Mikal Ritko traveled alone. Things had gotten out of hand. Bren was abducted and killed by Fussell Duware. Ritko should have killed him years earlier.

Gus had jumped the hospital and fled with Jimmy. They likely drove west toward a story that would end badly for someone, maybe even them.

Agent James was dead in the door of the ER in Andalusia. Duware was good at his job and willing to do anything to get the job done. Anything.

In this case, dressing like a woman and shooting Agent James in the unpleasant daylight. It piled up in his head, ugly and unorganized.

Lemuel Zapata was still alive, probably. He had a talent for it. His son, Zeke, however, had not been so fortunate. Duware was culling.

Zeke lay cooked in cooling wreckage under a pecan tree towards Mississippi. Zapata had lost Bren and Zeke to the same piece of business.

Fussell Duware was still working, a murderer with intentions to kill everyone involved in his perceived slight. Ritko was on that list.

Jolene was out in Texas or Louisiana somewhere, probably killing people who deserved it. Ritko’s office called so much he tossed his phone.

He did not need it anymore. Silence would serve him better than the complication of communication. He stripped his life part by part.

Ritko had been trained to become invisible. Thousands of government dollars went into educating him on the skill of vanishing.

Going off the grid is not an easy thing. There must be a body. There must be a dead end. I.D.s, service weapon, badge, everything.

Fire was good; hard to run a trace on charcoal. CSI was sophisticated, but not like on TV. Cooked bones and a badge would work down here.

He made sure everything that could I.D. him was in the wreck. The men who died, like so many others, deserved it. Perhaps Ritko as well.

He was no longer Mikal Ritko. He was no one when he hot wired the farmer’s truck next to the carport and drove to the end of the highway.

Ritko’s life had been a geometric equation of people, events and evidence. He worked the calculations until he found his result. Not now.

The ordeal before him was blood and loose ends. For the first time in his life, after all of the violent things he had done, he was afraid.

He was not afraid of dying. He expected that. Felt it was overdue. He was afraid of failing. Dying was easy. Failing was unacceptable.

Ritko owed Jimmy Gantt. Jimmy had saved his life once – by not killing him when he had the change. Ironic mercy is enough sometimes.

So he owed the man for that one. More importantly, Jimmy had given Ritko the inside track on cases that made his career in the service.

Ritko came from a poor family. His parents spoke no English. Ritko’s job from childhood on was to succeed. He had done his job – and more.

He had done the worst jobs available because the odds of glory and promotion were quicker. Of course, the odds of failure were inherent.

Ritko did not fail often. And when he did, he was good enough to cover it up. Now he was covering up his entire life by going off the grid.

“No one expects a dead person to do anything,” Jimmy had told him years ago. “So dead people can do everything.”

He was officially dead as society measures life. He was neatly cinched up, freed of the daily mendacity that defines human existence.

For the first time in years, he felt alive. The trees were greener. The leaves had textures he had never noticed. Water tasted better.

Breathing was enjoyable. He had never noticed it before. His lungs felt sweet with each intake. The smell of freedom made him smile.

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In hindsight, I suppose the hinges could not take the stress of swinging back and forth as we walked in and out, which is ridiculous since walking in and out is the main function of a door. But the screws unscrewed, the door swelled up like a Macy’s Thanksgiving Day Parade balloon, and it became possessed with some type of moisture psychosis. If we had a week of sunshine, it worked pretty well. A day of rain would end its doorability.

This was the second door to fall off of this part of our house. I find that weird. We must be hell on back doors.

The one that was originally built into the wall when we bought the house fifteen years ago went south after about 5 years. This Pella lasted a bit longer. But it is a damned door. It should be a simple piece of work. It should last for a while. I kept telling myself that as I tried to open and close it with more and more effort. Soon, no amount of effort would persuade it to cooperate.

I’ve never lived in a house where I had to replace a door three times in fifteen years. Every other door in the house has always worked perfectly. Not this one. And Pella wanted to charge us just to come observe the result of their warped engineering. We passed on their offer and had the people who put on the lovely plastic siding come erect a sliding door. It has a lifetime warranty. I assume that means my lifetime, but I’m not really sure. There is a lot of paperwork involved in buying a door these days. Perhaps because they cost as much as my first new car: a 1976 Chevy Vega.

Some music goes beyond the sound that comes out of your speakers. From time to time, these sounds define a cultural or political movement. In a few cases, they become the soundtrack for a generation.

Neil Young wailing, “four dead in Ohio,” still conjures memories of a black and white photograph of a young girl on one knee, panic stricken, next to the face-down body of a student shot dead by the National Guard at Kent State.

“The Pusher,” written by Hoyt Axton, and growled by John Kay over a grinding Steppenwolf beat brings images of Easy Rider and a drug culture that slapped America’s conservatism right between their eyes and the sound machine. This is where my intentions went off the tracks.

I started out to write this piece about Steppenwolf. They cranked out several seminal songs in the late 1960’s and early 1970’s (Magic Carpet Ride, Born To Be Wild). “The Pusher” sounds like a Steppenwolf song. No surprise there. But knowing Hoyt Axton wrote those words is an interesting contradiction. At least to me.

Growing up, I saw Hoyt Axton as sort of a folksy character like Glenn Campbell or Mac Davis. Then, when you see that he wrote “The Pusher,” it kind of twists in your head a little. I remember the notorious lyrics (“God damn the pusher man”) and I remember Hoyt Axton. I just can’t put the two memories together. John Kay’s voice, yes. Hoyt? No way.

Hoyt Axton wrote a lot of song you have heard for 50 years. He wrote “Joy To The World” (as in Three Dog Night’s “Jeremiah was a bullfrog…”) for god’s sake. He wrote “Heartbreak Hotel” for Elvis and “Greenback Dollar” for the Kingston Trio. He wrote songs covered by Joan Baez, Linda Ronstadt and John Denver. He wrote some pretty pop stuff. And then he wrote, “God damn the pusherman.” That is some first class contradiction with a true Southern bent. Got to like that.

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First, it is fresh. That word is overused these days. So I do not use it lightly. Mama J does not use pork fat to season her collard greens. Perhaps that sounds like heresy to all of you Southerners who believe that hog jowl is a must in your greens. It is not. Mama J’s is proof. You want pork? Order the pork chops. That will be enough to quiet you down for a while. I could make a meal of just the gravy.
And the yams, dear God, the candied yams, I have to hold off a minute to even type about them.

Mama’s baked chicken has a star beside it on her menu for a reason. Order it and you’ll understand the reason. Suffice it to say, you will never fork a piece of chicken the same way again.

I’m saving the candied yams to last, so just hold on.

You like catfish? I think Mama J must have a pond out back. She hand picks her greens every morning. She told me about it. I have a few years experience picking fresh vegetables, so I know of what she speaks. She really did not have to give me verbal proof. I had a mouthful of proof already.

The mashed potatoes are smashed right off the spud. In case it is not coming through, Mama J is downright belligerent on this freshness thing. And it pays off on your tongue.

I know, the yams, just a minute.

The iced tea is sweet and chases down the wickedly tasty cornbread like Troy Polomalu closing in on a slow fullback.

The homemade (and everything is homemade here) chocolate cake makes other desserts ashamed to show their frosting. I have to try the cobbler next time. The way the waitress described it made me ashamed to order the cake. I will have a date with that cobbler, though – soon.

The décor is like home. I mean really like home. I felt more at home at Mama J’s than half of the houses I’ve lived in (and I’ve lived all over the country). And she talked fondly about a game night where people can come in and play poker or Scrabble. She offers a cash bar that appeared well stocked and ready to mix it up. As you listen to her passion, it is a little hard to believe this is her first restaurant (she catered before and still does). I think she has figured it out. The food was astounding and the staff knew how to deliver the goods.

Okay, now the yams.

I grew up in Lower Alabama. I have snarled my share of sweet potatoes in every form cookable. I have digested my share of candied yams perfected by people who were born for the task as far back as the late 1800’s. I know my yams. LL Cool J (no relation to Mama J) did not do this dish justice when he sang “she’s sweet as brown sugar with candied yams” in Around The Way Girl. Mama J sings it better. And there is a hint of cinnamon too. I was stunned into silence by one bite. My wife and daughter were laughing at my inability to talk for fear that opening my mouth would let a spoonful of this stuff escape. And some of it did, onto my shirt. I caught it and put it in its proper place. Yams only belong in one place.

I know I sound like a schoolboy who just discovered girls, but Mama J’s knows what she’s cooking. And I know how to eat it. And judging from the crowd, I’m not alone.

If you are ever in Richmond and you want to understand why people in the South love Soul Food, Mama J is in the kitchen, ready to make you a believer.

By now, SI is getting angry letters from people demanding to cancel their subscription because the entire issue is filled with porn, smut and half naked women – as this issue has been since I was old enough to sneak one between the mattresses of my bed. This is not exactly a new event. It’s a swimsuit issue. Not sure what backwoods mailbox just got access to the 21st century, but Sports Illustrated has been publishing it since 1964. I was 7 years old.

Where the hell have these people been? When it started Lyndon Johnson was president, for God’s sake. The Beatles were still singing “Yeah, yeah, yeah.” Are some people just now getting around to the biological fact that women have breasts, legs and men have cameras and this combination sells a lot of magazines?

The complaints will be in the next issue, probably. And I look forward to those letters as much as I do the Swimsuit Issue itself. Prudishness is humorous. When it is antique prudishness, it is even funnier. Let the wailing and gnashing of teeth begin. Go ahead and cancel your subscription and you’ll miss some of the best writing in America in the other 364 issues.

While some moan about morals and values, there is not one man who was alive in the mid 1970’s and had access to the SI cover with Cheryl Tiegs (in a see-through white one-piece) who will say with any honesty that the image is not permanently burned into his brain. If he denies it, he is a deep fried liar and should not be sold season tickets to any legitimate sporting event.

To many guys, especially beer-drinking sports fans, a Sports Illustrated Swimsuit Issue model ranks up there with Giada on the Food Network or one of those hot female curlers in the Vancouver games. Come to think of it, a Giada Swimsuit Cookbook would sell a lot of tortellini. Paula Deen, not so much. And sorry, ladies, no one would go for a Mario Batali Swimsuit Cookbook, not even Ted Allen.

People will continue to complain about the skimpy SI apparel and act like this has never happened before. Then they will load up the family and go to the beach for vacation – where their daughter will wear less than Lindsey Vonn on page 86 and 87.

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Rudy, our Jack Russell, has had to become the Bodie Miller of dogs just to make it down. It takes practice and talent to navigate the frozen treachery, even on four legs. Rudy has mastered 4/5ths of it.

A few minutes ago he skated out the back door across the deck and perched at the top of the steps. He squatted in preparation before launching himself down the bumpy incline. He grunted on each 90º drop as step after step thudded under his 18-pounds.

If dogs have knees, Rudy’s are shock absorbers. At the bottom of the stairs, he leaned into the hard snow, downhill racer-style, stretching his four legs far to his right as his head and body curved left into the white, slanted yard. He moon-walked in a canine crouch, the pads of his paws gliding over custard frost in a diagonal until he was at the bottom of the backyard fence. Rudy’s grace and athletic ability ended in a skidding, violent, flailing stop. He has hit the fence or caromed off the trunk of a tree several times this winter, ass upturned, legs akimbo, gripping desperately at air and bark with teeth and toenails.

Once at his destination, he moved methodically and sniffed the area before dropping a steaming poopcicle. As it landed, he ran from it as if an alien has escaped from his puckering rear. More slipping and sliding followed. It was tricky. There are previous frozen brown deposits around and he slalomed an ugly course to avoid his previous meals that are splayed like shotgun shells across the corner that he considers his toilet.

The long climb back up to the steps pained him, his snout grooved into a rictus of determination. John Krakauer could write a novel about Rudy’s 6-minute journey. To a dog, this is Everest.

At the bottom of the steps, he clawed his way up the slickest surface I have seen since Apolo Ohno beat those two Koreans the other night in speed skating. He also knows how the Koreans felt because four minutes earlier he had hit the fence like they had hit the wall in Vancouver. Finally on the deck, his ordeal ended and he struggled through the door, collapsing on the carpet next to the fireplace, licking his paw pads.

To reward him, I filled his bowl with food. He ignored me. He knew if he ate it, the horrid decent to Poo Corner would happen sooner than later. He closed his eyes. I think he is dreaming of July sun.

It’s been falling seriously here since the week before Christmas. We had dustings before that, but when it turned into Calgary-type accumulations, it has not stopped. Last week all you could see was the top six inches of the roof of your car. 28 inches the week before Christmas. 34 inches since. 65 inches reported at Dulles Airport since late December. That is about three years worth of frosty pudding in the worst case scenario. Another 10 inches are expected today on top of a layer of black ice. All of that said, the snow is not the worse part of the weather – not by a shovel-full.

I-95 is a gauntlet of potholes. These are not irritating ripple-your-coffee potholes, but miles of VW Bug-sized gutting of the asphalt. These craters are like shrapnel wounds in the pavement. Did you see The Hurt Locker? I am talking IED-worthy holes that are violent at 65 mph.

Bridge seams are gouged into trenches by the expanding and contracting ice. Pocks big enough for a spelunker to explore are every fifty yards. Tires are being bursted, rims are getting bent, and headlines about Virginia not taking stimulus money to fix the highways are floating around newspapers. As I look out my window right now, it’s a whiteout, which means new and interesting crevasses to explore tomorrow on the way to work.

When you think about how advanced we are as humans, with all of our technology and science and achievements, just remember, the lowly pothole has us exactly where it wants us and there is absolutely nothing we can do about it.