Pride in the Name of Love

When I was 13, I walked from school along route 140 up to the train-tracks, turning down them behind a handful of nearly bankrupt businesses and those working class houses, cramped together and separated by only chain-link.

We'd sold a car to one of the auto-body shops there once, and my father paced anxiously for a week because he'd left a house key tucked behind the dome light. He always thought we were going to be burgled. We lived in the depths of the woods, 6 miles from town, and had 2 dogs. I remember once, when my mother had french doors installed in the back of the house, he told me how a good criminal would just kick them in the center where neither supported the other enough to stop a decent impact. They'd just walk around the house, drop-kick the doors in, and walk off with all of our things. I can't imagine what they've had taken, but still here we were, trying to explain to him that a bunch of mechanics at some podunk Mineke weren't bothered to come out here and try and take a TV they probably had in their own home.

Walking the tracks one day I'd seen the car sitting there in the back of the parking lot, peering over the hill. I'd snuck up to the lot and heard a few folks in the bay, quickly grabbed the key and headed out. Later that night I'd told him of what I'd done and produced the key.

He was an odd man anyway. Once, I got screamed at for a good 3 hours for leaving beard trimmings in the sink in the same week my brother was picked up by the police in the town over for several violations, one of which was trespassing. I've made the deans list, been promoted, made successful career changes, worked on successful political campaigns, and completed triathlons and marathons.

Nothing has yet to top that god damned house key.