Dying young [antikvár]

Linally, I see Gondon: dropping the screen door JL against the frame of his mother's side porch and checking his pocket for the key to his Mercuiy. He doesn't know that I am watching, that I'm sitting in my car running the radio ofF the battery, that I woke up at dawn just to see him-just to see what somebody like Gordon does at seven-thirty in the morning. The radio plays heavy metál-Christian heavy metál. The lead singer screams out, "Jesus loves you," in a repulsive, stubborn way. I'm transfixed by Gordon, what he looks like, how he moves after only forty-five minutes of being awake, his mannerisms as he approaches his locked car, his confrontation with the layer of frost over his windshield. He's got on blue jeans, a sweatshirt with the logo from a jazz festival across the front, an unzipped down-feather jacket, and a pair of duck boots with leather laces. His winter gear emphasizes the size of him. He works the ice scraper in swift clips over the windshield. Standing at his car door, outside a house so proper it could be in a photo essay of New England homes, he is a marvei of normality and I am so grateful. With one boot propped on the carpet beneath the driver's seat Gordon calls, "Tosh, Tosh, come here, dog," and waits for Tosh, who bounds across the lawn for the open door. Tosh scurries to the passenger's side and Gordon 1