Gerard Minna/Roshi Jerry Character Analysis

"I've got Tourette's," I said.

"Yeah, well, threats don't work with me.”

"Tourette's," I said.

See me now, at one in the morning, stepping out of another cab in front of the Zendo, checking the street for cars that might have followed, […] moving with my hands in my jacket pockets clutching might-be-guns-for-all-they-know, collar up against the cold like Minna, unshaven like Minna now, too… […] That's who I was supposed to be, that black outline of a man in a coat, ready suspicious eyes above his collar, shoulders hunched, moving toward conflict. Here's who I was instead: that same coloring-book outline of a man, but crayoned by the hand of a […] child.

"Roshi says this thing about guilt," she said after a minute. “That it's selfish, just a way to avoid taking care of yourself. Or thinking about yourself. I guess that's sort of two different things. I can't remember."

"Please don't quote Gerard Minna to me on the subject of guilt," I said. "That's a little hard to swallow under the present circumstances.”

Then somewhere, sometime, a circuit closed. It was a secret from me but I knew the secret existed. A man—two men?—found another man. Lifted an instrument, gun, knife? Say gun. Did a job. Took care of a job. Collected a debt of life. This was the finishing of something between two brothers, a transaction of brotherly love-hate, something playing out, a dark, wobbly melody.

That was me, Lionel. hurtling through those subterranean tunnels, visiting the labyrinth that runs under the world, which everyone pretends is not there. You can go back to pretending if you like. I know I will, though the Minna brothers are a part of me, deep in my grain, deeper than mere behavior, deeper even than regret, Frank because he gave me my life and Gerard because, though I hardly knew him, I took his away. I'll pretend I never rode that train, but I did.

"I've got Tourette's," I said.

"Yeah, well, threats don't work with me.”

"Tourette's," I said.

See me now, at one in the morning, stepping out of another cab in front of the Zendo, checking the street for cars that might have followed, […] moving with my hands in my jacket pockets clutching might-be-guns-for-all-they-know, collar up against the cold like Minna, unshaven like Minna now, too… […] That's who I was supposed to be, that black outline of a man in a coat, ready suspicious eyes above his collar, shoulders hunched, moving toward conflict. Here's who I was instead: that same coloring-book outline of a man, but crayoned by the hand of a […] child.

"Roshi says this thing about guilt," she said after a minute. “That it's selfish, just a way to avoid taking care of yourself. Or thinking about yourself. I guess that's sort of two different things. I can't remember."

"Please don't quote Gerard Minna to me on the subject of guilt," I said. "That's a little hard to swallow under the present circumstances.”

Then somewhere, sometime, a circuit closed. It was a secret from me but I knew the secret existed. A man—two men?—found another man. Lifted an instrument, gun, knife? Say gun. Did a job. Took care of a job. Collected a debt of life. This was the finishing of something between two brothers, a transaction of brotherly love-hate, something playing out, a dark, wobbly melody.

That was me, Lionel. hurtling through those subterranean tunnels, visiting the labyrinth that runs under the world, which everyone pretends is not there. You can go back to pretending if you like. I know I will, though the Minna brothers are a part of me, deep in my grain, deeper than mere behavior, deeper even than regret, Frank because he gave me my life and Gerard because, though I hardly knew him, I took his away. I'll pretend I never rode that train, but I did.