The Names That Do Not Leave

The names from the older generation never fully leave. They sit in the memory the way the brick dust from the fireplace sits in the lungs. Steven Hostettler. Frederick Dennis Hostettler. Patrick McCann. Tony “Squeaker” McCann. Arthur McCann. Ollie McCann. Peter McCann the professional boxing judge. The Allens — Tony and Johnny. James “Jimbo” Carr and John Carr. Julie Sweeny. Paul Robinson. Maria Walsh Healy, the music-industry troubleshooter with Polydor and Universal ties, the fixer who cleaned up other people’s messes. Richard “Straff” Cawthorne. Gary “Gadget” Cawthorne. Dave Ewing. Curtis Warren’s name sits in the same wider orbit even if I never claimed the big seats.

These are not stories I tell for glamour. They are the weather I grew up inside. The respectable military blood on one side, the firm on the other, and a child placed at the intersection with protection from neither. I am not ashamed of the connections. I did not choose them. They were the world I was born into, trafficked into, placed into. This is why certain institutions would not come near me as a child. Not because I was dangerous. Because the people around me were — and institutions protect themselves first. The names are the map of that protection and that failure.