When they were kids, around the time they got their driver’s licenses, Titus and Cal and Big Bobby had talked about looping a rope around that statue that sat in front of the courthouse and dragging it down off its pedestal and down the road to the dump. If Titus closed his eyes, he could see the cloud of sparks that would have followed Big Bobby’s ’84 red and black Dodge Ram as they dragged that hunk of tin and copper slag down Route 18. But talk was all it had been. The jejune declarations of young boys trying to find their way as men. Black boys who may not have been able to truly
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