read a huge billboard on Sunrise Boulevard. Sitting in rush hour traffic, I reflected on where I’d just been. It left me demoralized and definitely in need of some salvation, even though I’m not particularly religious. As part of my research for this book, I was interviewing relatives and old friends in South Florida and had just spent the last hour with my cousin Louie. Growing up, he and I had shared a bed at Big Mama’s; he was the math whiz that I admired. Now he lived in a halfway house just off the Florida Turnpike in Fort Lauderdale, and it had been nearly thirty years since I saw him last.“What’s up man, you know who I am?” I asked the skinny man standing in front of me. He was wearing a wife-beater T-shirt and oversize blue jeans. The home care attendant had pointed out Louie, who was standing outside speaking with another resident. “Big Jun,” he responded. When we were boys Louie had always called me Lil’ Carl or Junior; now I was Big Jun. I was surprised that he’d even recognized me, because my appearance had changed so much over the past three decades.
