"These over here," I pointed to the group in front of the bank, "they're against the war." I pointed to a much smaller group, also holding signs, on the other side of the street. "And over there, they're for the war."
I rarely discuss politics with my parents, even when it's an election year. Growing up, I got my views shaped when my dad gave me a used, hardcover Doonesbury collection for Christmas because he knew I liked comics. On both coasts, I've registered as "undecided" and the best part about the first time I voted is that the polling booths were set up where a scene from The Silence of the Lambs had filmed. It was in the lobby of the Soldiers & Sailors military museum which, for the movie, was the courthouse that Hannibal Lecter escaped from.
Dad stays pretty free of affiliations as well. When the shooting range made it mandatory that all members join the NRA, he finally signed on and was mailed a Charlton Heston silver-bullet key chain and an NRA bumper sticker. He gave me the key chain even though I already had a .38 bullet on my key ring. He'd made it for me by drilling a hole through a live round. Later, I saw a thin line of almost unnoticeable text on his van's bumper. It was the NRA sticker. He'd cut out the parts he didn't agree with and the tiny sentiment was all that remained.
On Laurel, my dad drove past both groups without honking for either. Continuing toward Enzo's Pizzeria, he asked me, "How about them, what are they for?"
"Who?"
"Them folks over there."
Dad pointed at a collection of a dozen Los Angelenos standing together, shoulder to shoulder, by the side of the boulevard.
"Those people," I informed him, "are waiting for the bus."
