He used to call it Small Town Entertainment, following sirens, standing out front the house to watch police dogs search the neighborhood, grabbing our coats whenever the sound of a firetruck stopped nearby. He transformed us into voyeurs searching for burning houses, lucky that our neighborhood was so fraught with crime. I have particular memory of the shooting up the street, a gangster hit, old fashioned in a barbershop, towel still wrapped around what was left of his head. Standing on the sidewalk, barefoot, I felt we should always be in housecoats, that I should learn how to have my hair in curlers or wear something green that cracked as it dried upon my face. What were we really looking for, I wondered, with no television, hardly any internet. Were our avenues to knowledge really so slim? He threw me down the stairs once, but we still called it love.