In the fall of 1991 I was the lowest-ranking waiter at a steakhouse in Hampton, Virginia. My sole transportation was a Honda 350 motorcycle — halfway between a street bike and a moped — whose chain slipped at the most inopportune times. Heading home amid shipyard traffic, I throttled along in the slow lane, my apron slapping my thighs, tips wadded up in my pockets. I was living with my parents in nearby Newport News while saving money for graduate school, and I often brought home leftover tempura shrimp and the curved bones of steaks. It was against company policy for employees to “scavenge from the leavings,” but at the risk of being written up, I did it anyway. Hokie, the family Dalmatian, appreciated my arrival because it meant treats. Everyone else seemed somewhat ambivalent. My father spent his time raking oak leaves into piles. The wind undid them. He raked them back again.