When my father was a boy in Greensboro, North Carolina, he got into a fight with his best friend Lenny. Wanting to get the upper hand, my father rolled him up in a carpet, “like a tortilla,” so he couldn’t move.
Lenny was bigger than my father, but guileless enough to allow himself to be rolled into the carpet. Apparently when he was all rolled tight, Lenny looked at my father and very calmly in his slow southern drawl, with the dignity of Atticus Finch, and said:
“I’m mad at you Barry.”