A recent post on X, formerly Twitter, caught my attention — not for its humor, but for the sheer truth of it. Written from a Millennial’s perspective, it mixed admiration with bewilderment for Generation X, my generation, describing how we grew up with little supervision and even less concern for safety. We had house keys by five, cooked full meals by seven, and were self-sufficient by nine. Summers were spent outdoors from dawn to dusk, surviving on water from garden hoses and the occasional sandwich. As the post put it, we had all “evaded at least one kidnapping attempt and… knew fifteen different ways to remove blood stains from clothing.” We were, in summation, the original “fuck around and find out” people.

Looking back, I can see how my own childhood fit the pattern. The kind of independence described in the post was not just familiar — it was expected.

By the time I was six, my father had established a routine. Each morning, as he dropped me off at school, he would tear one of his business cards in two, like a concession ticket, and hand me half. The instructions were simple: whoever presented the other half at carpool pickup would be my ride for the day — someone to drive me home. 

What may be baffling however is not that he entrusted someone else with my care, but whom he entrusted.

My father’s legal career began in criminal defense. Later, he expanded his practice and eventually became a municipal judge, but in those early days, his clients were an assorted lot of small-time crooks, hopheads, and the occasionally dangerous.

There was Dee Von Lane, who racked up multiple DWIs — first by plowing into two police cruisers parked nose to tail while the officers idly chatted, then later by colliding with a moving train. Twice. Somehow, she survived all three crashes.

Charlie Frank, who ran a drug den, was so high on angel dust when the place was raided that he snapped a pair of Smith & Wesson handcuffs — barehanded — before vanishing into the night. (The cuffs, a souvenir of sorts, now anchor one corner of my desk.)

Dora Wagner, who lived on a patch of land patrolled by guinea fowl — a detail I discovered when we went to pull bullets from a tree along her drive. In a drunken stupor, she shot and killed her abusive husband but avoided prison after a videotaped hypnotic regression showed that he had pulled the gun first.

Then there was the biker — the one who caused my father to put away all family photos in his office. Among countless other offenses, the man had once tried to execute his best friend over a Harley, which he coveted more than the his friend’s wife. The details of the crime were as grotesque as they were memorable.

Returning from a rally with both bikes strapped to the back of a truck, the two men stopped at a gas station to refuel and relieve themselves. This was in the days when restrooms where situated behind the building, requiring a key from the attendant. As they stood next to each other using the bathroom, my father’s client pulled a pistol, raised it, and fired. His friend’s face exploded — and he collapsed onto the tile floor.

By sheer luck, the bullet passed cleanly through the jaw, missing the brain entirely.

The shooter — unaware of this detail yet determined to finish the job with a crisscross second shot to the head — an assassin’s technique — stooped down, rested the gun on his victim’s arm, and turned away to avoid the blood spray. But just as he pulled the trigger a second time, the victim’s arm twitched involuntarily, jerking the aim off course. Instead of a kill shot, the bullet tore through his ear.

The combination of noise, fear, and adrenaline jolted the victim awake. He leapt to his feet and bolted out of the bathroom, disappearing into the woods behind the station.

The shooter, caught off guard, hesitated just long enough for his friend to gain ground. He gave chase but lost him among the trees.

Realizing his plan had failed — and fearing the man might make it home first and discover his wife was in on it — the shooter ran to a payphone and dialed. At trial, the wife testified that the first thing he said when she picked up was, “Holy shit. He must be Superman.”

***

Not every case was so violent. There was also the bread-and-butter work: the small-time recidivists who cycled through the office. Conditioned by years of lockups and court dates, they would sit for hours, waiting for my father to return from court or the jail — some passing the time by crafting gifts from whatever materials were on hand, like a miniature dartboard with matchstick darts, complete with paper flights and pushpin tips.

My favorite of these regulars was Rocky, a towering slab of a man with a gold ring on every finger and a pet possum draped around his neck. He once handed me a machine gun along with an invitation to fire off a few rounds into the ditch behind his eponymous barbecue joint. At seven years old and weighing little more than a well-trimmed brisket, I politely declined.

Rocky was also a natural entrepreneur. In addition to his restaurant, he sold gently used appliances —  a venture that occasionally put him at odds with the law — and tracked down bail jumpers using a method all his own. After locating his target, he would persuade them to return to Texas by sealing them in a casket and driving them back himself. Should he happen to get stopped by the police, he would simply flash his funeral director’s license and be waved through. Once returned to their home state, not one of these souls ever voluntarily departed again.

***

Some clients paid in cash; others bartered. Those with a trade took on small jobs — plumbing, electrical work, painting — repairing my father’s rental houses. One woman with a plastic arm and a puppy mill offered an Irish Setter. We named her Kelly.

Then there was Peggy Washington, whose nephew had quick hands and a slow getaway — an unfortunate combination. But to her, family was family, and having more time than money, she became one of my most reliable caretakers.

Peggy favored well-pressed slacks in warm earth tones, paired with blouses that bloomed in bright florals and geometric patterns that shimmered as she moved. Gold hoop earrings framed her round, unlined face, which swayed in time with the measured cadence of her voice — a voice layered with wisdom, gentle patience, and a knowing that came from long ago giving up on being surprised by human nature. She carried herself with the quiet authority of a Black woman who had reached a certain age — somewhere between parent and grandparent — where time softens around the edges. And on many afternoons, I would find her waiting for me outside a school that felt as distant to her as it was familiar to me.

I attended Saint Michael’s, a small parochial school nestled in a leafy, affluent part of town. It was an orderly place where math and science were taught alongside theater, and Halloween meant bobbing for apples and a cupcake walk. The boys wore blue pants and white shirts; the girls, matching skirts and blouses accented with red bows.

At three o’clock, the carpool line formed. This was before SUVs and European imports became the status symbols of the upper middle class — back when American luxury still reigned supreme. Kids gathered along the sidewalk’s edge as a slow, rolling procession of mostly late-model Lincolns and Cadillacs crept forward, save for one eye-catching exception: George K.’s mother in her racy Porsche 911. True to the car, she wore slim pantsuits that raised plucked eyebrows among the other mothers — and something else entirely in the older boys.

And then, tucked in among the gleaming hunks of steel, sat Peggy in her brown Pontiac Grand Am — conspicuous not for its luxury, but for what it represented. This was the people’s car — not the tire-smoking Trans Am with the screaming chicken plastered across the hood, immortalized by Burt Reynolds. Rather it was a machine prized for reliability over rebellion, comfort over speed. For Peggy, it stood for something else: a mark of self-sufficiency — a single Black woman with a late-model car that was hers alone.

As she eased up to the curb, I would dart toward the car, swing open the enormous door — a marvel of engineering — slide onto one of the red corduroy seats, and pull it shut behind me. Crrrrrr-thuckt. I had entered Peggy’s world. She gave a knowing nod, her hoop earrings catching the sun as she shifted into drive and we pulled away.

“How was school, Roger?” she would begin.

Of course, my name is not Roger, though no amount of correcting convinced her otherwise. No matter. Before I could get a word in, Peggy was already talking. She had a lot to say, and she was going to say it.

Most days, we drove straight home — unless it was Tuesday. On Tuesdays, we took a detour south, into her part of town. Peggy loved fried chicken, and Love’s had a Tuesday Special.

Love’s felt like home to Peggy. The place smelled of grease and spice, the air thick with kitchen clatter and easy conversation. She greeted people by name, laughed loud, exchanged words that felt more like family talk than small talk. She was at ease, in her element; I, stiff in my school uniform, a step out of place. I stayed close, sensing the curious glances — some amused, some indifferent, none unkind.

After ordering, we would find a table and sit, the red-and-white paper box between us, its grease stains spreading as we ate. The chicken was hot, the skin crisp, seasoned with something richer than just salt and pepper — something that coated your fingers, made you lick them clean without thinking. I savored every bite while I took in the newness of it all — the unfamiliar faces, the rhythm of a place that felt lived-in and unhurried — as she talked on. Sometimes to me. Mostly to the people around us, after introducing me as Roger.

Eventually, after the last bite of chicken was gone and we cleared the table, we would slide back into her car to make the drive home, the smell of fried chicken clinging to our clothes. I would vanish into the backyard or my room, and Peggy would hover around the kitchen, waiting for my father to come home.

For those who saw us on those sun-drenched afternoons, we must have seemed an odd pair. But now, I see the relationship more clearly. She was not just settling a debt, and I was not merely a kid in need of a ride. Rather, those hours between school recess and nightfall were a chance for us to step into each other’s worlds, the boundaries of which met along a jagged edge — imperfect, misaligned, yet somehow fitting.

And in her world, I sure liked that fried chicken. ¶