Them Read Free Page B

shirt and tie, the man looked Barlowe dead in the face, then turned and hurriedly walked away. He walked about ten yards along Randolph Street and got in a black Lincoln Town Car parked at the curb. Another white man waited inside.
    Barlowe watched them closely, thinking, Surveillance ! Maybe it had something to do with him refusing flags.
    Ever since the planes struck, there was all kinds of surveillance going on. He had read in the papers how Caesar now sifted through folks’ e-mail and eavesdropped on private phone conversations. They even checked people’s library records, to see what kinds of books they read.
    Barlowe considered that as he studied the two white men. They sat there a moment, taking notes and talking. Finally, the car cranked and drove away.
    It was odd, Barlowe thought. Long before the planes struck, he had felt like he was under surveillance. His whole life he’d felt people— them —watching like they expected him to do something violent or strange. In a weird way it would seem almost fitting if the suspicion that had dogged him so long somehow got formalized.
    The boys at the store swore Barlowe was paranoid, and to a certain extent he agreed. He was born here but he couldn’t recall a time when he felt he belonged. He had never been outside the country, yet he didn’t feel safe inside it, either. In fact, he felt downright vulnerable. And now all the public hysteria had left him even more on edge.
    Later, Barlowe ate some pork chops and macaroni and cheese and washed the dishes. Afterward, he sat down in the living room and picked up the newspaper. As he read, a pang of loneliness whipped through him. After all the musty manliness in jail, he craved a woman’s scent and softness. He thought about Nell:
    â€œYou too cozy.”
    Normally, Nell’s words would have rolled off his back like so much rain, but her timing—and Barlowe’s history—made them stick. He would be turning forty soon, and he had begun to ponder what that meant, or what it was supposed to mean. Somehow, forty seemed miles apart from thirty-nine. At forty, he figured, a man should be firmly established and grounded. He was approaching the fourth decade of his life and the truth was, he hadn’t yet figured out how to live.
    Still, Nell had no right to put him down the way she’d done. It proved she wasn’t right for him. He might have seen it before now if his two heads hadn’t collided so.
    Now he shifted focus back to the strange white men he’d seen earlier, and he was reminded that Nell wasn’t his only problem. His court case was scheduled two months out. Then he’d have to face Caesar. His court-appointed attorney predicted he’d likely get off with a lightweight fine. All he had to do, the lawyerman said, was go before the judge and explain why he busted up that stamp machine. He made it sound easy as pie, but Barlowe feared otherwise. How could he explain to a judge, a judge , the way flags affected him?
    Ever since the planes struck, he couldn’t get away from them. People hung flags—the biggest ones they could find!—on porches and trees in front of their houses; draped them from buildings in every big city and poot-butt town. Folks wore flag T-shirts, sweatshirts, jackets and hats; plastered them across the sides of garbage trucks. TV newscasters wore flag pins on their freakin coat lapels! Flags screamed from huge billboards and fluttered from gigantic poles in front of car dealerships. One day, Barlowe passed a bunch of long-haired bikers—a motorcycle gang!—with flags pasted across their sleeveless leather jackets.
    Is crazy.
    Barlowe wasn’t sure how other folks felt. Maybe they felt the same as him and just weren’t saying. Who knew these days? The trip to jail had taught him one thing, though: He would have to exercise more self-control. He would have to, or he wouldn’t last long, not with all the