrell quipped. “Here to help you get ready to meet God.”
“I know you.” David wagged a finger in Tyrell’s face. “I know you. You’re Tyrell. You worked for me at the agency. Yah. Tyrell. How are you?” Tyrell nodded. “You were young then. I’m old now.”
David flipped through the albums, pulling out Santana Abraxis. “This will be good, Tyrell. I got these Bose speakers that send his guitar spinning around your head.” David went to the kitchen and brought back a glass of water for himself and Tyrell. “I’m doing OK, Tyrell. Nothing weird going on.” Tyrell nodded. “Just feeling high. Nice high. Nothing weird.” He took a long drink of water. “You know, my son Mike’s investing in a grow farm in Michigan,” David said. “Maybe you could work for him if pot ever gets legal here.”
“Your son in the pot business?” Tyrell asked. “Why don’t you get it from him? He’s in Michigan? He can bring it back for you.”
“No, he’s not in the business yet. He’s in finance. Executive at Help Now Loans in Detroit. Lives in Dearborn. He’s in tech. Anyway, he’s put together a group of investors. Grow house, processing plant, sales and marketing. All part of the plan. Once it’s going, maybe . . .”
“He pulling brothers out of prison to help with that?” Tyrell scoffed and shook his head. In the years he’d been bringing David his pot, they had never had a real conversation, mostly because Tyrell didn’t like white people very much, and lately even less. Tyrell had always minded his tongue around people like David. His mother had told him if white people are trying to understand, then you got to be forgiving when they misstep because at least their trying. His dad told him to watch out for the good ol’ boys’ network. They all know each other, just like we do, and they talk like we do, too. And when the going gets tough, they take care of each other. It was David who first asked Tyrell to supply his weed. Tyrell wasn’t in the business, but he gave a bit of his supply to David because David’s supplier had gone to prison, then David asked for a friend. Tyrell built his little sideline. David told Tyrell that they liked dealing with him because he was discrete. Met them where they felt safe. Ran into them on the bike path or met at the bookstore, leaving product tucked in a shelf somewhere because a Black man and a white guy having coffee together was still suspect in Milwaukee. And he only dealt pot, so there was no reason the police would be after him or his supplier or that he’d be part of some big bust where he’d have to name names. Years ago, that was a risk. These days police had better things to do.
‘That’s a good point,” David said. “I don’t know if Michigan gave amnesty. Have to ask Mike.”
“It’s called the Social Equity Program,” Tyrell snipped. “Detroit passed it. Surprised you haven’t heard about it. Being involved it equity and all.” Tyrell’s voice had a clear tone of sarcasm, but David’s high kept him from hearing it. The conversation dropped. David lay down with the mask on his eyes and went back to conducting the music. The album ended, and he went over to the turntable again.
“Psilocybin’s a natural antidepressant,” David said to no one. He flipped through the albums again and put on Iron Butterfly’s In-A-Gadda-Da-Vid. Tyrell groaned inside.
“What you got to be depressed about?” Tyrell poked David’s psyche. David returned to the couch and didn’t answer. “Pot’s a depressant,” Tyrell went on. “Maybe you should lay off it.” David stared at him. A cold stare like a father gives a son when he smarts off. Tyrell looked down at the magazine. “Just saying . . . “
When Tyrell looked up again, David was staring at the ceiling. He pulled his body back against the couch and let out a slight scream. Tyrell looked up to where David stared. There was a long crack, probably turned into a snake in David’s altered state.
“It’s OK,” Tyrell said softly to David. “It’s the shrooms. It’ll pass. Put your eye mask back on and lay down.” David did so, then began to rock, his arms wrapped across his chest. He turned sideways on the couch and pulled into a fetal position, rocking back and forth and moaning, letting out little yelps like a puppy. Tyrell pulled up the website he had reviewed about the effects of psilocybin and figured David was deep into it now. The music had stopped. He checked the time. Another hour or so and the old man would be coming down and be safe to leave alone.
Tyrell settled in and closed his eyes for a quick nap, waking to find David resting and himself feeling hungry. He got up and opened the fridge. He was hoping for a piece of sausage or cheese or even an apple, but it didn’t look like David stocked much, so he pulled out a beer. Food delivery boxes were scattered about the kitchen and overflowed the garbage. He opened a Styrofoam container, found the food moldy and tossed it. Then he heard the water running in the bathroom down the hall and went out of the kitchen to find David standing in the hallway, wiping his face.
“Tyrell, why did you leave the agency? I liked you,” the old man asked. He seemed to have come down entirely, his eyes focused, not dilated. Tyrell thought for a while and decided that if David wanted to meet God, well, maybe some reckoning is in order.
“You fired me,” Tyrell scoffed. “You fired me because my grandma died, and I went down to Alabama for her funeral and stayed a week. You said I didn’t have leave coming.”
“Umph,” David grunted. “Guess I was a hard ass, hey? What was it you did there? You were on the apprentice track, right?”
“I was your van driver,” Tyrell said. “You paid me minimum wage without benefits. I had my wife and a new baby. I didn’t care you fired me. I walked into another minimum wage job the next day.”
“That was a while ago. I’ve been retired eight years now. I’m seventy-three, you know. Do I look seventy-three? I was out on the march last weekend. Black Lives Matter.” Tyrell turned away, not wanting to hear it.
“You hungry?” he asked David. “We could order something.” David sat down, ignoring his question.
“Tyrell. You had a brother worked for me, too,” David said suddenly.
“Cousin,” Tyrell said. “Like a brother. Name was Michael. Michael Johnson. Mother’s side.”
“What happened with Michael? He OK?”
“You got him a job roofing. They put him up without a harness. He asked for a harness. Boss said they didn’t have enough, and since he was low in seniority, he didn’t get one. He fell. Messed up his back. Company fought worker’s comp. Didn’t have him on the official payroll. They usually used undocumented guys, so they didn’t bother with that. Michael got hooked on painkillers. No insurance. Went to street drugs. Died of an overdose.”
“Michael. Michael Johnson.” David shook his head and tried to recall the man. Tyrell scrolled through his phone and pulled up a picture and put it in David’s face. David shook his head again. “Shame.”
“Surprised you don’t remember him,” Tyrell went on. “He went back to you for help with the worker’s comp.”
David shook his head. “Memories fading. Sorry.” David drank his water, then stood up. “Want a beer? I’m getting one.”
“I already helped myself,” Tyrell answered. “Remember General?” Tyrell asked when David sat back down. “Big dark-skinned guy from Texas. You got him a job as an electrician with that big home builder. He already had his journeyman card. I ran into him a year or so ago. He’s been there fifteen years.” Tyrell drained his beer and got up to use the toilet. He wasn’t sure about David’s state of mind and wondered if he’d remember any of what was said anyway. “General knows everything there is to know about building and fixing houses, even old houses like this one,” Tyrell continued when he came back into the room. “Old plumbing. Old wiring. They had him doing everything, not just electric. When one of the white union guys came off a job, they shifted General out of the high-paid union work but didn’t want to lose him. So, they put him on other work. He complained to the union, but they did shit. He tried switching companies, but they all know each other.”
“Yes, yes.” David shook his head. “That’s just what we were up against.”
“Still going on.” Tyrell stood up and looked at the family photos on the wall.
“And you?” David asked. “Where are you working now? You said you’re an essential employee.”
Tyrell snorted. “You’re essential if your boss tells you so. I’m out in Waukesha. Assembly.”
“Long drive,” David said.
“My wife’s out that way too. Driving home herself sometimes late at night. Winter roads. Tried to move out there.”
“No affordable housing,” David filled in.
“Oh, we can afford it. Saw some places, put applications in. Paid even to put in applications. Nothing for us.” Tyrell sat back down. “You live here when you were raising your kids?” David shook his head. “Where ‘d your daughter go to high school?”
“No. I moved here from Sherman Park when that neighborhood got rough. Wife was gone. Kids were out by then. Both went to Saint John the Apostle.”
“Saint John’s? You Catholic? Practicing Catholic?”
“Oh, no, no. I left that mess long ago. Raised yes, but recovering Catholic is what they call it.”
“So, why the kids go to Catholic high school? You lived in Milwaukee. Why not MPS?” Tyrell went on without David knowing where he was going or why he was going there.
“Well. I wanted them to get a good education,” David answered. Tyrell nodded. Enough said.
He checked his phone. “You feel like your down now? I’d like to get going if you’re OK for me to leave.”
David glanced at the clock on the kitchen wall. It was nearly five, the sun lit the fall colors as it set. “Sure. Sure. I’m OK.” He stood up. “Let me get my wallet. I owe you. And I appreciate your spending the afternoon here. I know you have a family.”
He came back and handed Tyrell $300. “Thanks.” As Tyrell moved toward the door, David asked, “Do you think we did any good at all at the agency?”
Tyrell looked him in the eye. He had known this man for some time. He’s a harmless old guy, Tyrell thought. Let him think he did some good. But then he opened the door onto a great fall day that he could have spent biking with his kids.
“You think I do this for fun?” Tyrell looked out the door, controlling his tone, resenting the need to do so. “You know, I hardly even smoke weed. Makes me lazy. Makes me forget my purpose, and I need to remember my purpose.” He turned to look David in the eye for what he hoped to be the last time. “You just keep marching, old man. Just keep marching.”