It was a Friday, the day after Christmas, 2003. With welcome, unusual, leisure time available to me during this four day weekend, I felt the need to work off some of the holiday goodies; perhaps, get an endorphin lift from exercise, and maybe fill the need for conversation with someone interesting. I decided to fill these needs by jogging or walking at the gym. Too cold outside!

A 30ish man saluted and waved to me as I entered to use the track. Puzzled by the gestures, I wondered if the man had seen me out and about on the streets and was being friendly. Later, I saw that he was a doorman for the athletic facility. Because I had entered the building while he was some yards away from the door, he was, in a joking way, ceremoniously bidding me, enter.

I needed to join the field house and begin an exercise regimen to combat winter blahs and middle age flab. I asked for the sign up desk and the doorman pointed me down a long hall. The running track, eight times around is a mile, was populated by 30 or 40 high school girls preparing for a track meet to begin at 5pm. I wondered whether I'd be able to use the track after all. The lady at the entrance desk at the end of the hall suggested I take a tour with the man sitting at the desk halfway down the corridor. He had, in dead serious fashion, pointed me further along as I walked down the hall. Apparently the membership person would not be on duty until 2pm and the lady at the entrance did not grant my wish to just mosey around the facility. Surprised by the somewhat tight security, I began back down the hall in the direction of the tall, athletic, serious fellow who had directed me earlier.

Alerted by a phone call from the woman at the entrance, the guide asked if I was the person who wanted a tour. Undecided, I bided for time by asking him if he was the person who gave tours. Without answering me, he asked me again, pointedly, did I want a tour? Assenting, the tour began.

He was tall and athletic but, or maybe, because, he walked slowly and with a limp. He was not drawn in by my enthusiastic, awed, reaction to the field house. So I mostly remained quiet while he capably spelled out each of the features of the field house during the tour. I couldn't persuade him of my sincerity and solidarity with the struggle of the black man. But perhaps he didn't care.

Gradually, it occurred to me that this might not be an ordinary tour guide. He was, perhaps, a former professional athlete. He had a proud demeanor and an apparent condesension for me. Perhaps I should've known him, but I had paid little heed to sports over the past ten years. Had he misspent his earnings; lost his fortune in a divorce, or made bad investments? I wondered.

At one point as I pondered a feature in the field house, he drew me back to the tour with a snap of his fingers. This had to be a former titan; a gladiator. In his mind I must have fit the image of the naïve but well-meaning yuppie, so out of place in the hood, but wanting to relate; wanting to sympathize with a people who had been so misunderstood, so mistyped, so stereotyped, so blackballed for centuries.

The tour ended; I wondered but remained silent. How many other former greats were wrapped in anonymity; invisible, forgotten, nobodies dropped in a moment's notice from fame and glory, from the limelight of stardom; shadows of former heroes giving tours in the hood? No wonder he exuded quiet anger; quiet rage. And speaking of former greats, whatever happened to the golden-voiced, Benny King? His haunting hits, "Stand By Me" and "Rose in Spanish Harlem" will never fade from my memory's library of moving music.

Living in the inner city is like having your blinders taken off. I have witnessed the invisible thoughtfulness of these descendants of slaves whose young knowingly call themselves, "niggas"; rapping an acid message taunting society to recognize their humanity, their struggle. How about the D Block lyric, "I love Niggas, cause Niggas are me! Perceptive people understand. White, suburban youth realize too, and with their devotion to "rap", they turn from their elders; vote with their dollars for recognition of the wrong that was once called slavery, later Jim Crow, still later, racism but really, once and for always, fear of people who were different. Perhaps that's changing. Signs of acceptance appear on TV, in the movies and in the streets of America.

When I join the gym, I'll seek his friendship. Maybe he'll respond. Maybe he won't. Perhaps I look like one of those who want to cash in on the tight real estate market in the city by buying "bricks" in the hood and selling for much more when the neighborhood gentrifies. Maybe we look like that, but my family and I are not about that. If that's his problem with me, then I can prove him wrong and maybe make a friend. Maybe it'll make a difference in what seems sometimes like a crazy, roller ball world. - Tom Sullivan Postscript: After some time to think about this real life event, it seems that the tour guide could've been friendlier, and he certainly didn't need to snap his fingers at me to draw my attention back to his tour. Isn't it a shame when there is so much misunderstanding in the world.

Harry and his dad had a special relationship. Theirs was a strong and enduring bond. Often after supper they sat on the front porch looking out on San Francisco Bay from their triple decker on top of a steep hill which fell toward the waterfront. They talked about politics, sports, their jobs, the family, you name it. The day came, however, when Harry had to go into the service or be drafted. World War II was well underway and Harry chose to join the Navy. The two men hugged when time came for him to go and Harry felt a lump in his throat.

Harry and his father corresponded regularly up until the explosion. It occurred below deck in an ammo magazine and blew a gaping hole in the light cruiser's hull. Twenty-eight sailors died and seventy-six were injured. Harry was listed as one of the dead and the death notice went out to his family. But Harry wasn't dead. He suffered a severe concussion that took his memory away and burns to his face and upper torso that disguised his appearance so that the Navy mistakenly identified him as a sailor who had actually shipped out the morning of the blast.

Harry slowly recuperated except for his memory. He was listed as John Rogers in the hospital and because there was a war on, the mistake was never found out. Harry's dad was brought low by the news of his death. He would sit on the front porch and stare down the street toward the harbor night after night not wanting to believe what his mind told him, that Harry was gone.

Meanwhile, several months later Harry was discharged from the hospital. He hid the fact that his memory was gone. An address in San Francisco was the only shred of evidence he had of the past. Before he left the hospital he sent a letter to the address and simply wrote, "John Rogers says hello". Harry's parents were confused by the letter, but his dad felt a glimmer of hope. Eagerly he wrote to John Rogers at the return address. But Harry was released from the hospital before the letter arrived and he took thirty days leave upon his discharge.

Remembering only the address, Harry arrived in San Francisco early one June evening. He asked directions and slowly climbed up the street with his seabag slung over his shoulder. His dad was sitting on the porch as usual when he saw way off in the distance a sailor laboring up the steep hill. Harry noticed that things looked familiar as he walked up the street toward the top of the hill. Harry's dad stared intently at the young sailor as he drew closer.

Suddenly his dad jumped up and began to cry and cry. Harry's mom rushed out to see what was the matter. His dad, unable to speak, pointed at the sailor. His mom shrieked when she saw him and also began to cry. Harry noticed the commotion and suddenly something clicked in his brain. He dropped his seabag and started to run toward the two people who were now running toward him. Harry's dad reached him first and threw his arms around Harry who gasped through his tears, "Dad!". Harry's mom caught up with the two men and the three of them hugged and cried. Harry was back!!!