Mitch’s Fine Stew

Some of you don’t know that I was a cop for twenty-two years and then I got out. I didn’t love the job, but there’s a couple or three things I miss. I’d be on a call, for example, and there’d be too many of us officers hanging about to really do much good for anyone, and then I’d see this one old cop called Mitch, who kind of resembled a potbelly stove in his uniform—all black—bodied and round, hanging back and just taking the whole scene in. Then he’d get this wry expression around his eyes and mouth, and he’d just shuffle back away from the crowd, get in his car, and beat it the nearest way out of there. Continue reading “Mitch’s Fine Stew”

Music for a Revolution

My forefathers saturated what were once pristine fields of this great nation with the blood of British regulars. It’s a fine proud history for the birth of any republic. The French did it differently. The French stormed a fortress guarded by old soldiers who had been permanently disfigured in combat. The French rounded up every fop with a patch and powdered wig and made them kneel under a blade. Continue reading “Music for a Revolution”