He fought a bear once. He went to prison once. He started a vigilante gang once that was only mildly fascist. (Someone had to clean up the streets, okay, and there were real gangsters, not driven to it by economics, funded by a real estate developer, like usual, the big city pressing down on the river-split town, ready to fork its delta.) His father died. He played football. He disbanded his vigilante gang. He joined another gang. That one was driven by economics. He wrote songs. He wrote poems. He fixed a jalopy. He crashed the jalopy. His head hurt some days. He dated a teacher. He dated a student. He went to war once, he’s not sure which. There was a lot of smoke. In the smoke war looks like football. There’s another team. They tell him it’s that simple. It’s possible the bear took something vital. His dog died. His friend died. In the smoke a friend looks like a dog. He doesn’t know which to bury. He worked for the real estate developer. He stopped working for the real estate developer. He doesn’t know exactly what real estate development entails. Mostly he hit people. He worked construction for his uncle. He stopped. He went looking for the bear again. He wishes there was smoke. It opens its arms.