The shortcut led into the square and the gazebo. We parked there. There were some boys throwing a baseball around. There had been a guy from Cotton City named Bobby Taylor who was a pretty good pitcher and even signed a professional contract. But he hurt his arm and never got out of the minors. They had put up a sign that read ‘Cotton City, Home of Bobby Taylor.’ He lived in Atlanta now, but the sign was still there. “Hey boys,” Mr. Hightower called from across the street. “We goin’ fishin Sunday after church?” He had just come out of the barber shop. His hair was slicked back with some good barber shop stuff, not Vitalis or Wildroot Cream Oil, but some real professional stuff. He was scratching the back of his neck where the little clipped hairs clung. The barber always tried to dust them away but could never get them all. I had had a haircut the day before I left Jackson, so I was safe for a couple of weeks. “Yes, sir,”
