Hometown Read Free Page A

years of dragging me around—two countries, six states, seven cities, and how many schools?—he’s been inspired to hold me prisoner and force-feed a hometown.
    Haircut —
    By noon most everyone had migrated to the indoor pool. The water and lounge chairs were filled with bodies. Toneless wrinkled flesh, no shame.
    Border sat on a stool in the middle of the lobby while the man with the thin mustache worked on his hair.
    CNN droned on: “Border tension remains high… ” Snip. Snip. Snip.
    “Buzz the rest, please,” Border said to his personal barber. “Make it just like his,” and he pointed to Colonel John Farmer, retired.
    Border’s father watched with a few others as his son’s hair fell onto the floor. He tugged on his gray ponytail. Mystified.
    The Story, II —
    My name, that’s a story right there. And it’s one I’ve heard often enough.
    No one knew what my father was going to do when he ran, back in ’70. He was alone and scared. He was breaking the law, breaking hearts.
    “But the minute I crossed the border,” he always says when he tells the story, “I was safe and happy and certain I’d done the right thing. Just how I felt when I first held you.”
    Sweet, Dad. Sweet.
    Might have been worse, though. He could have named me for the border crossing, for the first solid ground of Canada. Might have called me, oh…Pigeon River.
    Mozart and Midnight Oil —
    The barber refused money. “Happy to do it,” he said. “I wasn’t going anywhere.” He flipped a hand at the lobby window. Snow fell relentlessly.
    Still, it wasn’t blowing so much, and a large group decided to walk three blocks to a restaurant. Everyone was tired of donuts. Border’s father went along and brought back three grilled cheese sandwiches for his son.
    Border took the sandwiches to their room. While he ate he decided to call his mother. Time to check in, but where would she be? At work or in jail?
    “She’s home sick,” said her lab assistant.
    “Not in jail?”
    “I guess she never made it to the protest. She woke up that morning with a raging fever and a terrible sore throat.”
    “There’s a virus stronger than her convictions?”
    “Don’t say that to her,” the assistant cautioned.
    He decided against calling her at home. She’d be bummed about missing the protest and, besides, she got really grumpy when sick.
    Border watched television, then fell asleep. He woke up hungry and left the room to find food. Bagels and juice would do.
    Late afternoon—no one in the pool, but the lobby was crowded. Right away Border could tell that people were tired of each other.
    News from the Gulf didn’t help. People argued—men with men, women with women, Border noticed, wondering about that. Colonel John Farmer was especially angry.
    “No guns for oil,” he said.
    Border grinned. He’d heard that often enough. “Don’t you think we should start a war with Saddam?”
    Lil smiled.
    John scowled. “I’m a soldier, Border, and a soldier obeys his commander. If our country goes to war, I will support it. And you have to admit, Saddam is one crazy tyrant. If we don’t stop him…” He shook his head. “It was so clear, so clear, back in forty-one.”
    When the arguing threatened to get personal, Border slipped away to his room and returned with his recorder. He started playing softly in the corner by the coffee pot. At first only Lil listened, but as soon as John Farmer heard the music he bellowed a command for silence, and Border had everyone’s attention. He played beautifully, he always did. Practically a prodigy, he thought as his fingers tapped along the sleek wooden stem.
    The crowd favorite was “Red Sails in the Sunset”—his Midnight Oil medley, not the old ballad, though he played that too. Then he played his own Mozart arrangements, wishing all the while he dared put out his hat for contributions. A crowd like this would be good for forty, fifty bucks. Better than a crowd of tourists in Old Town.
    His