Criminal
A name is usually the first thing we learn about a person. When we meet a stranger, we'll say something like, Hello, my name is Brad. Hi Brad, I'm Linda. Then comes the obligatory handshake followed by dreaded small talk. If a friend introduces us, we might say, "I've heard so much about you." But when I met Daryl's son yesterday at our annual company picnic, I realized I already knew something about him besides his name: the kid was a criminal.
Would it have been nice to know my attacker's name was Ryan Potts? Yes, I'd say so, since that happens to be the name of my boss's only son. The one he talks about incessantly-- though never a picture of him older than seven or eight, nothing recent. Now I know why.
About a month before this awkward meeting, as always, I was in town, minding my own business, reading the morning papers and having my coffee in the park before heading to work. Joggers and bikers bounced by; pigeons huddled, scheming for crumbs; the squirrels chirped angril…
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