Last time I had seen Greg, he was on his way to no good. Growing up poor, he played at being a gangster. He did it for the money, for the thrill and just, I suppose, for something different.
In 1998, I saw him again, much changed, standing on a union picket line. He had found a trade, working on the docks. Hard work, good pay and a strong union, a union we were there to defend. The union had been good to Greg, and he was there to good to it in return.