my license and registration, meanders back to the cruiser, punches my info into the computer or phones it in, I don’t really know what he does for so long in that car, maybe he’s reading a magazine or cleaning his gun, while my feet blister in the sun. After a short eternity he comes back shaking his head, Well, there’s nothing in my book about needing to wear shoes, but I’m gonna give you a ticket anyway just for being stupid . I shake my head at my own obvious stupidity, consider against telling the story of the forgotten sneakers, thank him, Thank you, sir.
Within a month, a week before the Springsteen concert, I will drive that same motorcycle off a winding country road at night, coming home from a movie with Mary, where we’d split a pint of peppermint schnapps and made out. Mary broke her wrist (or, more accurately, I broke her wrist) and I lost my spleen, ruptured it when I went over the handlebars. I jumped up immediately and went for the bike, until I heard Mary, whom I’d somehow forgotten, moan. I was full of confused adrenaline, unaware that my lungs were already being crushed by blood flowing where it should never be.
the fact foundation of america
The first letter I got from my father was handwritten on prison stationery, but once he is released the letterhead appears, the creamy envelopes. The letterhead shows an open book beside the name of his dummy corporation—the Fact Foundation of America, Inc.—listing an address he has never occupied, a private post-office box, the kind you pay for by the month, on Beacon Hill, a “high-class” address, good for a nonprofit-type think tank, which seems to be the image he’s striving for. The name of the corporation is centered, with a phone number below the address that will connect you to no one. On the right, beneath the open book, his name is listed as “President.” President, founder, and sole member, I will later learn. A quill pierces the book like an arrow through a heart. A quote in the upper left from Benjamin Disraeli (1804–1881): “To be conscious that you are ignorant of the facts is a great step toward knowledge.” All I can think is that this is the foundation of a larger scam, one that never panned out, like those half-completed houses you sometimes pass, skeleton walls and a concrete base, the plastic torn and blowing. On Fact Foundation letterhead he sends a note to the soon-to-be-released Patty Hearst. Hearst replies:
Oct. 10, 1978
Dear Mr. Flynn,
Thank you for your kindness in letting me hear from you.
To know that you are concerned enough about my welfare and the recent ruling of the court to take the time to write has helped me a great deal. Your thoughtfulness and understanding are very much appreciated.
I send you my prayers and best wishes.
Sincerely,
Patricia Hearst
My father has sent me this letter from Patty Hearst a dozen times, each beginning “Dear Mr. Flynn,” each exactly the same, none of them meant for me. The year on the top is always wrong, always fading further into the past, the signature that closes the letter breaking up, from being photocopied too often, a copy of a copy of a copy. On the bottom of one my father writes, If you don’t think a letter from Patty Hearst is heavy—you’re gone .
snapshot
To hell in a handbasket —this is how my grandmother described my future with a knowing wink. After I’d already totaled two cars, my mother sat me down and asked what I planned to do with my life. Seventeen, clearly on the wrong path, I thought for a moment and answered, Crime . As tears well up in my mother’s eyes I tried to explain— White-collar, victimless . She walked out of the room.
A year later, the morning after the motorcycle accident, my mother is strangling me in the ICU, muttering, You little shit , the heart monitor wildly peaking, a nurse coming in to drag her off. After I’ve spent the night in surgery, after I drove off the road, after I ditched the bike to avoid hitting
Within a month, a week before the Springsteen concert, I will drive that same motorcycle off a winding country road at night, coming home from a movie with Mary, where we’d split a pint of peppermint schnapps and made out. Mary broke her wrist (or, more accurately, I broke her wrist) and I lost my spleen, ruptured it when I went over the handlebars. I jumped up immediately and went for the bike, until I heard Mary, whom I’d somehow forgotten, moan. I was full of confused adrenaline, unaware that my lungs were already being crushed by blood flowing where it should never be.
the fact foundation of america
The first letter I got from my father was handwritten on prison stationery, but once he is released the letterhead appears, the creamy envelopes. The letterhead shows an open book beside the name of his dummy corporation—the Fact Foundation of America, Inc.—listing an address he has never occupied, a private post-office box, the kind you pay for by the month, on Beacon Hill, a “high-class” address, good for a nonprofit-type think tank, which seems to be the image he’s striving for. The name of the corporation is centered, with a phone number below the address that will connect you to no one. On the right, beneath the open book, his name is listed as “President.” President, founder, and sole member, I will later learn. A quill pierces the book like an arrow through a heart. A quote in the upper left from Benjamin Disraeli (1804–1881): “To be conscious that you are ignorant of the facts is a great step toward knowledge.” All I can think is that this is the foundation of a larger scam, one that never panned out, like those half-completed houses you sometimes pass, skeleton walls and a concrete base, the plastic torn and blowing. On Fact Foundation letterhead he sends a note to the soon-to-be-released Patty Hearst. Hearst replies:
Oct. 10, 1978
Dear Mr. Flynn,
Thank you for your kindness in letting me hear from you.
To know that you are concerned enough about my welfare and the recent ruling of the court to take the time to write has helped me a great deal. Your thoughtfulness and understanding are very much appreciated.
I send you my prayers and best wishes.
Sincerely,
Patricia Hearst
My father has sent me this letter from Patty Hearst a dozen times, each beginning “Dear Mr. Flynn,” each exactly the same, none of them meant for me. The year on the top is always wrong, always fading further into the past, the signature that closes the letter breaking up, from being photocopied too often, a copy of a copy of a copy. On the bottom of one my father writes, If you don’t think a letter from Patty Hearst is heavy—you’re gone .
snapshot
To hell in a handbasket —this is how my grandmother described my future with a knowing wink. After I’d already totaled two cars, my mother sat me down and asked what I planned to do with my life. Seventeen, clearly on the wrong path, I thought for a moment and answered, Crime . As tears well up in my mother’s eyes I tried to explain— White-collar, victimless . She walked out of the room.
A year later, the morning after the motorcycle accident, my mother is strangling me in the ICU, muttering, You little shit , the heart monitor wildly peaking, a nurse coming in to drag her off. After I’ve spent the night in surgery, after I drove off the road, after I ditched the bike to avoid hitting
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