The black man who approached from the rear of the gathering at my father's burial looked to be one hundred years old. He was frail, but not bent. He walked haltingly, supported by two black teenagers ... [+]
Truth, Justice, and the American Way
Once you become visible, it's hard to disappear into the shadows again, but Hank White was doing his level best. His life depended on it. People looked right through you when you were flipping pancakes and frying bacon behind the counter of a greasy spoon. When you worked with a looker like Margie, you faded even more. Who was going to notice the fry cook when the waitress looked like she could be starring opposite Rock Hudson? Who'd expect anything to happen in a run-down 24-hour diner with cracked vinyl seats and linoleum worn flat by the years? Hank ran his dirty rag down the length of the