It had been closed and boarded for the night. One of them was Henry Hill, whose family owned the old bowling alley downtown, the Lucky Strike Lanes. Back then it was a place of breathtaking beauty, hardscrabble poverty, and rough, all-consuming politics. During the Depression, when nobody had any money, he would invite boys to ride the ice truck with him just to get them off the street.
He was bald, gaunt, almost skeletal. Most of the campaign was an attempt to fill them. I went to my first Oxford Union debate—Resolved: that man created God in his own image, “a potentially fertile subject poorly ploughed. Traffic would be light on the PCH that late at night.
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