I hadn't seen my friend Dave in weeks, but yesterday he plopped on the barstool next to me, looking dazed.
"My nephew's gone."
For the great offense of being the little brother of a gang-banger, the young man had been gunned down. He was not himself a criminal or partisan. He was shot purely out of pettiness. My friend was numb.
"When's the funeral?" I asked.
"Right now." I stared at Dave. "I was asked not to go," he said sadly. As a minor celebrity, Dave is, the family thinks, too obvious a target. I quietly filed that tidbit away for the next time I'm feeling sorry for myself.
I listened to my friend. That's all one can do, I suppose. He was raw, stupid from shock, talking in circles. I tried to be supportive.
"Hey," said the guy who'd just told me he's a likely gang target. "Wanna hang out tonight?"
"Fuck that noise!" I replied supportively.